Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
demons .
Because no one dares to venture into the unknown depths of my room, I woke up near the open bathroom toilet that morning. My throat was burning, I had the worst headache ever known to man, and my neck was sore since I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. Crusted saliva trailed down my chin, and stuck to my fingers. There was a foul smell filling the room—most likely from the dinner that was sitting for hours. My whole body was crying out for rest, but I knew rest was going to never come. I couldn’t rest like this. I was a completely and utter mess.
And even through all of these mishaps, my demons I was still telling myself to get the fuck up and get over to the scale—fast. The fear of somehow gaining weight from blacking out for a couple of hours was overwhelming; my whole body was shaking. Graham did have to be 90 pounds. Graham did even have to be 50 pounds. Graham had to be nothing—I wanted him to see 0 pounds on that scale. Because, as his demon, that was my job. If I suffered, so did Graham.
He didn’t deserve help. He didn’t deserve May. He didn’t deserve his mother, sister, or father. He didn’t deserve Aunt Desiree and all the others. He didn’t even deserve Elijah. He deserved all I gave him.
So I flushed the toilet, shakily got to my feet—still naked, bare you—and went into my mother’s bathroom. Luckily, or was it unfortunately? she wasn’t home. I had the place all to myself. Cheyenne was probably off on the bus, driving towards school (she must’ve thought I overslept), and my father was still off on a business trip.
I made Graham step on the scale.
After a few seconds of holding my breath, I gazed down at the tool to my Graham’s destruction beneath my feet:
90.2 lbs.
A sick rush overcame me.
Still not enough.
I left the bathroom—facing trouble to get my throbbing body to move—and also left my mother’s room. Before I could finalize the trip to my room, though, a strange, shocking, unnerving noise came to me. At first I thought it was just my aching mind causing me to hear things that wasn’t even so.
But then my eyes couldn’t fool me.
Because there was my mother, just leaving the hallway bathroom, staring right. At. Me. Her eyes were wide and full of horror. She caught sight of my terribly body; she caught sight of my red, puffy eyes, saliva-caked mouth and chin, matted-down, greasy, head of hair. But—worse of all—she saw:
Me.
And that—that single instant of the terrible realization—was what brought me to a new life; a new chapter of my life,
Back to the ED clinic.
And even through all of these mishaps, my demons I was still telling myself to get the fuck up and get over to the scale—fast. The fear of somehow gaining weight from blacking out for a couple of hours was overwhelming; my whole body was shaking. Graham did have to be 90 pounds. Graham did even have to be 50 pounds. Graham had to be nothing—I wanted him to see 0 pounds on that scale. Because, as his demon, that was my job. If I suffered, so did Graham.
He didn’t deserve help. He didn’t deserve May. He didn’t deserve his mother, sister, or father. He didn’t deserve Aunt Desiree and all the others. He didn’t even deserve Elijah. He deserved all I gave him.
So I flushed the toilet, shakily got to my feet—still naked, bare you—and went into my mother’s bathroom. Luckily, or was it unfortunately? she wasn’t home. I had the place all to myself. Cheyenne was probably off on the bus, driving towards school (she must’ve thought I overslept), and my father was still off on a business trip.
I made Graham step on the scale.
After a few seconds of holding my breath, I gazed down at the tool to my Graham’s destruction beneath my feet:
90.2 lbs.
A sick rush overcame me.
Still not enough.
I left the bathroom—facing trouble to get my throbbing body to move—and also left my mother’s room. Before I could finalize the trip to my room, though, a strange, shocking, unnerving noise came to me. At first I thought it was just my aching mind causing me to hear things that wasn’t even so.
But then my eyes couldn’t fool me.
Because there was my mother, just leaving the hallway bathroom, staring right. At. Me. Her eyes were wide and full of horror. She caught sight of my terribly body; she caught sight of my red, puffy eyes, saliva-caked mouth and chin, matted-down, greasy, head of hair. But—worse of all—she saw:
Me.
And that—that single instant of the terrible realization—was what brought me to a new life; a new chapter of my life,
Back to the ED clinic.