Poems

Annalisa.

So, I had this story in my head since last December, but I just didn't have time to get it down. It's all there, but I can't get it down on paper. Then, I got bored last night, so it just came out:) The main character is called Annalisa(pretty name~), and since I don't have a title for the book, this shall be called Annalisa:) 

  I felt my insides gnaw a little, and I swallowed, trying to keep everything down.

  “You alright, darling?” Mom asked, barely looking up from her cellphone.

  “Yeah, I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

  I took my napkin up and wiped my mouth.

  I looked at her. Was she going to put her phone down? What was so important that she couldn’t even look at me?

  I glanced around for my iced tea. It was an hour late. Did they misplace my order, or did they just forget?

  “Aren’t you thirsty, baby?” Mom asked.

  “I am. Where is my drink?” I tapped my fingers against the soft tablecloth.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  “You ordered one?” Her voice held surprise, even if she was still glued to the phone.  

  I did.

 The agonizing, painful reality slammed against me suddenly, as I realized that I was nobody. In this crowded, posh restaurants with the waiters in black suits and gelled hair, with all the rich people in their silk and chiffon, I was nothing. To my own Mother, I was barely even visible. I was nothing. I felt my hands clench up, my nail digging into my palms.

  The pain felt good. It helped to lessen the horrible thing I kept getting inside of me. Physical pain actually made the intangible pain less obvious.

  I looked down at my wrist, the faint outline of the cut I made two weeks ago fading into whiteness already. My hand twitched on its accord, as if urging me to cut. I closed my heavily-made up eyes, taking a deep breath. No. The warnings I’ve had in those counseling classes flashed back: Once you’ve started, it’ll become an addiction. I can’t let it become an addiction.

  “Well, you should try the risotto here. Maybe you can get your appetite up,” I could see her turn her fork around her pasta.

  The sad, yellow strands wind themselves around her metal tool, just like how she had everyone in her life around her little finger. She strangled them all; her, her Father, her Grandmother, her poor clients…The olive oil from the strands left their shiny marks on her pristine white plate.

  I felt my stomach lurch.

  I glanced down at my own lasagna, and I felt disgusted. Looking at the cheese on top, oozing in calories and cream, half of the giant plate which I had ingested already; I felt sick. I took my fork and lifted the light layer of grossness up and saw the glistening smudges of oil, all over my dinner.

  What have I been eating?

  I barely had time to push my chair out before the sensation came. I could taste it at the back of my throat, and I covered my mouth with my hand before I could just puke out there in the restaurant that I didn’t belong in. Ignoring my Mom’s startled gaze, I rushed to the toilet.

  It took forever. I could hear the faint murmurs of the other customers whispering to each other, talking about this awkward, messed up girl lumbering to the toilet. I could see their eyes on me. I could see a prim, old lady, using her gloved hand to cup her daughter’s ear, saying, “Look at her. Never did watch her diet.”

  In my satin dress, I felt bloated. The cloth could just split apart with me inside, and I could almost hear the stitches snapping apart. The black doors of the toilet loomed up to me, and I slammed my heavy body against it, nearly falling though. I ducked into one of the toilets and let out all the contents that had been building up in my mouth.

  They always said it tasted gross, and they were right. But vomiting; it wasn’t that bad a feeling. With it, and all the oil, and cheese, and cream, and fat, I felt empty. Released from all the worries I had, and I felt better. I braced my hands against the squeaky clean seat of the toilet bowl, and got everything out of my system.

  My hate, my sadness, my insanity…all out.

  I was free.

  When I was sure that there was nothing left, I sank back against the toilet door, heaving. The stench of my dinner was quite horrid, but I didn’t have the energy to flush it away. I raised my hand and locked the  door. I leaned my head against the polished wood and stared at my legs that were twisted in angles.

  Disgusting.

  I could see the bulges along my calves where they touched the ground, forced upwards by the presence of the marbled floor. I could see my thighs; where they were squished against each other by my satin dress: they were enormous. If I didn’t throw up my food, I’m sure that my dress would have split up when I got up.

  I looked down at my arm and wrapped my fingers around them. They couldn’t even touch. Not even close. And my fingers were ridiculously long. I felt my eyes well up with those warm tears as I pinched that layer of useless fat underneath. I remembered how in the train just now, as I was holding the pole; it jiggled when the train moved. It could jiggle. The hot tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto the neckline of my dress-if there was even a neckline with my double-chin. I glanced at the toilet bowl.

  Did I get all the food out?

  I should double-check.

  I could hear my brain, or my instincts screaming at me, don’t. This was what they always warned us about; the beginning of a disorder. But well, a disorder is what happens in an extended period of time. Mine is only temporary. The moment my fingers could wrap around my arm, I would stop. Easy.

  I leaned forward into the stench and did the thing I promised Giselle I wouldn’t do.

  I stuck my finger down my throat.