Wrists

Becoming over-confident never gets you anywhere. As soon as I thought things were going to be so happy and careless from then on, I had done it. All I had done was simply put my book down on the bed, next to my phone (for Elijah had been texting me the whole afternoon), and went downstairs to grab myself some food. Oh god—just the sound of the word ‘food’ sent a shiver down my back. I wasn’t sure whether it was a terrified shiver, or just the result of nostalgia I occasionally experienced from hearing an old friend’s name. Either way, I had walked into the kitchen to get a bite to eat, and as soon as I opened the cabinet, there was a big bag of Lays potato chips facing me, next to a box of raisins. I turned my eyes to the box of raisins, intending to pick that one up instead to eat, but those damned chips were glowing in all its glory, teasing me.
You can’t eat me, Graham. You can’t.

Yes. I can.

So I did. I ripped open the bag, climbed the staircase back to my room, sat on my bed, and ate the whole fucking thing. Halfway my stomach was begging me to stop, but I ate anyway. I ate and ate and ate, because the taste of that salt, of that familiar grease on my tongue, was so delectable. Each chip tasted like bliss; I savored each bite and resumed stuffing my mouth until the entire bag of chips was finished.

And can you only guess my emotions after my compulsive eating was complete? Words cannot convey how terrible the pain was in my chest. Those dormant demons kicked restlessly, spewing ash as a volcano did, but not yet erupting. But that spew of ash was enough for my mind to go insane; even after sitting there and begging myself not to get up (for I knew what I would’ve done if I had), I beat myself and rushed to the bathroom.

I was still an expert at it. I didn’t even have to use my fingers. Just a press against my large? stomach and the clenching of my muscles, and out it went. It burned. It stung. It painfully rushed out—I hadn’t waited long enough at all before I had done it—and, most of all, it didn’t make me feel better. The relief only lasted a minute or so, but soon I felt even more anxiety and out of control than when I had eaten the bag of chips.

How could I face anyone after this? This deep guilt would’ve killed me if I had pretended I was still a recovered, perfect child. I sat in the bathroom, right next to the flushed toilet—still hissing—and sobbed. All of my emotions from the past months, even before treatment, returned to me, and I couldn’t handle it at all. I was in pain. Not only my mental state, but also my chest. Everything began to hurt.

What had become of me?

After sitting there for nearly two hours, with all of these emotions, I finally pulled myself up. I knew I had to tell the truth. Not telling was the same as lying. And the only person I could bare to tell at that moment was the person most important to me.

Elijah.

I didn’t want to talk, not to him, not to anyone, so I sent a message instead. I told him what I had done, and how much of a failure I was. When he didn’t reply in a very long while, I thought he was mad. No—I thought he was pissed. It only made me cry harder;

could anyone be more pathetic than I?

It shocked me when he showed up at my house five minutes later. I never expected him to show, only to be mad, but he did. Black hair, blue eyes, leather jacket, tight jeans and all. I hesitated. I didn’t want him to see me like I was. But he’d seen me through my ups and downs anyway, so what could’ve been the difference?

I let him in, and he held me tightly. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “Everyone has slip-ups. It’s okay.”

I continued to cry, but this time with happiness; Elijah stood there the whole time. My confusion and desperation seemed to slowly—very slowly—melt away. He let me cry for almost 8 minutes before he began to brush my hair and whisper in my ear. “Remember when we were sitting on my bed? When we were watching the TV together?”

I grew quiet. We had done so many things together that I couldn’t seem to remember that one moment. He continued to explain when he realized I wasn’t repsonding. “...You asked me to be official with you. Remember?”

...Of course I remembered. What kind of question was that?

I remained silent. Dead silent. I had an aching feeling that, in the back of my head, something big was about to happen. That intense look in his dark blue eyes was a dead giveaway. His pink lips curled upwards for only an instant before he leaned his forehead against my shoulder. “If you still want me, Graham I... I don’t mind making us... official.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. All I could see was his calm blue eyes refocus and stare into mine. What an overpowering emotion I was feeling then. So overpowering I wanted to collapse.

But I held myself up.

Elijah was a saint.

A saint.

Graham had finally taken control of his own mind. Graham had almost beaten his demons, shoving them away, hoping they’d never return.

And I was so delighted to say that he was to remain here—in this new life—forever.