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That's new. Literally, no place has ever done that, not the place in California, not the retreat in Washington state, not the new age bullshit one in France three years prior. If I got bad, they hospitalized me, but no one ever threatened to do it themselves.
"Chryseum is not like your former institutions," she continues.
No shit.
"You've been through cognitive-behavioral therapy. You've attended group therapy as well and completed standard rehabilitation protocols including nutrition counseling and, when necessary, inpatient hospitalizations. Those methods have not worked. You will find that we deal in much more extreme measures."
There are unspoken words in between the lines that say she only cares because of how much cash my father's promised to cough up if they cure me.
"Now," she looks down at her notes on her desk, "I see that you've lost some weight between your registered weight at your last institution and today so," she opens the drawer next to her and one by one plucks out six sugar cubes, or at least they look like sugar cubes. She stacks them in a neat pyramid on a porcelain tea plate and scoots the plate over the desk to me.
"These are nutritional cubes," she tells me. "Designed in-house by Dr. Boucher, our head psychiatrist, himself. They are for those who suffer from your same ailments."
"Uh," I begin, trying to count the caloric content, but I have no idea what's in them. Surely, they can't be more than fifty calories per cube.
"Eat them," she tells me.
Slowly, I grab one off the plate and look at it. It looks like sugar but feels heavier. Is it really just sugar, or is it something more? Why do I feel like she's already playing mind games with me?
"Eat them, Ms. Bardot."
I barely hear her words. I'm staring at the cubes, trying to figure out if she's bullshitting me.
"Eat them!" she spits, practically shouting this time.
Is this some sort of test? It feels like a test, and I've never been a good pop quiz taker.
I'm estimating fifty calories per sugar cube, so she's got at least three hundred right there. Despite what she calls them, I doubt they have much nutritional value. I'm sure they'll lead to a glucose spike, which my mother would say leads to fat storage. Still, as she watches me, I fight every instinct inside of me and bring one of them to my lips.
As the headmistress stares at me, my mother's thoughts come back to haunt me.
Oink, oink, piggy!
I nearly vomit when I open my mouth, put the cube in my mouth, and the artificial sweetness hits my tongue.
It tastes like sugar as my mother's voice rises to a shout inside my skull.
No one will love you when you're fat!
No one will want you when you're fat!
Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!
Headmistress stands abruptly at her desk and walks around to me. As she arrives, her fist hits the desk in front of me, once and hard.
"Swallow them," she hisses, "or I will make you swallow them, Ms. Bardot."
I reach for another, but I'm not fast enough. She grabs all six and shoves them inside my mouth. Then she seals one hand over my mouth and nose and one at the bottom of my chin, forcing my head up and keeping my mouth shut. I can't breathe, and I start to struggle before she lifts a finger away, and I suck in air through my nostrils.
"Swallow," she commands and I start to chew. I stare at her as I do, my fists clenched at my sides. I want to hit her or run or scream, but if I do, they'll shove a tube down my throat and put me in the hole, where I won't have any choice about what goes into my body.
I just have to wait it out until my father decides this place isn't working and maybe he gives up for good this time and finally lets me go.
I could run away.
I've done it before, but I know there's nowhere my father won't find me and drag me back down to the depths of hell. He's threatened me with institutionalization and worse. He might actually do it if I kill this bitch.
"Do I need to call the guards?" Headmistress demands, and I shake my head a little and swallow one bite after another, the chewy, chalky substance sticking inside my throat.
