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SETH
Ikickthedoor closed and lean against it. My lungs burn from my run. My muscles ache. I press a hand against my side, feeling a stitch there I just can’t shake. My legs wobble as they hold me up. My stomach gurgles. My vision swerves, but this time I’m smart. I allow myself to slowly slip to the floor, using the door behind me to keep my torso propped up.
I weighed myself this morning. I lost another three pounds. I don’t remember what my goal was. It feels like I once knew, but now everything is slipping out of my control. Or in it. I can’t decide. Each day is different. I think I wanted to beat Alex. That’s what it was. I wanted to beat him at his own game, whatever that was. The tryouts for the Olympics were yesterday. I wonder how he did. I wonder if I will have to go to some party, congratulating him on a job well done, pretend to be nice for a few moments. I’m surprised Rachel isn’t here now, decorating the place for the asshole.
I groan and rub my head. My vision won’t stop swaying. I lick my lips, needing water, needing food. I don’t know if now is the time to stand. I can’t fall again. If I injure myself again, they won’t let me live it down. Lucas is pissed, and every time he tries to talk to me, I pretty much run away. Rachel tries to offer whatever support she can, but she’s busy. Alex wants to help, but I keep pushing him away. Hunter is busy with his own thing.
I have no one.
But that’s my fault, isn’t it?
I grab the door handle above me and use it to help me stand. Shakily, I step toward the sink and turn on the faucet, guzzling down as much water as I can. It usually takes my hunger away, but this time, the water does nothing to stop the ache. I slam the glass onto the counter, my gaze sliding to the refrigerator.
Don’t do it, I tell myself. I try to tear my gaze away from it, but my body isn’t listening. My hands slide to the counter, gripping it, as if it will suddenly ground me, keep me from stepping toward the refrigerator.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper, hoping by hearing the words I will snap back into focus.
My hands slide away from the counter and I take one step toward the refrigerator, followed by another, until finally I’m standing in front of it. I groan, turning on my heel, pacing back and forth, wondering what I should do. I shouldn’t stuff my face. I need to think rationally about this. I can have an apple, a banana, some cucumbers. Those are all healthy, those should be fine. Keep your eye on the prize, Seth.
I open the refrigerator, but before I can look for the fruits and vegetables, my gaze lands on the pizza box taking up most of the space on the shelf. Shit. I don’t need pizza. I need something healthy, like a salad. I can make myself a salad and I will feel better. I grab the veggie drawer and yank it open, quickly grabbing the lettuce, tomatoes, onion, and cucumbers before slamming the door close.
I dump my ingredients on the counter and set myself to work chopping the vegetables and dumping them into a large bowl. However, no matter how much I try to focus on chopping, my gaze slides toward that fucking refrigerator. I can’t stop imagining the taste of pizza in my mouth with the tomato sauce, the pepperoni, the delicious cheese. It’s been so long since I’ve had cheese. I love cheese.
I devour my salad quickly, yet it does nothing to contain my hunger. I’m ravenous. I need more. I throw open the refrigerator, looking for anything to quench this need. I can’t have the pizza. I look for anything else to stifle my desire, finding a bottle of soda on the top shelf. That won’t help at all. My gaze slides to the packet of cheese. Bingo. My hand seizes the packet and I rip it open, cramming one into my mouth. I moan as I chew, seizing another and then another, until the entire packet of cheese is gone.
But still, I’m hungry.
I throw away the wrapper and return to my pacing, running my hands through my hair. What are you doing, Seth? You’re ruining all your hard work. How is this going to help you? I feel the call of the refrigerator and open the door, staring at the pizza box. The slices of cheese weren’t enough. I want to taste the tomato sauce on my tongue. My gaze shifts to the bottle of soda. Soda and pizza have always gone so well together.
I wrench the pizza box and the bottle from the shelf and slam the door close. I throw open the lid. There’re six slices left. It’s fucking Hawaiian. Of course it would be. The pineapples mock me, taunting me. Despite my hate for fruit on pizza, I still shove one in my mouth, languishing in the explosion of sweet and salty flavors tantalizing my tongue.
Ugh.
Rachel was right. It’s fucking amazing. Why does she have to be right all the time? I take another slice before I’m finished with my first, cramming it inside. My mouth is stuffed so full my cheeks ache. I swallow everything down with the soda, not bothering to grab a glass, chugging it directly from the bottle.
I eat the rest of the pizza and chug the entire bottle of soda before looking into the refrigerator again, my belly full, but I don’t care. It’s been so long since I felt this free, so long since I’ve eaten whatever I desired. I grab a jar of pickles and hot sauce from the fridge, squirting the sauce into my mouth before stuffing the pickles inside. I grab a can of whipped cream from the shelf in the door, squirting it into my mouth, not caring if I get any on my clothes.
It’s not until I’m lying on the floor, empty whipped cream can in my hand, that I finally come to. I groan, nearly gagging from all the food in my stomach. It grumbles for an entirely different reason. I can’t believe I ate the pizza. I can’t believe I ate all the cheese slices and the pickles. I groan, my head slowly shaking, wishing I could go back in time and smack myself across the face.
What the fuck have I done?
Slowly, I stand and stumble toward the bathroom, grabbing the scale and pulling it into view. I know I shouldn’t, but I step onto it, hating myself when I see I’ve gained five pounds. Fuck. In that one moment, I have ruined everything. I slip to my knees, hovering above the toilet, gagging and trying to vomit whatever isn’t digested. Unfortunately, my stomach seems to want to keep whatever food I’ve shoved inside me. I stick my finger into my throat, wiggling it around, stopping when I start gagging, but nothing comes up.
I groan, and slip to the floor, trying to think of another way. Maybe I should go on another run? The ache in my legs immediately steer me away from that. Or I can wake up early tomorrow and run for two hours. But what if the same thing happens again when I come home and I end up binging on the eggs? Ugh. I feel like absolute shit.
As I stare at the toilet, my head pressing into the tiled floor, a memory surfaces of me going to a party with Alex—when I drank too much I ended up throwing everything up. There’s some vodka in the freezer. That just might do the job.
I stand and rush toward the refrigerator, throwing open the freezer door and grabbing the vodka. I hiss, the cold biting into my skin. Without bothering to grab a cup, I chug the liquid, my eyes stinging with tears as it burns my throat. There is probably a better way, but I know this is a quick fix. This will get me back on track. I gasp, wiping the residue from my lips. The bottle is about a tenth done. I need to get to at least a fourth if I want my plan to work.
I gag as I bring the bottle to my lips. For a moment, I think I’ll throw up. I run over to the sink, gagging and urging the food to surface, but nothing happens. I take another large gulp from the bottle, slamming a fist on the counter as I try to drink as much as possible.
Come on, Seth, you can do this.
The door opens and I immediately lower the vodka, swaying on my feet as I watch Hunter enter. He turns to me, his eyes widening as he takes me in. “Seth?” he says while stepping forward, reaching for me. His hand wraps around my arm and holds me steady. “You okay? You look like—” He stops himself, wrinkling his nose in distaste as his gaze drops to the bottle in my hand. “Have you been drinking?”
“Yeah,” I slur, the vodka already taking hold of me.
I look around at the empty pizza box, the can of whipped cream on the floor, the empty pickle jar on the counter. Shit. I left a mess. Anyone with eyes will be able to tell I had a bit of a breakdown. I go to clean the mess, but I nearly trip over my two feet. I giggle as Hunter prevents me from falling. There was a time when I could hold my alcohol better, but, then again, I never chugged straight from the bottle.
