Hemorrhage.

“I just think it would be a really good experience…”

She was talking but I wasn’t listening. She was on the other side of the counter, gesturing with her hands animatedly. I was across from her, staring at the open pages that sprawled across the kitchen island. A pencil was poised in my hand, my knuckles white from the strength I was exerting to clench it. The pencil felt too heavy in my hands, making my weak muscles ache.

“And it’s New York City! You know how much I love the city…” she was saying, and the words floated through my brain, but they didn’t stick. In an hour if someone asked me to recite what she had just said, I wouldn’t be able to.

My fingers were itching to write everything down, but my mind was screaming not to. Writing it down would just bring on another layer of guilt. Writing down would make it true. Charlotte was still talking as my fingers slid across the page, scribbling words in neat, block letters. When I was done, I read it seven times.

TUESDAY, MAY 2ND:

BANANA (90)
ONE DILL PICKLE (5)
LOW-FAT PLAIN YOGURT (100)
ONE PACKAGE SOUR PATCH KIDS (490)
TOTAL: 685.

I had taken too long with the banana and the yogurt. I had gotten distracted, and by the time I realized what was in my system it was too far into my digestive track for me to get it all up. In response to that, I ate a whole package of Sour Patch Kids. They were my punishment food, like hot sauce. At first, they were good, sweet and sour all mixed together. By the time you got half way through the package, though, your tongue was raw from the little crystals rubbing around as you ate. Then your tongue just kept burning, and you just kept popping them into your mouth periodically, because it was the only punishment you were going to receive.

I liked to call it self disciple.

Therapists called it masochism.

“So, are you sure you’re okay with it?” Charlotte was directing a questions towards me. I looked up at her slowly.

“Okay with what?” I asked, my mind still focused on the page.

“Okay with me going to New York,” she clarified, seeming oblivious to the fact that I had been ignoring her for the last fifteen minutes that she had been talking.

My eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah,” I nodded. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I couldn’t understand why she looked at me apprehensively, as if she was waiting for me to start screaming any given second.

“Well, you’ll have to move,” she said. “I talked to the landlord about a one bedroom apartment, but there aren’t any available. There’s also no way that you could afford this on your own. I’m really sorry, but there’s no way I could pass an opportunity like this up.”

I stared at her. My head was moving before my mind was processing her words. I nodded once, before trying to put on my best understanding face.

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I understand. This is an opportunity that you can’t give up.”

I was just repeating her words back to her, like an echo.

Charlotte nodded, smiling widely. “Thank you so much for understanding.”

I smiled widely back at her, the shift in tendons stretching my skin over my hollow cheek bones.

Inwardly, my heart cringed. Though I wanted to believe it was because I would miss Charlotte, that was not the truth. I had struck gold here. Charlotte’s parents paid for the apartment in return for her carrying a full load of classes. I only had to pay for groceries, my half of the water bill, and electricity. Besides the money arrangement, Charlotte was a fantastic roommate for someone like me. She was hardly ever home, always out with girls who stayed thin from taking too many pills. Even when she was home, she never noticed anything. She didn’t notice when the full fridge suddenly turned empty or how underneath the thick layer of air freshener I applied hourly, the bathroom smelt faintly of vomit. Even if she did notice, she didn’t say anything.

Charlotte and I got on well, but we were too different to really connect. Charlotte was Audrey Kitching and Hana Beth (when she first told me these names, I had to Google them to understand who they were) while I was more Zooey Deschanel and Kat Dennings. Charlotte was outgoing, with a fiery personality, while I was witty, sarcastic, defensive, and painfully shy.

Charlotte looked like she was going to hug me for a second, then thought better of it before sputtering off some excuse about packing. The conversation had gone quickly, and in her perspective, very well.

I continued to stand there, staring out into the living room.

The first thing I wondered was where I was going to live.

It took me four days to realize that I was going home. I worked thirty-two hour weeks at a bookstore, earning minimum wage. I couldn’t afford to live on my own. It probably wasn’t safe for me to live on my own either, but I ignored that train of thought.

I didn’t want to go home. I told myself that three hundred and thirty-three times. I told myself that as I called my mother and booked a flight.

Going home wouldn’t be good for me. Going back home would be dangerous, hazardous. Going back home would get me caught, because I was sure that they would see the transformation in thirty seconds flat. They would see that I was no longer the same girl.

I was no longer the hips and thighs of a 1950’s pinup.
I was no longer the first person you called to make you feel better.
I was no longer the girl that was so full of life I was brimming over, spilling.

No, I was no longer her.

I had changed, transformed, and morphed into this new girl. This transformation had started sophmore year of high school.

Now I was the space between your thighs as you held your feet together.
I was the skin stretched tautly over protruding hip and collar bones.
I was hollow.

They would notice this, and send me some clinic to “get better.” They would force feed me butter and pasta and cookies and blame my 87-pound red zone on society and fashion magazines. They would “cure” me and then send me back, all better.

They wouldn't realize the source of my problems. They wouldn’t realize that it wasn’t fashion magazines or television shows that made me like this, but rather “home” and the people in it.