Hemorrhage.

John has this amazing ability to make me feel like shit without even opening his mouth. He just stood there, his eyes wide and his mouth agape, and I felt disgusting. I wanted to shed my skin and become a new person, someone that he loved and approved of.

I know he was shocked to see me, but I didn’t think that I looked that shocking. Was it because I was fat? Was he staring at me because he couldn’t believe the weight I had gained, the extra pounds tenting themselves on my hips and thighs?

We locked eyes, and it was like this snapped him out of a trance, because all of the sudden he looked pissed. His eyes burnt with this unnamed fury, and his hands clenched together at his sides. I opened my mouth. I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask him why he was so mad.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t will myself to spit out the words. It would hurt too much. Instead of putting myself through that much pain, I turned harshly, tightening my bags in my hands and marching up to the front door. How dare he look at me like that.

How dare he make those assumptions with his eyes.

I had not come back to be judged. I had come back to start over.

My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen when I walked inside. She was sitting on one of the stools, her elbows on the island as she cradled her head in her hands. She looked distraught, I thought, but I didn’t want to say anything. I was hoping to avoid this conversation.

My mother had suspected that something was wrong with my weight before I moved. She threatened to take me to a therapist or a doctor if my weight didn’t improve, so for about six months I forced myself to eat again. It was hard, and with every bite I swallowed I could imagine myself getting bigger and bigger, the fat storing itself on top of my muscle and underneath my skin.

I would cry a lot at night, curled up in the fetal position with my pillow in front of my face. I hated what I was becoming, but I couldn’t change it.

My mother had the same look on her face as she did when she threatened to take me to the doctor. It was distressed, yet unbelievably determined.

The Arizona sun cast a light through the house, dancing off the steel refrigerator and resting on the window panes. The sun hurt my eyes. I didn’t need sunglasses before, but I guess I was going to have to invest in a pair now.

My mother’s head snapped up when I walked in, and her eyes narrowed suddenly, before her face softened. The tendons in her face changed positions about ten times a minute.

“Emelie, I think you should sit down,” she advised me, using her right hand to gesture to the stool across from her.

I nodded slowly, a little confused on where exactly she was taking this, but sat down nonetheless.

“Emelie,” she had this way of contributing my name to just about every sentence when she spoke to me. “I think we need to talk.”

I sat down, and looked at her. She looked tired, with bags under her eyes. Her roots were showing, and her nails weren’t done. She wasn’t the usual composed woman that I was used to.

“I think you know what the problem is, Emelie.” She said.

I feigned innocence. “What problem?” If she was going to refer to my horrendous body, I might just have to kill her.

“Your weight, Emelie.” Her voice was sharp, thick, and cold. “It’s not good.”

I blinked at her. I was going to see how far I could go while I played oblivious. “What’s wrong with it?”

Please don’t tell me I’m fat. Please don’t tell me I’m fat.

“You’re too thin, Emelie,” this time she stressed my name, putting all of her emphasis on those three syllables. I had never hated my name so much as when she said it then.

And when John said it, but that was for a different reason.

“No, I’m not,” I argued with her. “I’m just not wearing the right clothes.”

I had perfected these excuses - thought about nothing but them on the plane ride, the car ride, waiting in line. I needed to perfect the tone of my voice, the way I delivered each syllable, or else she wouldn’t believe me. Even though I didn’t think she believed me now, anyway.

“Emelie, stop lying to me.” She demanded. “We’ve been over this before, and you know I don’t want to do this, but if you don’t start gaining weight, I’m going to have to schedule you an appointment with Dr. Meyers.”

Dr. Meyer’s was my mother’s best friend’s daughter’s best friend’s therapist. Apparently, she was very good with teens/young women dealing with “body issues” as my mother put. That’s how my mom would say it - “your weight issues” or “your body issues.”

She never fully said it, not even to this day. She never called me anorexic. The word 'bulimic' never entered her mouth. She refused to acknowledge those terms when it came to me.

“I don’t want to go to Dr. Meyers,” I protested, but she wasn’t listening.

“I didn’t say you had to right now, I’m just saying that if you don’t gain any weight in the next two weeks, I’m going to schedule an appointment. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, honey; your body issues aren’t right.”

I hadn’t even been in the door for an hour and she was already making assumptions. She was already planning, plotting, scheduling things.

“Mom, I’m fine.” I said. “I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately. I just got home! Let me de-stress and get better before you start making assumptions.”

It was not a clever excuse. I was actually surprised when she nodded her head.

“Okay. I’ll give you time. But I’m not letting this go, Emelie. Either you gain weight or you go.”

She was already picking a fight. It was how she was - she couldn’t stand being in the house with me without picking apart something. My hair, my clothes, my weight. She was always trying to fix something, like I was constantly broken.

Now she was starting this. I was already exhausted.

“Okay, I promise I’ll gain weight,” I lied. I didn’t promise to gain weight. I promised to eat in front of her, throw it up, and stick quarters in my pockets when she made me stand on the scale. I promised to give her the illusion of me getting better.

“Okay.” She looked relieved. “Why don’t you go unpack?’”

I nodded in agreement, but said nothing. I slid off the stool, grasping the handles of my rolling luggage and tugging them behind me. It hurt my arm, because I hadn’t used much muscle lately. There was a small part of me that was almost aware that my body was probably eating away at the muscle because it was deficient of food, but I ignored that part.

My room still looked the same - white walls with a flowered boarder. There was a twin bed pushed against the wall, with a yellow paisley duvet and an old black lamp. It was boring, but it was how I decorated things. Everywhere I went looked temporary.

I pushed the suitcases against the wall before sitting down on the edge of my bed. I was too exhausted to unpack. I felt emotionally and physically drained. I was plagued with the fact that my mother was going to monitor me all hours of the week. It was going to be hard to sneak around without eating anything.

I felt like I needed to talk to someone. I dug my phone out of my jean pocket, my fingers sliding over the slick metal. It was a birthday present from Charlotte - she bought me an iPhone because she wanted it to be easy to “keep in touch.”

I scrolled through my contacts, finding the number I wanted. We hadn’t talked a lot since I left, but I talked to him more than anyone else out of the group.

I pressed the call button and held the phone up to my ear.

He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Emelie, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I just wanted to call and say hi.”

“Hey!” He was so enthusiastic. “What have you been up to?”

I contemplated my answer. “Not much. I’ve been busy with work. Look, I’ve got something to tell you--,”

I was cut off by Pat’s enthusiastic voice calling out. “John, is that you? John, guess who I’m talking to?’

I panicked. “No, Pat, don’t--,” I tried, but he wasn’t stopping. “Pat, stop!”

“What?” His voice rang through the receiver. “What’s wrong?’

“Pat, John already knows, but…I’m home.”

Dial tone.