Parallel Lines

The Protector

The storm started with a box of sugary, decadent chocolate chip cookies- a delicacy he seldom allowed himself nowadays, except when the weather got bad and the spirits even worse.

Margaux sat on the floor of his room, playing around with the hems of his cheap carpet. Under the influence of alcohol, she was much more outspoken and she had been adamant about not even touching his bed. "No, you're dangerous," she repeated over and over, and Taylor failed to fully understand what she meant. He offered a cookie, but she declined.

"Come on, isn't the smell of chocolate tempting?" Taylor asked.

When he had first started attending group therapy, he had joined a group specifically for those suffering from eating disorders, but aside from a gay theater enthusiast, he was the only guy. The rest of them were mostly rich high school girls who let their obsession with Victoria's Secret's angels go too far. The group helped at first, but feeling like an elephant among a gathering of cats, Taylor decided to switch to the regular mixed therapy group, where he was less likely to stand out like a sore thumb. The downside, however, was having to talk about his bulimia as if it were an alcohol problem, for the sake of his own peace of mind. His mother had instilled the fear in him: what if people found out? What would they say? At first, it worked, but then it got harder to change the words and make it all relatable and as time went on, he found himself back where he started: binge eating and purging three times a day, isolated in his room and hiding food wrappers from his brothers in the fraternity- as if they were perceptive enough to catch on to anything.

"Repulsive. It makes me gag," Margaux replied, smiling. "I can eat chocolate in the future, when I'm skinny. I don't need it today."

"Right, you realize that day's never going to come?" Taylor repeated, stuffing his face with even more cookies. "You'll keep dieting and feeling guilty until you die, it's never going to be enough."

Her smile dropped- she said, "Wow, I haven't heard that one before! Tell me about how I won't be able to have kids either- oh yes, or how "real" men prefer curves over bones."

"I know, everything I can say you already know, logically, but you can't apply it to yourself," Taylor said, thinking of his own situation.

When he began recovery, his psychiatrist prescribed him antidepressants that, as a pleasant side effect, reduced his appetite. Along with the antidepressants, he started seeing a nutritionist and his parents gifted him a gym membership, to recover all the muscle he had lost to bulimia. Around four months ago, tired of the more unpleasant side effects of the pills, Taylor had secretly stopped taking them. Then, he picked up the nasty habit of smoking to numb the taste buds- a trick he had learned from one of the girls suffering from anorexia in his previous therapy group. Ironic how something that was once meant to help turned into an agent in the destruction of John Taylor. 

"There's like a rational voice inside my head, screaming "don't do it," but I can't bring myself to listen to it. I know I'd be better off if I did, but life would be so dull if I actually followed instructions," Margaux said, narrowing her eyes as if trying to focus on an object in the distance.

"I'd be so happy for you if you listened to it," Taylor said, reaching deep into the cookie container only to come to the sad realization that he had practically inhaled its contents in their entirety.

"I highly doubt it," Margaux retorted, "if I listened, I wouldn't be here either."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're no good for me," she giggled- clearly gone, drunk. Taylor had the same amount of shots, but he was more than double her paltry weight, he could take it. He was also sure her last meal had probably been more than one day ago, which made her more susceptible to the effects of alcohol.

He climbed down from his bed, just as a ray of lightning shone across the sky, shortly after followed by thunder. He was not as drunk as her, but if she happened to recall any of the events of that night, he was perfectly ready to blame it on the alcohol. He placed his arm around her cold, bare arms, flinching a little at the sharpness of her shoulder blades. 

"I'm sorry I'm taking you drinking and all that," he kissed her forehead. 

"Oh gosh, it's not that," she waved her hand, "if not you, then another person."

"I'm saying you're dangerous because you're good at pretending you care, and I'm stupid. I'll fall for the act," she continued.

The last time Taylor went to the psychiatrist, he left the office feeling even worse than when he came in. He decided to come clean about the pills, and the cigarettes- and even about his recent small relapse (a binge during Thanksgiving dinner, followed by a four-hour gym session). The psychiatrist only listened, glancing at Taylor from above his notebook, waiting for the boy to finish the story before he spoke.

"So you failed yourself and your parents again?"

"That's... not what you're supposed to say! You're supposed to help me get better, not put me down like that. I know what's wrong with me- eh, forget it. I thought you cared, but you just proved you're just life the rest of them- my parents, my friends..." Taylor shouted frantically. 

"I'm your doctor, not your cheerleader," he replied, calmly, while taking notes. His indifferent response caused Taylor to settle down- clearly, he was not going to achieve anything with this one, so why bother trying to get him to understand? Taylor relaxed on his chair, feeling a huge weight lifted off of his shoulders.  

"Why did you stop taking..." his doctor asked about his antidepressants. In the spirit of coming clean, Taylor allowed the nastiest words he had thought of in the proximity of an actual adult to flow out of his mouth. 

"They made it impossible to get it up, and I met someone."

"Ah, noted."

*****

"You may not believe me, but I genuinely care for you," Taylor told Margaux, who had her eyes closed and was facing the ceiling- surely, she'd soon be deeply asleep.

"Not in any of the ways I'd want you to. You're in love with someone else, aren't you?" Margaux said, nuzzling her head into his chest, trying to inhale the smell of cologne on his button-down as much as possible. The smell reminded her of some of the many men her mother had dated over the years, but in specific, of her favourite- Henri. Henri was a tall salesman who always carried chocolate candies in his bag, and he was wild about little Margaux too. 

Taylor did not answer. His breathing sped up and his heart rate was pounding much too fast.

"Got it. Take me home, please," Margaux said, pushing herself up. She managed to get up, but she could barely stand.

"In this storm? Are you mental?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, and I also don't need to spend another second here. If  you won't drive me, I'll walk."

Taylor thought of how unfortunate it was that he only saw Margaux as a good friend. His mother had quite liked her- she was beautiful, in a rare way, and always knew what to say and when to say it. Her background was not the best, but that could be resolved by marriage anyways: people in the elite no longer looked down on new money as much. Margaux would quickly assimilate into the class of his parents, and after they both graduated college, they would probably get married, she would take on his surname and they would become the power couple all their peers would look up to, traveling the world before settling to start a picture-perfect family. 

Unfortunately, John Taylor only had eyes for  Lygia Elena that way.