Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

11

Imagine that, but replace Alaska's face with the fucking cop at the station I visited.

Laughing at me.

It's all I can think about. I'm sick to my stomach, but I need to finish making this sandwich.

More vinegar. "Nothing much," I say. "Hung with Gio."

There's no meat on this sandwich. It slid off the counter and onto the floor because there was too much vinegar and oil on it. The fucking plate wasn't there to keep it steady.

And we're both left hungry.

(You are a dirty, repulsive thing).

I shake my head. There's one thing I crave more than food. I need music.

The voice of Eddie Vedder is calling me. I put on Ten and try to block everything out, even the customers. I send them over to Goth Guy if they have questions.

There are scratches in the back of my throat and I can only assume it was the fucking chips that did it. It fucking hurts every time I swallow or talk.

Alaska hangs around, but there's an awkward silence between us. I could make another sandwich, but I don't deserve to eat a metaphorical one. I don't deserve Alaska, either.

When it's done, Bossman hands me my last paycheck and reminds me to go check out the burger joint. I thank him one more time. I don't know what for, but I feel like I have to.

I decided long ago that I'd rather be out of a job than to trigger binging by being around grease. I set the decision in stone by looking that fucking burger mascot right in the eye and walking right the fuck past him.

He does not control me.

Except right after that, I go to a Jersey Mike's and sit there as they make my fucking sandwich. I have time to mull it over and convince myself not to eat it, to bring it home and put it in the fridge. I could make it explicitly clear that this is my sandwich and I'm saving it for dinner. Candace will eat it because she's a spiteful cunt who doesn't give a fuck about what I say. When I have no sandwich, I'll have nothing to eat. Problem solved.

That shit sounds like way more work than just eating it like I want to. And Candace will find some way to argue with me no matter what. I can't have people watching me gorge myself, so I walk into an empty lot that's nearby and hide behind an abandoned store.

I got the smallest size possible, as if that would stop the guilt. The worst part is that I was obsessing over the taste and now I'm not eating slowly enough to taste it. I chew and the second a piece is down my throat, the sandwich is back in my mouth. If anyone saw me, they'd think I hadn't eaten in days.

Oh, wait.

Bulimia is a tragedy made into an art out of desperate suffering. Teeth prick my fingers like thorns and blood clot roses bloom in my cuticles. There is no garden in my stomach, only weeds curling around my bones. I can't let the compost settle. I need to shrivel up and fucking die.

I have to keep my mouth shut. Dad will implode if I tell him I don't have a job anymore. I'm going to stay in my room and just leave for school. I graduate in ten days and I can finally say I completed something.

I dart down the street because I'm not empty. I didn't get everything out, but I don't want to purge again. Everything fucking hurts. I'll run until I puke because nothing fucking matters.

As I'm pulsing through my neighborhood, I catch up with the back of Dad's car.

Jesus Christ, please, no.