UNTITLED.

“Chelsea Taylor, wake the fuck up!”
I’m startled out of a sound sleep by my phone’s alarm. My friend recorded it, thinking she was funny. I should kill her.
I drag my bleary-eyed self out of bed, startling the cats that rest at my feet, and into the bathroom. Clothes are piled on the floor. I really should clean up, maybe do the laundry.
I pull off my gray tank top and pink flannel pants, unearth the scale from under a pile of T-shirts, and step on. Goosebumps rise on my bare skin, but I can’t weigh myself in anything more than my underwear.
The square red numbers appear on the small digital screen. One hundred and eight pounds, two pounds below the usual. Today will be a good day.
I turn on the shower and the pipes shudder, then fire up. As the water pounds against the porcelain floor, I gaze at myself in the mirror. My eyes are sunken and weary, coated in makeup stains from the night before. My hair dye is fading too; I should touch up the roots.
When the mirror is totally fogged over, I pull off my underwear and climb into the shower. The searing water wakes me quickly and turns my skin cherry-red. I wash my long hair with coconut-lime shampoo and rinse out the bubbles. They pool at my feet and swirl down the drain.
I wash my face with a scrub that makes my skin tingle and emerge from the shower dripping wet, avoiding my reflection. My favorite purple towel hangs on the rack. I wrap it around my body, tucking it under my arms, and pad back to my bedroom to look for clothes. Black underwear, black jeans, black Converse, Black Sabbath T-shirt. I towel off my hair and pull it back into a braid, then get dressed and head for the kitchen.
My apartment is tiny, with a kitchen barely big enough to walk in. The cats curl around my feet as I prepare the coffeemaker and turn on my computer.
“Hey, babies,” I coo towards the cats. My tabby, Holden, purrs against my ankle.
As the computer loads, I cross the kitchen in five steps and dump food into the cats’ bowl. The coffeemaker beeps as I’m refilling their water. I grab my NYU mug from the dish rack and pour the first cup of the day, black.
The cats feign disinterest in their food. I sip my coffee and log onto the computer. Today is Tuesday, a cold October Tuesday, and the weather app on my desktop warns of an impending thunderstorm. I open the Internet and sit back, waiting, planning out my day in my head. I don’t have class until noon today, so I decide I will go out for breakfast. Like a normal girl.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out and check the Caller ID. Scarlet, my best friend from middle school and perpetual early bird.
“Hello?”
“Hey, CJ.”
CJ. Chelsea Jane is my real name, but I adopted the initials when I got to college. Less girly.
“What’s up?” The internet window finally loads. I log onto Facebook.
“Just wondering if you wanted to get something to eat. I just had three classes on an empty stomach and my fridge is empty. I don’t work till two, you up for it?”
“Yeah, I was actually just thinking about that. Sure. Meet me at Uncle Joe’s in ten minutes?”
“You got it. See you then.” She hangs up. Uncle Joe’s is a local breakfast place just a few minutes from my apartment and one of Scarlet’s favorites. Facebook is boring this morning, so I take another gulp of coffee, grab my keys, cigarettes and hoodie, and head out.
The wind outside is freezing. I shiver and zip my sweatshirt up higher, running to my car as fast as I can.
When I arrive at Uncle Joe’s, Scarlet’s red VW Bug is already parked by the entrance. I park next to her and head in. As I enter, the smells hit me like a ton of bricks- the sweet scent of pancakes with butter and syrup; the salty odor of bacon, frying on the griddle; and the bitter, nutty aroma of coffee. My stomach growls and I mentally will it to shut up.
Scarlet is seated at a small table near the register. I cross the room to join her, sliding into the opposite seat.
“Hey, CJ! How are you, girl?”
“Good, I guess. It’s cold as fuck outside. How was class?”
“Which one?” She grins. Scarlet’s pre-med and planning on going into pediatrics.
“Which ones did you have this morning?”
“Anatomy, Psychology of Dreams, and Trig.”
“Okay, how was anatomy?”
“Boring. We’re studying the nervous system right now, so we’re just working on the different nerves and sections of the brain and stuff. It’s just tedious.”
“How about psych and trig?”
“Psych was fun. We talked about those dreams where you’re falling and the theory that if you land in your dream, you die in real life. Too many people believe that.” She rolls her eyes and sips her coffee. “And trig was boring, as always. How was your morning?”
“Pretty exciting. Showered. Fed the cats. Made coffee.”
“Wow. That’s pretty wild, CJ.” We both laugh as a waitress comes up to our table. She’s a cute little thing, probably barely eighteen. She sets down two menus and pulls out her order pad.
“Good morning, girls, and welcome to Uncle Joe’s. My name is Alyssa. Can I start you with some coffee? Maybe some fresh-squeezed orange juice?”
“I’ll have orange juice, thanks,” Scarlet replies, picking up a menu.
Alyssa scribbles it down and turns to me. “And what can I get for you, sweetie?” She smiles at me.
“Just coffee. Black. Thanks.”
She looks a little taken aback, but she writes it down and heads back for the kitchen.
“I think she’s into you,” Scarlet whispers over her menu.
“Eh. Not my type.”
“What is your type then?”
“Not all cutesy like that. I want a hardass.”
Scarlet rolls her eyes. “You like cutesy girls and you know it. You’re, like, the worst lesbian ever.”
I stick my tongue out at her. “How does that make me a bad lesbian?”
“You’re all into the girly-girls.”
“I fail to see how that makes me a bad lesbian. Not all of us are the big, scary, motorcycle-dyke type.”
She considers this. “True.”
“Alyssa’s cute, just not my type. And I think she’s too young for me anyways.”
“I see.” Scarlet continues to study the menu as I flip mine open. Nothing sounds good- everything I see is too many calories, or too much fat, or all sugar.
Alyssa returns a couple minutes later with a glass of juice and a coffee mug. She sets our drinks down and whips out the pad again. “What can I get you to eat?”
“I’ll have the double breakfast,” Scarlet requests.
“Two pancakes, four bacon strips, two eggs?”
“Please. I’m about to faint.”
Alyssa chuckles and writes it down. “And how about you?” She flutters her eyelashes at me.
“Nothing for me, thanks. Just coffee.”
“Oh. Okay then.” She puts away her order pad and walks away.
“You need to eat something, CJ,” Scarlet orders.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are not going to fool me.”
“I’m not hungry. I just need caffeine. I’m going out to smoke.”
She sighs. “Fine.” My chair scrapes loudly against the floor when I push it back. I stalk outside, shake a cigarette out of the pack, light up and lean against the brick.
As I’m smoking, I watch the people go by. Students wander by. Some carry books, others sip their Starbucks. Couples hold hands and whisper in each other’s ears. I see a few cute girls, but they’re all with their boyfriends. A few guys wink at me as they walk past.
I finish my cigarette and head back inside. Scarlet is on her cell phone, probably checking her email. I sit down and take a long swallow of coffee.
“You’re back. Meet anyone interesting?”
“I wouldn’t have come back if I had,” I shoot back. She grins and puts her phone down.
“CJ, you need a girlfriend.”
“Oh, thanks. I’ll put it on my to-do list, right between ‘buy hair dye’ and ‘do laundry’.”
“That’s not what I meant. But seriously, don’t you want somebody? Someone to love and protect? I mean, you haven’t had a serious girlfriend since…” She pauses for a second. “Well, you know.”
Yes, of course I know.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. If I find someone I’ll go from there.”
“I just don’t like seeing you lonely.”
“I’m not lonely. I have you and I have other friends.”
“Still.”
“Don’t you need a boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. “Way too busy to date. Working two jobs as a pre-med student. I don’t have time to breathe, let alone find a boyfriend.”
“Maybe I’m busy too.”
“CJ. You’re an English major. You have time to date.”
“I just… It’s hard, okay? I’m afraid of a repeat.”
“That’s not gonna happen again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Whatever.” I glance up at the clock on the wall. 9:45. “I gotta get going.”
“Today’s Tuesday. You don’t have class until noon today.”
“I have stuff to do. Errands.”
“Okay, whatever. Enjoy your morning. Text me later.”
I push my chair back and stalk out of the restaurant. Scarlet’s my best friend, but she’s too damn overbearing sometimes.
Errands are calling me- groceries and the drugstore and laundry and the car wash- but I ignore all of them and drive back to my apartment, running up the stairs as fast as I can and slamming the door behind me. The cats jump up off the couch and run for the bathroom as I stalk into my bedroom, shut off all the lights and collapse onto my bed.
Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself down on my knees in front of the closet, digging through boxes and piles until I find an old photograph album. I flip past the pictures of me and my sister and my mother until I find what I’m looking for. I slip the picture from its plastic casing and hold it up to my face.
An angel looks back at me. Big cerulean eyes, blonde hair to her waist, and delicate, rose-colored doll lips.
Her name is Cassie, and I broke her heart.
Cassandra Alexandra Michaels was my first kiss, my first girlfriend, my first love. We met when I was fourteen and just beginning to slip into an eating disorder. She tried to guide me through it, and she even helped me come out to my mother and stepfather when I was sixteen. But there was a horrible, dark secret that I kept from everyone, especially Cassie.
She made my anorexia worse. Cassie was beautiful, naturally a size zero with a fast metabolism and a flawless figure. She didn’t have an eating disorder, she was just naturally skinny. She hated that the outline of her ribs showed and that her hipbones jutted out and that she had a gap between her thighs even with her feet and knees together. But her body triggered me so badly that, the day after my seventeenth birthday, I had to break up with her. By then, I was 99 pounds on a 5’5” frame and still desperate to lose. My low BMI put me under the diagnostic criteria for anorexia. Cassie was killing me, and I had to let go of her. But I couldn’t tell her that her skinny body triggered me.
So I told her I cheated.
The day we broke up was the worst day of my life. I still remember the look on her face when I told her there was another girl, that I was sorry but it was for the best, that I didn’t ever expect her forgiveness.
Cassie didn’t cry. She didn’t scream or hit me or destroy my possessions. But what she did instead killed me inside.
She took my hands, drew me close to her and gave me one last, long kiss.
When we finally separated, she turned around and walked out for the last time.
For the next two weeks, I couldn’t even function. I wouldn’t eat, shower or answer the phone. I didn’t go to school or work. My friends brought me homework, but I let it pile up on the floor. They visited me, but I wouldn’t talk to them. I didn’t even cry. I just lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, sometimes sleeping. I listened to the same song on repeat for days on end- “The Crow and the Butterfly” by Shinedown.
About two and a half weeks after I broke up with her, a mysterious box with no return address appeared on our front porch. My mother brought it inside, up to my room, and left it at the foot of my bed with a pair of scissors. I carefully sliced through the tape and lifted the layers of cardboard.
Inside was everything I had given Cassie. An infinity ring. A silver butterfly necklace. An Anaheim Ducks T-shirt. Three pairs of mismatched socks, because I knew she loved to wear random ones. The notes I had written her, the pictures I had drawn, and the photos we had taken together.
At the very bottom of the box, wrapped in a rainbow scarf, was one last item. A tiny stuffed seal, the size of a Beanie Baby. Cassie had named him Sam and slept with him every night.
I clutched Sam to my chest and began to cry for the first time since we had broken up. As I placed everything back into the box, I noticed a piece of paper taped to the inside. I ripped it off and unfolded it.

Chelsea,
Here’s all your stuff back. I just wish you hadn’t done this. If you didn’t want me anymore, why didn’t you say something? Instead of cheating and betraying me?
I guess I’ll never know. But I’m going to miss you.
I love you so much, Chelsea. Now and forever.
Love, Cassie.

I dropped my head into my hands and start to sob. “Oh, God, Cassie, I did want you. I wanted you more than anything else. But I couldn’t do it anymore,” I whispered to no one in particular.
Eight months after we broke up, in the middle of August, I was getting ready to move out to New York to attend NYU. As I was hauling boxes outside, a familiar figure appeared in the distance.
Cassie.
As she got closer to me, I felt every inch of my body tense up. I clenched my fists and bit my tongue until it bled.
She walked up the driveway, slowly, and looked into my eyes.
“I heard you’re leaving. New York.”
I wanted to answer, but something kept my mouth shut.
“I just wanted to say congratulations. Good luck. And I’ll miss you, Chelsea.”
She inched closer to me and started to lean into my face, but my mother burst the door open and she startled.
“Chelsea Jane Taylor, hurry up! We need to leave by two!”
Cassie gave me a sad smile and walked away, leaving me standing in the driveway, staring after her, watching the love of my life disappear.

Somebody knocks on the door to my apartment. I jump, startled, and realize tears are running down my cheeks.
“Hang on!” I call out, wiping my face on my sleeve. I dash to the door, which takes about five seconds, and unlock it. Scarlet is standing at the door.
“Hey. Um, Alyssa wanted me to give you her number. And I brought you this.” She holds up a small plastic container.
I take the slip of paper and the container. “What is it?”
“A muffin. Blueberry. You know, your favorite.” She shifts from one foot to the other.
“Do you want to come in?”
“Yeah, sure.” I step back to let her in and lock the door behind her. She kicks off her sneakers and perches on the edge of the couch.
“You can sit down, you know.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
I shrug. “So why are you here? Cause it’s obviously not to hang out.”
She sucks in her breath and stares at the floor. “I need to tell you something.”
“Something you couldn’t tell me at breakfast?”
“I didn’t know until you left.”
I sit down on the couch and tug on her hand until she plops down next to me. “What’s going on?”
She sighs. “I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“Scarlet, what is it? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Then what is going on?”
She closes her eyes. “Chelsea… After you left, I got a phone call.”
“From?”
She pauses. Her eyes are filled with fear.
“Cassie.”
Everything freezes.
“She’s coming to New York for work or school or something.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “So? It’s not like she wants to see me or anything. She probably hates me.”
“Actually, Chelsea…” Her voice is strained.
“Oh god… Don’t tell me…”
“Yes. She wants to come see you. She misses you.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Scarlet, I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m not over the last time I saw her and that was a year ago.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Chelsea, I think she really wants to see you. She misses you a lot.”
“I miss her too! But I can’t do this!”
“I know this is hard. But I think it’ll be worth it. You obviously still really love her. I gave her your number.”
“God…” I groan, rubbing my eyes.
“I’m sorry, I gotta get going. I have class in twenty minutes. But think about it, okay?” She stands up and I rise to hug her. “It’ll be okay, CJ.”
When she’s gone, I relock the door and head for the bathroom. Two aspirin to combat the growing ache in my head, two cigarettes to calm my nerves. My hands are shaking and everything hurts. I close my eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, I still love Cassie. I always will.
I love her eyes and her smile and her doll lips and her cute nose and the way she laughs and her delicate hands and her long blonde hair.
I love the way she sings along to Janis Joplin and R.E.M.
I love how she loves sprinkles and doves and bubbles. I love how she always knows when people are sad and how she can always make them feel better.
I love how her eyes get wide when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about, how she bites her lip when she’s embarrassed, and how she freaks out when she plays video games.
I love her, entirely. And I miss her so much that it is eating a black hole right through my heart.
I shudder and light another cigarette. The air is thick with smoke. I’m not supposed to smoke in my apartment, but no one ever complains. They have their own secrets. I know the girl down the hall is a stripper and the boys who live upstairs aren’t old friends, they’re a couple. I know the guy on the fourth floor hits his girlfriend and the girl across the hall is a heroin addict. All kinds of dark stories lie within these walls.
As I suck the tobacco smoke, tears fill my eyes. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to deal with this. I need control and I’m losing it.
Time to start starving again, I think to myself. 800 calories a day. Only coffee for breakfast. No pigging out at work. You’re fat and worthless and you don’t deserve to eat.
The tears spill over. I drop my cigarette into the ashtray and start to sob, burying my head in my arms. I’m such a failure, I’m such a pathetic piece of shit.
Leaving the ashtray on the floor, I drag myself to my room, kick off my jeans and climb into bed half-dressed. I cry into my pillow for a while, until I’m hiccuping and choking.
Then I fall asleep.

When I wake up, the room is dark and a thunderstorm rages outside. I check my phone. It’s already ten o’clock and a text waits for me, a message from Alanna- my coworker at Bamboo Garden, the local Chinese restaurant where we work. Due to the storm, the restaurant is closed tonight. Good thing, since I slept through my shift. I pull myself out of bed, stumbling slightly, and head for the kitchen.
I open the cabinets, but I know there’s not much there. I don’t keep much food in the house. A few apples; some cheap beer, whiskey and vodka; and crackers. I pull a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the shelf and pour it into a water glass, then head for the couch and pull the curtains open. The sky is almost black and everything is soaked. Raindrops cling to the windows. I sip the whiskey, enjoying the burn in my throat, and gaze outside for a very long time.
I don’t weigh much, and since I haven’t eaten all day, I’m wasted pretty quickly. I stumble around the apartment for a while, until the brilliant idea of going out pops into my head. I head for my closet and pull out a black lace tank top and a denim skirt, along with my best bra and three-inch heels. When I’m dressed, I dig around in my drawer until I unearth some makeup- thick black eyeliner, blood-red lipstick, and pasty white foundation. I look like a vampire in the mirror, a vixen ready to suck the life out of anyone who crosses her path.
Already drunk, I head out of my apartment, barely remembering to lock the door, and walk down the local lesbian bar. It’s pretty full for a Tuesday night. Women are all around the place- some drinking alone, others with friends or girlfriends. Some are dancing. Some are making out in the corner, thinking they’re hidden under cover of darkness. I head for the bar, order two beers, then slip into a back booth and check out the scene. As I’m eyeing a pretty brunette, someone sits down across from me.
“Hi,” I greet her, sipping my beer. “You are?”
“Gabby. You?”
“Chelsea. CJ.”
“Pretty name. Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead.” I push the other beer towards her and she takes a long sip. She’s average looking. Dark blonde hair, gray eyes, nice rack encased in a tight pink Yankees shirt.
“So how are you tonight?” she asks, leaning forward.
“Drunk.” She looks a little taken aback by this.
“Sounds fun. Drunk on what?”
“Jack and now this,” I reply, holding up my beer.
“Ah, Mr. Daniels. He’s a good friend of mine.”
“I’m actually going home to hang out with him. You can join me if you’d like.”
“Sounds good to me.” She gives me a flirty smile. “I’m gonna get something to eat. You want anything?”
“No, I’m good.” She stands up and struts over to the bar, where a bored-looking waitress is standing with her arms crossed. I can’t help but stare at her ass as she walks away- she’s actually pretty hot, at least in my drunken point of view. The waitress talks to her for a minute, then disappears to the kitchen. Gabby heads back and sits down next to me.
“So do you come here often?” she whispers in my ear.
“Not especially, but it looks like I made a good choice tonight.” Damn, I’m smooth when I’m wasted.
The waitress returns with a basket of fries. “You girls need anything?”
“Nope, I’ve got all I need,” Gabby replies with a wink. The waitress rolls her eyes and walks away.
“Bitch,” Gabby mutters under her breath, taking a handful of fries. “These are pretty good. You sure you don’t want some?”
If I say no, she’ll think I’m a freak- and not the good kind. I take a couple fries and nibble on them slowly. They are good- salty and crispy. I haven’t let myself have fries in so long, and I know I should stop at two, but I’m shitfaced and have no self-control. Before I know it, the whole basket is gone.
“So you ready to leave? Maybe spend some time with old Jack?” Gabby asks, pressing her body up against me. Everything is spinning, everything is a blur.
“I… I’m sorry. I can’t tonight. I have to go.” I push her aside and jump out of the booth, running home as fast as I can. I slam my apartment door and fasten all the locks, then dash to the bathroom and stick my fingers down my throat.
I push in and out until I gag, then spew booze and fried potato scraps. Puke splashes on my face and in my hair. All the beer and whiskey I drank come out burning, twisting my insides until there’s nothing left inside me but stomach acid.
When I’m empty, I flush the toilet and curl up on the bath mat. Pain rips through my throat and stomach. I drag myself on my knees to the tub and yank the faucet on, hot water splashing onto the porcelain.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You had a hot girl ready to come home with you and fuck you and you ditched her because you can’t handle some fries? You are pathetic, Chelsea Jane Taylor. Absolutely fucking pathetic.
My knees shake as I pull myself up and gaze into my reflection. My face is smeared with vomit, tears, makeup and toilet water. Puke clings to my damp hair, stuck to my face with sweat. I am repulsive.
I climb into the tub, wet a pink washcloth, and scrub my face until it aches. My teeth are covered with a film of puke, but I can’t brush my teeth for thirty minutes after puking. Otherwise the acid gets spread around and rots your enamel. The water is too hot, but I let it sting my skin. I deserve the pain.
By the time I fall into bed, it’s one o’clock and my eyes are stinging with unshed tears. I don’t let myself cry, though. I curl up in the comforter and drift away.