In My Father's Shadow-Chapter Twelve

Smoke session. The second Aislin and I get off of the bus, we immediately cram the filter of a cigarette into our mouths and light up, and sucking the deadly smoke into our nicotine charred lungs. We haven’t smoked in eight hours and our bodies were going crazy with the need for nicotine. My fingernails are chewed down nearly to the cuticles and my hands shake ever so slightly until the nicotine buzz kicks in and my system relaxes.

Aislin hasn’t said anything about how I look anymore today. We are both too sick of pushing the issue to keep arguing about it. She sits down on the bus stop and puts her book bag on her lap, cigarette screwed firmly between her lips, her eyes squinting to keep the smoke from going into her eyes and pulls out a bottle of body spray. She finishes her cigarette quickly and stomps the butt out onto the sidewalk. Then the spray is uncapped and in seconds, the smell of Ocean Breeze body perfume is clinging to the air like a needy child to its mother. I finish my own cigarette shortly after she does and the body spray is transferred over to me, making sure to spray my clothes well in order to get the smoke smell off of them.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” She asks dropping the perfume back into her book bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

I nod, “Sure thing. Later.”

I don’t wait for her to say goodbye. I just start walking down the street toward my house and I know that she’s doing the same thing. My house is empty and the Ocean Breeze body spray leaves a fragrant trail after me as I quickly jog into my room and up the stairs, tossing my book bag into the corner of my room. Immediately, I pop in my Mindless Self Indulgence mix CD, drop onto my back, propping my legs up on top of my bed, set the alarm on my watch for an hour and cross my arms over my chest, lifting my torso up and down. I’m getting faster with them… maybe because there’s less fat to lift up. I’m down to 105 now. If I can get down to seventy, then I should be good. Seventy is the perfect weight.

“Lookin' for love in all the wrong places

Black ala mode with the mummified faces

Am I animal, vegetable, mineral or - ugh

I'm a bad ass, tell me I'm a bad ass

I don't need you and I don't need a break

Now if I wasn't here, I'd be out gettin laid

Please please please sing the whole damn song

A two minute song is just one minute and fifty nine seconds too goddamn long.”

I sing along softly under my breath as my body rises and lowers with the beat of the music blaring through my stereo. It’s a lot easier to do sit ups when my music is in the stereo instead of my mp3 player for some weird reason. Not that I mind or anything. The only time I get a chance to work out is when I’m home alone, so it’s not like I’ve got my dad pounding on my door and telling me to turn it down.

My nails bite roughly into my collarbone-the single area that I use to gauge whether or not I’m actually losing weight, pushing me to move faster… it always has to be faster. I need to crunch in more sit-ups in an hour that I did the day before. It always has to be this way. Try to out do the beat of the music. Always stay one step ahead. My tongue feels like it’s wrapped in gauze from thirst. I’ll drink something when I’m done. I can’t waste any time. I have to keep going. The tempo for the music picks up and once again, I’m pushing myself to keep in perfect timing with the song. It’s almost impossible. My back feels like it’s about to snap at any minute, but I have to keep going. There’s no turning back now.

I can feel the muscles in my abdomen burning from effort and I love every minute of it. The open wounds in the exact same area are stretching, the scabs cracking, the cuts still not having enough energy or leeway to breathe.

This isn’t about self destruction. This is about redemption.

Before I even know what’s going on, the alarm on my watch switches off and I stop in mid-sit up, debating on whether or not to go for another hour. In all honesty, I’m so tired that I’m not sure that I can stand another hour. The monster in my stomach is back, rampaging around and kicking organs about insanely, gnashing its teeth into my intestine in an attempt to gain nourishment that isn’t there. There aren’t any more Cheerios in the house… but there is candy under my bed…

Candy…

Then, as fast as a hiccup, I know exactly what to do. My arm thrusts under the bed and yanks out the bag of Now and Laters, Sweet Tarts, Snickers bite size bars, Kit Kats, and Starburst. It’s the perfect tease. The perfect temptation right under my nose that’s been sitting there for so long and finally, I know how to consume it… without adding calories to my body. I know how to taste the food without swallowing it.

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.

Rising onto my feet, I rush downstairs and grab a roll of paper towels from under the sink. The solution to everything has been in the house all along and I’ve never even noticed it. The answer to all of my problems has been sitting there and I was blind to it all along. This is probably my greatest idea yet.

Chew… don’t swallow. Spit the evil, calorie loaded morsels into the paper towels and quickly unwrap another one. Chew… but don’t swallow. The flavors meld together on my pallet. It’s an orgy of chocolate, peanut butter, fruit flavoring and bitter powder all in my mouth at once, then emptied into the paper towel, chewed up and discarded like an unwanted child. Chew… don’t swallow. The best rule that I’ve come up with yet. This is how I can get through breakfast, lunch and dinner without making a trip to the bathroom or claiming that I’m not hungry. Always remember to spit the candy back into the paper towel. Forget the nagging in the back of your head to just let the food slide down your throat and into your stomach. All of this is staving off the hunger. It’s taming the monster deep inside.

It’s a cure.

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.

After going so long without eating, you can fake binge on all of twelve pieces of candy before you start to feel nauseous. The monster is sedated once again, and it’s safe to hide the sugar under your bed and toss away the used paper towels. The toilet clogs and I swear loudly under my breath. Grasping the plunger in my hand, I flip up the seat and work the plunger into the toilet, pushing downward until it releases a sort of belching noise and the paper towels and rising water disappear once again.

Maybe I could tell The Hypocrite about this.

He might enjoy this little method.

All at once, pride takes over. I may as well have invented the cure for cancer and I’ve honestly never felt so wonderful. The sugar has rejuvenated me enough to do a few more sit ups. But I don’t feel the need to. Why burn out your sugar high all at once when you’re completely empty of calories? That’s right. You don’t. My chest swells in pride and I glance at myself in the mirror.

Through all of the layers of my clothes, I can’t see myself correctly. The Hypocrite has given up; now, it’s like a competition between the two of us. The scale is in the corner and I disrobe, glancing at my body in the mirror. My breasts are still too big. The AA lumps of fat just sitting on my chest, waiting to be burned off. My collar bone is sticking out more defined, there’s a hollow at the base of my throat, spreading over to my collarbones, jutting out of my skin oh so slightly and I gnash my teeth together in a forced grin.

The scale reads ninety five pounds. My goal right now is eighty pounds. If I can hit that, I’ll be perfect. Eighty pounds is the perfect weight. It’s that simple, really. If you weigh eighty pounds at fifteen years old, you have reached a wonderful accomplishment and can take a break from the dieting. It’s so simple, but yet so hard. It’s going to take hours of running laps in the basement, and doing sit ups on my floor, and spitting food into napkins and paper towels, and skipping meals and making myself throw up.

I’ll need to find a better solution for throwing up too. The back of my throat is sore all of the time from scratching it so ruthlessly. I’ll look it up on the internet. Quickly pulling my clothes back on, I march into my room and boot up my computer, pulling up the Google search page. Without a moment of hesitation, I type in Vomit Inducers into the search bar. There’s some link about a first aide kid with a vomit inducer on it and I click.

NATIONAL TERROR ALERT: TERRORISM SURVIVAL GUIDE.

Oh great, it was just a tease… but, intrigued, I read on.

FIRST AIDE: Checklist

1 each: Basic First Aide Book, in plain language.

2 each: Bandages (Ace)

4 each: Bandages, gauze

2 each: Bandages for burns

“Blah, blah, blah… just get to the shit that makes you barf already!” I grumble at the computer screen, ready to smack it at any given moment. My eyes scan down the page.

After it lists types of different bandages for what seems like eons, things start to get a little more interesting. I see words like razor blades, Isopropyl alcohol, scalpel, scissors, thermometers, pain/fever reducers, and finally… the words bless my eyes. It may as well be in big bold lettering:

Vomit inducer (ipecac, or activated charcoal). My mind reels with euphoria… where can I get some ipecac or activated charcoal? I should probably check the drug store.