Dining with Ana
Dining with Ana
The bell from the microwave rings out across the kitchen, and I can feel my heart constrict. Panic floods into my system, adrenaline causing my heart to pound and my blood roar in my ears. The tears streaming down my face drip onto the work surface yet I'm so beyond caring. The spoon is icy cold against my flushed skin as I pick it up. Opening the microwave door causes me to be engulfed by a cloud of steam, the smell invades my senses and I wretch. Chest heaving with supressed sobs, I reach in and grasp the small white bowl that contains my meal, fortified with as many calories as possible.
I set it on the counter and insert the spoon into its congealed contents. As I stir, the sound of sticky wet meets my ears making me feel sick to my stomach. Looking around desperately for a distraction, or possibly a form of escape, my eyes fall upon the sink. They linger there. Sighing, I close my eyes, head dropping to my chest of its own accord, sobbing openly. Suddenly, my breath hitches in my throat. Desperately trying to pull in oxygen through my mouth, I only manage a minute wheeze. Leaning on the counter I fight for air to no avail. Everything becomes slightly blurred and as a last resort I pound a fist against my chest, choking unexpectedly as I manage to draw in a lungful. I grip my bowl in my already sweating hand and pad wearily towards the lounge, legs heavy and unwilling to move. Reaching the lounge door, they stop working all together and I strain my muscles to take the steps needed.
Arriving at the sofa, I place the bowl upon the table ajacent, the sound of china meeting wood, and the resulting chink of the spoon against the bowl sends a chill down my spine. Settling into my place on the sofa I once again find my chest tightening, air rushing from my lungs. Picking up my cup of tea I take two steady measured sips, spluttering in the process. I place the cup down.
Glancing in terror at the bowl in front of me, I discover its staring dirctly back. Whimpering, I extend a leaden arm and loosely take a hold of the spoon. Closing my eyes in anticipation of the torture I'm about to endure, I open my mouth to recieve food. Nothing happens. I open my eyes, unsure of what is happening, to find my spoon, and the gelatinous globule of poison on it still hovering above the bowl. Frowning, I once again attempt to lift my arm, no response. I put all my physical strength into it, and the spoon moves a fraction. Chanelling my efforts, the utensil moves painstakingly slowly towards my mouth. Realisation hits me with brunt force and my guts begin to writhe, the food glistens and I can bare it no longer. Closing my eyes I ram the spoon the final distance into my mouth. I want to die.
It sticks to the roof of my mouth, my tounge. I try desperately to swallow before yet another sob escapes me and I only just manage, morsels settling in my lungs as I wheeze. A gulp of tea helps remedy the choking sensation and fresh tears stream down my face at the realisation that I've only managed a single mouthful. Glancing at the clock I see it's ten past nine. Spoon in hand once again, I take a deep breath, bracing myself. And so the process is repeated, each time as much of a battle as the last, not once do I look at the bowl. When I can physically take no more of this self induced torture, I raise my eyes to the clock, a quarter to ten. Squeezing my eyes closed I inhale several times and make myself take a first glance at the contents of the bowl.
I have no control over the heartbraking sobs that wrack my frame. Screwing up my eyes I bury my face in my hands, wanting nothing more than to forget the horror I had just seen. In front of me is a bowl full of food, no different to how it was when I sat down over half an hour ago. One of the worst half hours of my life, to achieve nothing. Grasping for yet another tissue, I blow my now sore nose, disposing of it on the ever increasing pile beside me. Taking a sip of tepid tea, I look around with exhausted eyes, knowing there is only one option, I grasp my spoon once more. As I put my hand near the bowl some sauce transfers to my skin, its cold grainy texture disgusts me. Sitting there I blink, before taking a fresh tissue and wiping it away. I swallow hard, tears brimming, as I take my item of cutlery and once again start the agonising process of force feeding myself. My muscles, seemingly revived after a short reprieve, are as unwilling as ever, causing me to struggle with lifting my arm. Sighing, i resort to counting down quietly to myself. '5, 4, 3, 2.' I feel my voice quivering '1.' Spoon up, in mouth, chew, swallow. It continues in a cycle, counting, small mouthful, counting, small mouthful.
The sound of metal on china is surprising, peering down hesitantly I finally see a bowl nearing empty. Carefully evaluating the amount remaining, I split what is left in two, half to be left, leaving me one last spoonful. I scoop it up, knowing it has long gone cold and prepare for my last mouthful. Nothing. My body is once again betraying me in the most cruel of ways. Sniffling, I grasp my right hand with my left, and regretfully make the now much hated count down. '5, 4, 3, 2.' Pausing, I struggle to find my voice. '1.' Said weakly, but said none the less. Exerting the last of my energy I push the food past my lips, using both hands. I panic, then swallow without chewing, causing me to cough. I place down my spoon and look at my bowl, done at last.
Bursting into fresh tears I sink further into the sofa. The knowledge that I consumed nearly an entire bowl of food along with the fact that this is only the first fight of so many is just too much. I sit and I cry.
I set it on the counter and insert the spoon into its congealed contents. As I stir, the sound of sticky wet meets my ears making me feel sick to my stomach. Looking around desperately for a distraction, or possibly a form of escape, my eyes fall upon the sink. They linger there. Sighing, I close my eyes, head dropping to my chest of its own accord, sobbing openly. Suddenly, my breath hitches in my throat. Desperately trying to pull in oxygen through my mouth, I only manage a minute wheeze. Leaning on the counter I fight for air to no avail. Everything becomes slightly blurred and as a last resort I pound a fist against my chest, choking unexpectedly as I manage to draw in a lungful. I grip my bowl in my already sweating hand and pad wearily towards the lounge, legs heavy and unwilling to move. Reaching the lounge door, they stop working all together and I strain my muscles to take the steps needed.
Arriving at the sofa, I place the bowl upon the table ajacent, the sound of china meeting wood, and the resulting chink of the spoon against the bowl sends a chill down my spine. Settling into my place on the sofa I once again find my chest tightening, air rushing from my lungs. Picking up my cup of tea I take two steady measured sips, spluttering in the process. I place the cup down.
Glancing in terror at the bowl in front of me, I discover its staring dirctly back. Whimpering, I extend a leaden arm and loosely take a hold of the spoon. Closing my eyes in anticipation of the torture I'm about to endure, I open my mouth to recieve food. Nothing happens. I open my eyes, unsure of what is happening, to find my spoon, and the gelatinous globule of poison on it still hovering above the bowl. Frowning, I once again attempt to lift my arm, no response. I put all my physical strength into it, and the spoon moves a fraction. Chanelling my efforts, the utensil moves painstakingly slowly towards my mouth. Realisation hits me with brunt force and my guts begin to writhe, the food glistens and I can bare it no longer. Closing my eyes I ram the spoon the final distance into my mouth. I want to die.
It sticks to the roof of my mouth, my tounge. I try desperately to swallow before yet another sob escapes me and I only just manage, morsels settling in my lungs as I wheeze. A gulp of tea helps remedy the choking sensation and fresh tears stream down my face at the realisation that I've only managed a single mouthful. Glancing at the clock I see it's ten past nine. Spoon in hand once again, I take a deep breath, bracing myself. And so the process is repeated, each time as much of a battle as the last, not once do I look at the bowl. When I can physically take no more of this self induced torture, I raise my eyes to the clock, a quarter to ten. Squeezing my eyes closed I inhale several times and make myself take a first glance at the contents of the bowl.
I have no control over the heartbraking sobs that wrack my frame. Screwing up my eyes I bury my face in my hands, wanting nothing more than to forget the horror I had just seen. In front of me is a bowl full of food, no different to how it was when I sat down over half an hour ago. One of the worst half hours of my life, to achieve nothing. Grasping for yet another tissue, I blow my now sore nose, disposing of it on the ever increasing pile beside me. Taking a sip of tepid tea, I look around with exhausted eyes, knowing there is only one option, I grasp my spoon once more. As I put my hand near the bowl some sauce transfers to my skin, its cold grainy texture disgusts me. Sitting there I blink, before taking a fresh tissue and wiping it away. I swallow hard, tears brimming, as I take my item of cutlery and once again start the agonising process of force feeding myself. My muscles, seemingly revived after a short reprieve, are as unwilling as ever, causing me to struggle with lifting my arm. Sighing, i resort to counting down quietly to myself. '5, 4, 3, 2.' I feel my voice quivering '1.' Spoon up, in mouth, chew, swallow. It continues in a cycle, counting, small mouthful, counting, small mouthful.
The sound of metal on china is surprising, peering down hesitantly I finally see a bowl nearing empty. Carefully evaluating the amount remaining, I split what is left in two, half to be left, leaving me one last spoonful. I scoop it up, knowing it has long gone cold and prepare for my last mouthful. Nothing. My body is once again betraying me in the most cruel of ways. Sniffling, I grasp my right hand with my left, and regretfully make the now much hated count down. '5, 4, 3, 2.' Pausing, I struggle to find my voice. '1.' Said weakly, but said none the less. Exerting the last of my energy I push the food past my lips, using both hands. I panic, then swallow without chewing, causing me to cough. I place down my spoon and look at my bowl, done at last.
Bursting into fresh tears I sink further into the sofa. The knowledge that I consumed nearly an entire bowl of food along with the fact that this is only the first fight of so many is just too much. I sit and I cry.