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I take a deep breath in. He walks over to me, his eyes heavy, his expression blank. “I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I shouldn’t have—”
It’s too late. He cuts me off by grabbing a fistful of my hair and drags me over to the table. He shoves my head down. “You will eat every bite.”
I glance up at the clock. I have to pick up Avery soon, and I can’t afford for this to escalate. I take one bite and then another. I chew slowly. He tightens the grip he has on my hair. “Do you really think I have all day to sit here and babysit you?”
He shakes my head for me using the tight grip he has on my hair. I swallow quickly and take another bite.
“Chew faster,” he orders. I hear the anger in his voice. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to. “You have really let me down this time, Josie.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Why are you talking?” he asks. “You should be eating.”
I try to shift a bit, to get my bearings. I am bent at the waist, and this makes it hard. I straighten my legs, or at least I try. I’m afraid my knees are going to buckle, that they’ll give out, and all I’ll have is my husband holding me up by my hair.
“Faster!” he orders. I shove more food in. “I have to get back to work,” he tells me. “I like it better there. You know, there women actually care about their bodies…I enjoy spending time with people who care about their health.”
“I do care.”
“Maybe,” he laughs. “But what you lack is discipline, Josie. You know, real effort.”
I feel a sense of dread. He’s not going to let up.
“Look at this,” he says, swinging my head wildly. “Look at what I provide for you. And for what? For nothing. You don’t deserve this,” he chuckles. “If there was a grand prize for laziness…surely you’d take first place.”
I don’t respond. It’s better that way.
Eventually, I succeed at getting one sandwich down and half of the other before I literally cannot eat anymore.
He sighs. “If you don’t eat the rest of that, there will be severe consequences, Josie.” He’s growing more impatient. “Do you understand what I mean?”
I take another bite, but I can’t make myself chew. I close my eyes. You can do this.
He kicks the back of one knee, causing it to buckle. It’s not a hard blow, not so much that it hurts, anyway; it’s just hard enough to make my leg give out. Just enough to make me rely on him for balance. It’s what he’s best at. I’m twisting and turning, trying to steady myself, when I feel the sharp, cool metal against my back.
“Eat it, I said!”
I do as he says. I hear him place the knife or scalpel or whatever he has on the table. Then I manage to stuff the rest of the sandwich down as well as a fistful of chips, before my gag reflex kicks in. With one hand he lifts my head up and with the other he takes a fistful of chips and forces them into my mouth. I manage, but when he tries to force more in, I vomit all over him and the table. I’m not used to consuming that much food. My stomach can’t handle it. Tears stream down my cheeks.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
I’m sobbing, and I’m choking, and things have never looked this hopeless. There’s no coming back from this.
“Hmmm,” he says, taking his phone from his pocket. He selects his angle, twisting me by my hair, forcing my face toward the vomit, and he snaps a picture. “Why don’t you post that on the internet?”
I feel dizzy.
He laughs. Vomit burns my nostrils.
The smell is horrific.
“Now—take a bite, say you’re sorry, and this can all be over…”
I refuse without words. He shoves my head down until my face rests against the vomit. It’s chunky, warm and wet.
He pushes on my cheek forcing my head to turn. “DO IT.”
I’m sobbing, but eventually I open my mouth and suck in the smallest amount possible. Still enough that I know it will satisfy him.
