Some days are better than others.
Instead of crushing sadness or anxiety, I'm relatively energetic. I can get up and take a shower. I can walk to school and focus on my work. Some days, my laughter is genuine.
I have control.
The longer I spend with my hunger, the less it sticks around, and it's becoming easier to skip meals. If I just wait a few more minutes, the sharp pains will disappear. Before I know it, it's been an hour past breakfast time and I don't feel it anymore.
The sun is out, shimmering against the window. I wait for the scale to ring and stare down at the number.
165.0.
I blink incredulously. I step off and on again, just in case I'm being played.
165.0.
Seven and a half pounds. I lost seven and a half pounds in a month.
But it's only the beginning.
Candace shoves a plate of sausages at me. The napkin under them is stained with grease. I bite my tongue and swallow back a gag. I'm not even going to tell her about my loss. I can already hear her: You're not trying hard enough, and I'm not about to let her ruin my mood. I don't know why she's trying to keep me fat when she's the one who told me I needed to lose weight in the first place. Besides, if I stop for breakfast, I'll be late for school.
Self-destruction has never felt so good.
"Wow, you really put effort into looking alive today," Gio drawls, leaning against my locker.
"I feel it," I say, and I'm actually smiling. There isn't any food weighing me down. I can fly if I want to.
"That's pretty cool, man. I've got acid, you want some? On the house."
"Hell yeah." I tuck it in my pocket for later and he leaves to try to pawn off his stash to more people.
Alaska is absolutely radiant. Her skin glows and her eyes reflect the galaxies. When she talks, petals float from her lips. "You're in a good mood. What's up, Ty?"
"I'm down almost eight pounds!" I say, practically singing. She squeals when I sweep her into my arms. I carry her all the way to English class.
I can't stop smiling, even though I know it's for the sickest of reasons. I love the numbness in my stomach. I didn't make the hunger go away with food, but with willpower.
I am strong.
I'd have liked to have had it before Valentine's Day, but all there is, is now.
Focus on The Now. I just have to not fuck up Now.
Mr. Clark belongs in a snotty, upper class school in England, rather than a messy, middle class one in Illinois.
He's practically in a fit that only a few people have read Uncle Tom's Cabin and isn't getting the memo that none of us read very much (especially classics, the focus of this entire unit), unless we're forced to.
It isn't hard to miss, either.
The entire back row is sleeping, a group of girls are huddled off to the side, gossip slipping through their cupped hands. Most of the dudes are staring at the ground or the ceiling (me included), some have consciousness slipping through their fingers, and the rest are probably in another universe. It's almost enough to make a man quit teaching. Mr. Clark sure seems on the verge.
He blows air through his lips. "You know, all the musicians and rappers and grunge people, whatever you guys like nowadays, wouldn't be where they were if they never picked up a damn book. Kurt Cobain reads, for crying out loud, and he can barely articulate a sentence, let alone write cognitive lyrics. Am I speaking your language now?" As though name-dropping a celebrity will make us realize what he's trying to say, because he's hip and cool and with the times.
Try-hards like Mr. Clark are why we've lost interest in almost everything school-related. The only part of class I'm still interested is the dismissal bell.
"I swear, your generation is more stupid than the last," he grunts. "Let's see how your book reports are going."
Judging by the response to the lesson, I'm sure he already has his answer. He goes around, lighting up when he sees some have begun their papers. I obviously haven't yet, but I have the motivation. My pencil is going a mile a minute and I'm sitting up straight and raising my hand. I've never been this talkative or confident. I've never been more proud of myself.
Proud of myself, but I'm fucking starving. My brain is melting through my ears, but I'm smiling. I don't feel hungry, but a fog is drifting into my mind.
Pain is the new ecstasy.
I dig my fingers into my stomach as it emits thunderous moans. A storm is coming, so I ask for the bathroom, go behind the school, and light a cigarette. The sun forces its way through the clouds. I'm both shriveled and broken. I'll succeed in the end, so it doesn't matter how much I destroy myself in the process. Self-destruction looks like battle scars. Nobody will understand why I did what I did, they'll just admire the fact I succeeded.
Admire how calm, collected, and organized I am. I worked through the pain, and I got to a point most only dream of.
Pure nirvana.
I fail another Math test. In Physics, I'm supposed to be taking notes on an Isaac Newton movie, but I fall asleep instead.
At lunch, Gio and I sit on the bench outside. I watch the clouds as he eats a tomato and cheese sandwich. I don't need a sandwich because I already know what tomatoes and cheese and wheat bread taste like.
"Man, are you high or passing out?" he asks.
"I'm happy," I say, voice shaking as I force a smile.
"You look deranged."
I flip him off and take out my sketch book. I've started drawing more, too. Dead trees and the broken, flaky leaves surrounding them. Wilted, dried flowers. Bones. Lots of bones. My heart is trapped in my rib cage, which is trapped beneath skin. Once I tear back the fat, I'll be free.
The worst part, though, is that I'm forced to acknowledge how much my life revolves around food. I eat out of boredom and sadness.
I have absolutely nothing to distract me.
"Hey Gio, can I ask you a question?"
"Mhm."
We were sitting on his patio, drawing with chalk. "Does your Mommy touch you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know..." I glanced down. "On your privates?"
"No," he said, face scrunched up. "That's weird."
"Well, Candace does it to me all the time. She says all parents do it to their kids."
"Mami doesn't. Candace is weird."
I threw his chalk across the patio, saw it break. Oddly, I felt superior. Gio's parents didn't treat him like how Candace treated me. She said I was special.
I flew through the back door of my house. "Candace? Gio says his parents don't touch him like how you touch me."
She snapped her neck towards me, an expression of anger briefly flashing across her face. "You didn't tell him what we do, did you?"
"You said everyone does it."
"Well, they do. Most don't talk about it because it's considered taboo. Now, listen to me," she said. "What happens in your bedroom, stays in your bedroom. Okay? You can't go around blurting what we do willy nilly."
"Okay."
"Come sit." She smiled and patted the couch. I sunk into the cushions as she forced me to cuddle her and started rubbing my back. "You know I love you, right?" she asked.
I didn't respond, freezing as her hand drifted lower.
Again.
"You know I love you, hm? You know I'd never hurt you."
I cried quietly. I didn't feel so special anymore. "Stop it, Candace."
But she didn't listen. "Have I ever told you how pretty you are?"
"You're hurting me."
"Oh, come on. I'm not hurting you. You know you want this. Every boy does."
Both in and out of context, that's probably the most terrifying thing anyone's ever said to me. I didn't put together that I was six years old (therefore unable to consent to anything) and that I most certainly didn't want this. I just thought she knew what she was talking about because she was an adult.
"...What is it, man? Jesus, I'm sitting here eating a sandwich and you're crying all the sudden."
Gio brings me back to the present. Tears threaten to rain down on my sketch book. Waves crash in my stomach. Without another word, I run from the bench, not even stopping for my car. There's five minutes left of lunch, but I'm not coming back.
Running isn't just to lose weight, really. Running makes me invincible. If I do it long enough, I forget how to feel. It relieves pressure. I can go for as long as I want and stop when I want.
I have control.
I finally stumble to a stop, releasing a pathetic sob. I hunch over, hands on my knees. I throw up, sort of. It's mostly stomach acid, but it's painful all the same.
I need a drink.
Gio and I got fake IDs last summer because we thought we were ready for strip clubs and bars. Of course, we weren't ready for anything. We still looked underage, so we got busted before we could even fucking get inside. I kept my fake ID, anyway, for times like this. I'm hoping I at least look twenty-one, now that I'm an adult.
The bouncer's eyes turn to slits as he inspects the glossy plastic. For a second, I'm considering what the least embarrassing way to sneak into a party would be, until he lets me in.
You know you want this. Every boy does.
I order the first drink I lay my eyes on and chug it until I can get a refill. Order. Chug. Repeat.
Only losers get drunk by themselves, so I don't know why there's a woman flirting with me. Probably to get free shit because anyone can see I'm a sucker from a mile away.
"Lady," I say, fully aware of how slurred my words are. "You know I'm ugly. I know I'm ugly. Go try getting that other guy to buy you a beer. Besides, do I look like I have money?"
I'm sure it didn't come out that way, but that's what I was trying to say.
"Please, pretty boy? I want you to party with me."
Pretty boy.
She knows nothing about me other than Blonde Hair, Hazel Eyes.
"Go away," I snarl, turning my back.
She gives me a disgusted scoff and stomps to another person.
Have I ever told you how pretty you are?
I finish my last beer and blindly exit the bar, heading for Alaska's house. Alaska is sitting under a tree in her yard, writing poetry. I go up to her silently and flop next to her. I lie my head on her shoulder and close my eyes.
"Hey, Tyler," she says. "I didn't see you after school."
I don't answer, gripping her hand. It's soft and comforting. She smells like mocha and vanilla. I need her. I need her to tell me everything will be okay, even though I know it's a lie.
I bite my tongue. "Alaska, do you think I'm pretty?"
It's her turn not to answer, not at first. She jumps away from me. "You're drunk. It's in your voice."
"No m'not. I'm tired."
"Don't do this, Ty. You get drunk with Gio and that's fine. Do what you want. I just don't like seeing you like this and I'm not going to be a part of it." She stands up and starts walking to the door.
"I love you."
"Tell me that when you're sober." She slams the door.
I slump to the ground, feeling the cool grass sizzle against my red cheek. I didn't get drunk enough for the nausea to kick in, so I bend over and force myself to puke in the gutter like the sewer rat I am.
I start walking home, aiming to pass out regardless of how sober I am. My thoughts become louder the quieter it is. I can't avoid them anymore.
I was clean when I was empty. The beer turned me dirty, even with some of it out of my stomach. There are stains on the walls and I regret it more this time around.
I scratch at my skin as I lie in the bathtub. It will not clean me. The juice from my fat stains my bones. I used to be young and fast and thin and happy, but it might be too late to ever get the feeling back.
I'm a dirty, decrepit old man who belongs in a hole with the spiders, and no amount of showers can make me pure and pretty again.
• • •
My father has two distinct personalities when on drugs and during withdrawals.
I don't know which is worse.
Most would call addiction a sickness or disease, and it can be taken figuratively and literally.
Figuratively, the addiction has a death grip on Dad. It doesn't go away, it's painful, it makes him weak and keeps him down. When on drugs, he's breaking things and hurting himself.
When he suffers from withdrawals, he literally gets sick. Like, a cold. His nose is runny and, rather than hear him scream nonsense while on white powder, I get to listen to him bitch about having body aches and the chills.
All because he ran out of money and Candace is being extra greedy this week, so I'm stuck with him. I had to fucking miss work, which means I'll miss out on tips, which means Dad will blame me for why we're borderline lower class. He'll say, "Tyler, you know you didn't have to take care of me. Why don't you ever go to work? You need to be better." If I didn't take care of him (and I really shouldn't), he'd say, "Why don't you ever take care of me? Don't you care? Where the hell have you been?"
I could ask him the same thing. I could ask why he cares all the sudden (now that I'm bringing in half the money), ask why he never cared about my safety, why he brought predators and drug dealers around me without a second thought, and why he kept them in the fucking house.
But I don't.
Instead, I cover him with a billion blankets and keep an eye on him while he rests. Because if I don't, Candace will get mad.
"Son," he moans. "Get me some water."
"Get it yourself. The kitchen's right fucking there."
"I'm sick," he says, as if he's a child.
I sigh and fill a cup with tap.
"Can I have a straw?" he asks.
"You're thirty-five, Dad. God."
"Straw."
"Fucking, here. Take the fucking cup, Dad."
He does. "You say fuck too much, boy."
"You call me boy too much. I have a fucking name."
"You're right. What the hell is it...Tyler? Whatever, shut up. My head hurts and you're making it worse."
So, I do.
Compared to his tortured, drug-induced wailing, his voice is whiny. It's the kind of whiny I can't just brush off and walk away from. I want to punch him, particularly in the mouth. To give myself a break, I get up and get him Tylenol so he'll stop bitching about his headache.
The minutes drag by as I wait for him to fall asleep. He usually has no trouble, but now that I have places to be and things to do, of course, he does.
"Why is it so damn bright in here?" he complains.
"See, Dad, that's because of a little thing called the sun. It's probably the only thing keeping you alive right now. Jesus, go to bed."
"I would if it wasn't so damn bright."
Candace finally fucking does her part by telling me I'm not doing my part good enough. "Alright, I closed the blinds. Tyler, you've lived with him your entire life. How do you not know how to shut him up?"
I bite my tongue. "If you gave him money, I'm sure he'd be better in no time."
She rolls her eyes. "Maybe you could actually be a helpful person and take care of your own father. Don't you care about how busy and stressed I've been? You never do anything to help us, after we've taken care of you, raised you to be a normal adult. I shouldn't have to always give money, you should pitch in every now and again, if he really needs it." She's switched on her Scary Dad's Girlfriend voice, the one she used with me when I was too small and weak to defend myself, when she was angry and wanted to make me do things I didn't want to.
Pretty boy was six-seven-eight-nine years old and I'd pissed off the spider. But single digits meant I could be easily forgiven if I just gave her something, something worth more than money.
I held my innocence in the palm of my hand. Valuables in plain view are easily stolen.
When I turned ten, I wasn't pretty anymore. She told me I was scrawny and ugly and that boys don't age well.
Dad is thirty-five and is treated like a toddler, so he acts like one. I was under ten and treated like an adult, when I didn't know how to act like one.
Age is just a number, pretty boy.
The fire within me fizzles out. "I...don't know," I say meekly. "Probably because he hasn't really been in my life at all."
I'm not lying, and it's not like the cunt is oblivious to the fact this is the longest time Dad's been home for a while. I don't miss my dad now like when I was younger. He's gone so often, I actually want him to stay out of the house. One less person for me to deal with.
The thing is, she knows how insistent he is with money. She gives it to him because he promises to share the stash he bought. Since she never refuses to pay for his shit, he never threatens to hurt himself, like he did with Mom. He only used it on Candace once, and it's not like she'd care if he died. She just didn't want blood on her hands.
I look at my father. My poor, sick old man. Victor "It doesn't matter that she raped you because she's paying the bills" Petrit.
And suddenly, I feel sick, too.
I just have to keep reminding myself I only have three months left until I can get out of here forever.
I take the cordless phone to my goddamn room and lie down. It's been a few days, but I still need to call Alaska and apologize for being a drunken embarrassment. I wouldn't blame her for being mad at me.
Before I can open my mouth, she says, "What the hell is wrong with you, Ty? Are you okay?"
If by "okay," she means drowning under a heavy dark abyss, then yes, I'm perfectly okay. Great, even.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "I just went overboard with the drinking this time, is all. I'm sorry."
"I'm not going to say it's okay, because it's not. Just don't do it again. You looked like a fool."
"I know..." I drift off.
She sighs for so long the receiver crackles. "So, how've you been?"
"My dad is sick - okay, suffering coke withdrawals - and he won't go to sleep. It's like he wants to torture me. He calls me every fucking five-"
"Boy, get me some food!"
"See?"
"Just make him cereal or soup," Alaska says. "Something that only takes a few minutes. Sick people don't expect gourmet meals."
The one good thing this has brought me is that I've been too distracted to eat. If I make him food, I'll probably make myself some, too.
I make him soup and kill off my hunger by putting garlic in it. I hate garlic, but Dad's taste buds are so dead he most likely won't even notice it.
I look at Dad's soup, focus on the garlic flecks in the broth swirl with the motion of his spoon.
I don't need food.
I am not hungry.
There's got to be something to help me stop fucking thinking about it.
Candace leaves, but unlike Dad, I don't feel responsible for her, and hope she stays gone.
I go outside to smoke and watch the gray clouds roll in. It's probably the last rain of winter. The rain awakens the rusty gutters and makes the roof chitter. Droplets ting against the pipes, and I realize I should probably cover them with a sheet.
There was a rare storm the summer before I entered sixth grade. It rusted up the pipes, so Dad called somebody to fix it. Candace stood out there, with her greasy hair and wrinkled nightgown, nagging the guy. She told him he probably wasn't doing it right (even though she'd never worked in construction or plumbing) and climbed up the ladder to "help" him.
Dad shooed me out because I was getting in the way and I walked around with Gio for a while. He saw Candace and said, "What's she yelling about?"
I kicked the gravel. "I hope she falls off the roof and dies."
"Why?"
I ignored him. "I hope you fall off the roof and die, Candace!" I shouted so loud that my voice cracked.
Suddenly, I got an idea.
I waited for the worker to come into the house for a break and a beer. I asked him, "How long until you're finished?" He told me he had to make sure the pipes were good and tightened, so I went out to wait with Gio some more.
Once he'd finished his work and climbed down the ladder, he left it there for Candace. She was inspecting everything to "make sure he'd done it right."
Seeing my chance, I walked right up to the house and pushed the ladder to the ground. I picked it up by the bars and dragged it to the worker's truck.
"Thanks, little man," he said. "Did your mom get down?"
"She's not my fucking mom," I snapped, and his eyes widened in surprise, but I didn't give a shit.
His only response was, "Uh, okey dokey," and he drove away.
I returned to Gio, found him giggling into his palm. "Candace looks so stupid, ha!"
She was dangling from the roof and wildly kicking the back door, her shoe slipping off. "Victor! Victor!"
I wasn't laughing, though. I hadn't been trying to be funny. This time, I had all the power. I wanted to hurt her like she hurt me. The pain was nonstop, daily, and though this was a singular moment, I knew it was going to be worth it. She would fall and crack her head or snap her neck.
She wouldn't be able to touch me ever again.
But my dad swung the door open, grumbling, "Jesus, what? You woke me up." He saw her hanging there and realized he wouldn't be able to pay for his drugs if he let her fall.
It's not like he loved her. Not like he thought he loved my mother.
I ran into the house, and I almost, almost, made it to my room.
Candace threw the door open, just as she'd done millions of times before. I knew where this was going.
She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me so hard my teeth rattled. "You think you're so funny, huh?" she screeched.
"N-No," I stammered.
"Were you trying to hurt me?"
"No," I said again.
Her eyes were narrowed and her fists were clenched. I'd figured out long ago that both truths and lies didn't work on her.
"No, I wasn't trying to hurt you" and "Yes, you're hurting me" were the same. She'd continue what she was doing either way, but every time I lied, I was just hoping that this time, maybe she'd believe me and go away.
She'd usually hit me after I tried to make her stop touching me. There's no such thing as bad touch when there's love behind it.
I don't know what I was expecting when she reared back her fist and punched me in the mouth.
Seconds later, her voice was sickly sweet. "Oh, honey, did that hurt? I thought you would understand by now that I'll always be stronger than you. Always."
She cupped my throbbing cheek and kissed where her knuckles had landed, even as I was shrieking.
I didn't understand and I felt nauseous. That type of voice meant she wasn't mad anymore, but her words didn't make sense. I was going to grow up and be able to punch her back, right?
She patted me on the head and gave me a malicious smile, sharp Monster daggers peeking from her lips.
I screamed even louder as she walked away.
Until I felt something curl into my tongue.
I spit it into my palm.
My last baby tooth.
Oh God, oh God. I can't think...I need to think about-
"Tyler? Are you still there?"
Alaska.
"God, fuck," I rasp. "Yeah, I'm here. And I'm not drunk and I love you."
I love you, too, baby. You sound like you're crying."
"I'm not," I say. "I'm okay."
I want to get drunk and pass out so that I can finally get some fucked up kind of sleep.
I want to forget.
But I can't.
Alaska shuffles around, sounding further away. "Hey."
"Hm?"
"How does music make you feel?"
"It makes me want to live and it makes me want to die."
"How do you feel about death?"
"Sometimes I think I want to die, but sometimes I'm too afraid of it, what it means."
"How do you feel about life?"
"You just gotta keep pushing through. Anything good that happens, any amazing person you meet, is what you get for not giving up." I'm bullshitting, trying to sound poetic to her. I can't get drunk around her again or she might leave me.
"Wow. That's deep," she says.
(Mission accomplished, apparently). "It's only deep if you tear it apart. It's a lesson I've learned after being around assholes for so long."
"Does that mean running into bad people is a punishment?"
"No, because sometimes you can't avoid bad people. They're just obstacles. One way or another, you can eventually get around them."
"Unless they kill you."
"Yeah. Unless...how does music make you feel?"
"It makes me want to join a band, go on tour, and never look back. Oh, and break stuff."
"Bleach makes me feel like I'm witnessing a bar fight, but Pablo Honey is like I'm drinking wine while looking out a dirty window."
Our conversation is cut short when a pair of nimbly arms tightly wrap around my torso, wrist bones pressing deep into my stomach. I don't like it, and I've told everyone I don't. It makes me feel trapped, no matter who does it, but Dad never listens.
I shove him off and he says, almost delirious, "Gimme the damn phone. I need to call Pete."
Pete, his dealer.
"No, I'm talking to Alaska," I snap, as he snatches the phone out of my hands.
He simply says, "Bye," and hangs up on my girlfriend.
"I guess you're not sick anymore, huh?" I say flatly.
He waves me off and calls Pete. He's probably asking for more time to pay off his debts.
Giving up, I throw the blanket back, curl up in my bed, and scream. I can deal with the flashbacks and the crying and the pain (no, I can't) if it means I won't dump it on Alaska and become a complete fucking waste.
Just like Dad.
I put on Temple of the Dog and stare at the fucking ceiling while listening to it. Dad's voice fades into the background and Candace comes home in her usual loud fashion.
She gives Dad the drugs (that he stole the fucking phone from me to try and get), and tells me I need to go clean out the gutters, now that it's stopped raining.
I turn my music up instead.