Do Not Resuscitate

One bite of toast.

The little corner. Mostly the crust. Flaky and plain and perfectly browned. The whole slice held in Mom’s pretty manicured fingers, so close to my face it’s all I can smell, all I can see, all I can focus on. An all-encompassing experience, and it takes all my energy. To taste. To salivate. To ignore the rumbling, insistent pain in the pit of my stomach and the frantic beat of my heart. To chew.

And chew.

And chew.

And chew.

The same little bite of mostly corner crust. Chewing. Still chewing. Fifteen times. Thirty times. Fifty-five times. Seventy times. Ninety-eight times. Nine-nine times. One hundred times. Till it’s broken down, disgusting mush. Way beyond the point of necessity, of “good digestion.” I want to spit it out on the living room carpet, but I should swallow. I should.

Because Brooklyn is watching.

She’s staring. Not the “staring but pretending not to stare” stare Mom, Dad, and Val have somehow managed to master—because they think eating will be easier if they make me believe they’re not watching when, really, they have to watch my every move—no, she stares intently, abandoning her dolls to keep track of what I’m doing, and talks.

Just talks and talks and talks while I chew and chew and chew. Rambles because that’s what she does. Dere was a bird once… and he ated the bread… I tink it was a he… maybe it was a mommy bird… I don’t know… chirp, chirp… but he was blue… name him Fred… He flies by tha window sometimes…

I doubt that’s the same fucking bird you saw at the park, Brooklyn—

Swallow.

I swallow.

I don’t think I meant to. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. But the gross, mushy, little corner of mostly crust slides down my throat. A slow process I can feel until it lodges itself in my stomach.

It’s expanding. Feeding on my stomach acid. Making my stomach swell. Bloat. Press against the waistband of my sweats. A bulging balloon. The expanding toast is seeping into my lungs. I can’t breathe.

… I think need help…

Second bite of toast.

It’s shoved in my mouth before I can think, before I can stop myself from digging my teeth into the crunchy softness, before I can run to the bathroom to shove my fist down my throat. A tiny, tiny bite. More crust. From the edge.

I’m going to throw up. Bile and a gooey ball of dough that’ll almost choke me to death on the way up. Even though I’m chewing and chewing and chewing and still chewing a stupidly small bite of toast-but-really-crust.

I shouldn’t throw it up.

I want to throw it up.

The bread tastes bitter, slightly metallic, disgusting, and it’s mushy, becoming liquid, and I’m positive bits are seeping into my system with every chew, adding to the expanded piece in my stomach, and I’m bloating, I’m going to implode, I feel fat. I feel fat. I feel fat. I need to throw up.

I can’t stop chewing.

This is disgusting.

Mom is rubbing my back. Through the layers of blankets. An action meant to comfort her dying child, coax her into nibbling on toast. And when did I put my head on her lap? How did I end up lying like this?

I don’t remember.

She murmurs strings of words, low so I can hear them and hopefully Brooklyn—talking, talking, talking about going to the beach with her new set of sparkly, rainbow shovels and buckets—can’t. It’s okay to eat… whatever’s wrong… don’t take it out on yourself… don’t keep it inside like this… we’d rather… yell at us… scream… curse… throw things… hit a pillow… something… It’s okay… We won’t be angry… We want you to talk to us…

But I can’t talk to you.

I can’t tell you.

I swallow. Again. Choke down the liquefied crust. There’s gurgling. From my stomach. The mass of skin moves under my hands, distending to make room for the second bite of toast, growing and growling. My nails dig into my stomach. It stings. I think I might be bleeding.

I think I might need help…

Third bite of toast.

I can’t stop myself from nibbling off a microscopic chunk of crunchy wheat bread. I’m on autopilot. That’s good, Danny. Chewing. I gotsis a new beach ball. Chewing. It’s okay, Danny, it’s okay. Chewing. You can play wit me, Sissy! Swallowing watery toast.

I can’t do this.

… I do need help.

Fourth bite of toast.

Bigger. Too big. A solid bite. Not a nibble. I’m bloating. Expanding. Inflating. Fat. No. Need to spit. Need to throw up. Need out. I need out.

Dad appears out of nowhere, standing in front of me, trying to Pied Piper his way into my head with his stupid scratchy voice. How does some soup sound… We made… thicker broth but… no butter… well a little butter… or maybe a…

Nope.

They’re hovering. They’re in my face. They’re all speaking. This long slur of noise buzzing around me while I chew and claw my stomach and chew and claw my stomach and chew and chew and chew. They won’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t breathe. I can’t do this. I swallow.

I need help.

I need to throw up.

Like now.

Moving hurts, but I have to move. I have to do it. Push myself up on shaky arms. Swallow saliva repeatedly to combat the hit of nausea. Close my eyes, grab my head, will the stars and blackness and dizziness to disappear. Hands press on my back, my arm, my leg, steadying me, and…

Their faces. Mom’s, Dad’s, and Val’s. In my space. Radiating that blatant hope I’ll pick something from the ever-increasing list of foods. Crowding around me in a weirdly comforting pod of parents.

And over Dad’s shoulder, on her tiptoes to see around him, Brooklyn is watching from her spot next to the coffee table.

Smiling.

A pretty, broad smile. It makes her button nose crinkle and her eyes light up and her dimples pop. All eagerness, happiness, restrained enthusiasm for who the hell knows what reason, I moved, I shouldn’t be moving, I should be dead, but it’s breathtaking.

I need help.

“You want tha wavles, Sissy?” Brooklyn asks, hands clasped, bouncing on her toes, her ponytail bobbing.

“Yes.”

Wait.

It’s out, the scratchy, painful word, out. Slips past my lips on a whim, in a moment of weakness, and my throat is on fire. I don’t want to eat the waffles, I can’t eat the waffles. Too much. It’s too much.

“I told you, Daddy!”

No, I don’t want it. I didn’t mean it.

But Brooklyn just looks so damn excited, and for once Mom and Dad are smiling at me like I’ve done something right, and I think Val is going to cry or combust or something, and I’m tired of this, I’m tired of being this way, I’m tired of being me, I’m tired of living and I’m tired of dying, I'm tired.

And I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.