Hemorrhage.

Her hand was pressed against her lips. Her feet were planted to the spotted carpet. Her eyes never left mine. I shifted nervously underneath her gaze, hiking the small canvas bag I used as a carry-on high up on my shoulder. Everyone else had bigger bags, but I couldn’t carry anything over fifteen pounds. All of my luggage had wheels, and even then I had a hard time lifting it over curbs and steps.

People had stared at the airport. A girl pointed at me and then her mother shushed her. A few teenagers looked at me through admiring eyes.

I felt disgusting. I tried to look presentable - I put on my smallest pair of jeans, which still hung lowly on my hips and were baggy around my thighs. The ankles scrunched around the ankles of tops of my Vans, and I had to hike them up continuously. I wore a white crew-neck t-shirt and a black cardigan. Everything was at least a size too big. I did not want people to see my figure.

They would laugh, I was sure.

What else could they do, as they admired the muffin top these jeans gave and my thickness from side view? I knew I looked disgusting, but there wasn’t much else I could do.

My straight hair was stringy and greasy, and I had shoved a grey beanie on my head before I got off the plane.

My mother looked mortified.

I couldn’t stop myself from cringing.

She hadn’t seen me in a year and half. A year and a half ago I was 109 pounds. I was now bouncing between 89 and 92, depending on my binging and purging methods. I was not healthy.

The mirror told me that.

The scale told me that.

The overweight old lady across the isle told me that.

My mother’s fearful expression told me that.

Old habits die hard, though.

As I walked towards her and got a whiff of some kid with a large fry and hamburger, my stomach turned. Not from hunger, but distaste. Most food made me sick these days, especially animal products. I had a very sensitive stomach, and a more sensitive throat. I could not eat chips, rough food, or lots of salt products without the cuts inflaming with pain.

“Sweetie,” my mother tried to hide her gasp as I stood in front of her. She was transparent. “Look at you.”

No, thank you. I’d really rather not.

“You look so…different.”

Placeholder.

I smiled at her, and nodded. “Yeah. Things have been really stressful with work and stuff.”

Stuff? What was stuff? To me, stuff was reading the ingredients list on everything I put into my mouth, counting the calories on bread, vegetables, water with a slice of lemon. Stuff was feeling so empty that I spent $27.50 at Taco Bell and then threw it up at the gas station bathroom sixteen minutes later. Stuff was stepping on the scale seventeen times a day. Stuff was keeping a journal of the things I digested daily. Stuff was exhausting. Stuff was killing me.

Even though I refused to acknowledge that.

We exchanged pleasantries and made small talk as we waited for my luggage. I had two medium sized, black suitcases, which were easy to spot because of the green ribbon I tied at the handle. My mother insisted on lifting the bigger one. I protested, but she silenced me with a glare.

I could see the conversation brewing beneath the surface. She was thinking about bringing it up. She had this glint in her eye, like she was determining whether or not now would be a good time. I voted for later, simply because I could think of more excuses.

We rolled through the airport and made our way outside. I was then instantly reminded of why I hate Arizona. It was early June and it was warm. Warm weather wasn’t good for people like me. Warm weather made it hard to wear sweaters a size too big or sweatpants all day. I was a December girl. I liked hiding beneath scarves and hats and big coats.

My mother still had the same car - a silver Honda, with four doors and a simple stereo system. It was nothing special, but it was perfect for her. She was simple, living a simple life.

Except now I was coming back home.

She had taken the news well. She told me that my room was waiting for me and even made arrangements to get my possessions shipped to the house. I didn’t have much, because Charlotte had a lot of furniture and there wasn’t a need for me to get anything. Mainly, I had books, CDs, and trinkets.

We were sitting at a light, my mother drumming her fingertips across the steering wheel. I locked and unlocked my hands nervously.

I could see it in the tension of her jaw, the way the tendons moved; she was going to bring something up. I just hoped it was the wrong something.

“So,” she started, before moving the car forward as the light turned green. “How have you been?”

There was a lot of context underneath that. There was a little message, broken down so I could understand it and then spill my guts out. That wasn’t going to happen.

Things had changed in these two years. I had changed. I wasn’t open anymore. I learned that trusting people got you hurt, and closing yourself off got you safe.

“I’ve been okay,” I said, turning my chin down to inspect my thighs. They touched when I sat. It was revolting. “Busy with work and stuff.”

I watched my mother nod out of the corner of my eye. “Nothing else?” She prompted.

I shook my head.

She didn’t look satisfied. “That’s nice. What are you going to do now, that you’re back?”

The dreaded question. I knew what she meant; are you going to find a job? Are you going to go to college? Are you going to gain weight?

I shrugged. “I’ll probably see what jobs are available.”

It was kind of funny, because even though my mother hadn’t gone to college and she worked at a library for the majority of her life, she looked down at me because I chose to finish my schooling after I walked across the makeshift stage on the football field. I hadn’t felt the need for college, at the time.

I had plans to sell people overpriced clothing in a smelly van. Then those plans went to shit and I had to focus on other things.

Consequently, those things were my weight.

“What are you skilled in?” My mother’s voice was light, whilst her intention was not.

“Retail. Fashion. I’m a quick learner.”

Things were getting awkward. My mother was unhappy with me. I could tell by her curt and cold tone, but I didn’t know what to do about it. What did she want me to do? Inhale some butter and hope that I could stand it being in my system long enough that I couldn’t throw it back up?

The house was thirty minutes away from the airport but those thirty minutes went by quickly. I listened intently to the radio as my mother focused on the road. I twiddled my thumbs. My mother glared at people that forgot to use their blinker.

When we arrived, everything looked the same. Same small, two-bedroom white house. Same garden. Same fat cat sitting in the window sill and glaring menacingly. My mother cut the ignition but didn’t make a move to unbuckle. She shifted her body towards me and opened her mouth.

Before she could say anything, I cut her off by taking off my seat belt, opening the door, and getting out. I heard her sigh and then she popped the trunk. It hurt to hoist one of the suitcases out, so I decided to take two trips. I pulled the handle up and rolled the black suitcase up the steps. I left it in front of the door as my mother got out and headed up the walkway to unlock the door.

I headed back to the trunk and started grabbing the other one. It took five minutes of mustering up all my strength (not a lot) before I could finally pull the suitcase out. I set it down by my feet, shut the trunk, and leaned against the car, exhausted.

My muscles were feeling the effects of the plane ride, of the food deficiency. I didn’t let myself think about that, though.

Instead, I started thinking about how things were going to end up in Arizona. Was this going to be a good thing? Was I going to regret it?

I heaved a deep sigh, before turning to the right to grab my suitcase. As I looked up, though, I was greeted by the sight of a boy even skinnier than me.

He was staring straight at me, his eyes wide in shock.

That’s when I figured it out. It took all of two seconds.

Moving back to Arizona was the worst thing I could possibly do.

His eyes said it all: I was in deep shit.