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Rubbing my hand over my face, I try to wipe away the water residue that’s left on my skin. So, me not cowering to my bullies is arrogance?
I am ruined, but I refuse to let them win.
Poor, little, insecure Jenny and her asshole boyfriend.
I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, and a cold laugh escapes my bruised and still bleeding lips. “I guess I’m failing my test,” I say out loud, to no one specific.
There’s an awful feeling pricking my chest, a mix of despair and frustration. Anguish and rage. So much rage. At them, at my parents, at myself.
Struggling to my feet, I move to the sink. The girl staring back at me in the mirror’s reflection is unrecognizable. My hair is drenched, messy strands plastered to my face. My mascara has left black streaks down my cheeks, and my eyes are bloodshot. My lips are swollen, and bruised. My face is pale, except for my right cheek that’s turning an ugly shade of purple from Jenny’s slaps. Her rings must have caught my skin, because there are two rough cuts on my cheek.
I hate this…
— this feeling of worthlessness.
What is my value now?
***
The rich, savory taste of pizza fills my mouth and my taste buds are tingling. Soft, springy texture of bread, sweet and savory tomato and cottage cheese. Salty olives, sour pineapples and chewy, roasted meat.
Everything tastes like heaven, and the euphoric feeling of binge-eating courses through my body. Even though I know once I’m done, I’m going to be filled with disgust and the need to purge will overcome my senses.
But, right now, I just can’t stop stuffing my face with everything flavorful and gourmet.
My brain barely registers the lack of control, and my hands — shaky but desperate to reach for the next pizza slice. I can’t stop. I need this.
I can’t get my hands on this food, that food and all the food in front of me. It’s a buffet, yet not enough. A buffet that I can’t eat fast enough.
My brain doesn’t even recognize the calories I’m stuffing in my body. All my senses are filled with pure bliss — the delight that comes with indulging.
I need more.
It’s okay if I eat another slice…it’ll be the last piece I eat.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Half of my tray is cleared, and that’s when it starts hitting me. The euphoria and adrenaline that accompanies my eating is replaced with guilt and shame. Sadness and anger.
Yet I can’t stop.
This is wrong.
But I can’t stop.
I shove another spoonful of whip cream in my mouth, and I don’t stop until the container is empty.
I need to stop. This is bad.
Sniffling, I drop the empty whip cream container, and grab the Oreo package. I shove three Oreos in my mouth, chewing until my jaw hurts and my stomach cramps.
Why am I doing this?
Why can’t I fucking stop?
No more pizza, no more Nutella, no more whip cream, no more Oreos, no more bread and carbs and calories. No more—
A loud urgent knock interrupts my thoughts, and I drop the package onto my lap. “Riley?” my mother calls from outside the door. “What are you doing? We have to leave in five minutes.” Her voice is cold and stern.
