love is all there is...

She lays in her bed, covered in three layers of blankets, her body swathed in layers of sweats, her feet clad in sweater socks. Her hands and her face are the only things bare. Briefly, she considers wearing her knit cap as well, to keep her head warm, but decides she doesn�t feel like getting up. She scrunches down into the nest of her bed, blankets arranged just so, books stacked beside her on the bed, in just the right way. Her book is folded open; she has the lights dim and is reading. Reading in dim light is bad, she knows, but the light hurts her eyes. The story is something from the past, something imaginary. It weaves a world of magic, betrayal, and power in her head. She pretends she is there, at the court in the Vale, while crazy Lysa sends her best knight to his death in the name of justice. Eyes flitting down the page, the girl wishes she lived in this book. The thing about this book that stands out the most to her is the food. Every time she reads, she feels ravenous. She can close her eyes and taste the haunches of lamb roasted in honey, the sweet fresh berries and cream. Usually, though, she will turn out the light and crawl in bed, refusing to give in to her weak desires.

This night, the reading is intense. She can hardly put down the book. Today, all she had eaten was a slice of low calorie bread, toasted and melted over with fat free Swiss cheese. It is her number one food. While reading a particularly delicious chapter, after reading of the feasts of men and kings, the girl throws the book down and scrambles for the kitchen; she is possessed. Just like that. All she can think of is food. She wants to taste the sweet berries, the hot, roasted meats and warm, buttery breads, and savory sausages, sinfully delightful pies.

Lying on her belly, she reaches far under her bed and pulls out a large six gallon container. She sets out a grimy, maroon towel and opens the container and sets it dead center on the towel. The sour scent of vomit fills her nostrils. Back in the kitchen, she stirs beef stew, and stuffs two hot dogs in her mouth, barely stopping to chew. She inhales a glass of water, then another. While waiting for the stew to finish, she readies a sausage and egg pastry. Then she opens the refrigerator and swallows lumps of succulent, homemade fudge. Slices of fresh cheddar are next, then a large piece of sweet potato pie. Sucking down another glass of water, she starts on the stew, followed by an entire container of fat, ripe strawberries in cream cheese dip. By now her stomach is starting to feel tight, nauseous. But she isn�t done. I have already messed up, so I might as well eat everything I can get my hands on, she thinks, in a frenzy now.

After a time, and much eating, her ravenous hunger begins to wan. She lays on her perfectly-made bed feeling ill and guilty. Her kitten nudges her cheek, purrs. She pats her only friend, hugging her, and slides down to the floor. She can barely move because she is so full.

The container is open, waiting for her to expel her sins into its depths. She holds her breath and closes her eyes. The first mouthful of vomit slides easily up her throat. Relief washes over her. This is going to be easy tonight, she thinks. She takes one finger and pokes it roughly back into her throat, and heaves.

After three heaves, she stops and peers into the container. It�s a mess and she can�t quite tell where she is at in her vomiting. She sloshes it around, watching the layers slide against the oily walls of the tub. She can see the wieners, the stew, the pastry, the pie. The fudge is missing, and the cheese, and the berries, and more. It used to come up in layers, exactly in the order she had eaten it, but lately it hasn�t. She gulps down a bottle of water, and heaves six more times, pausing after each heave to examine the contents of the tub.

Wiping her nose on a soiled, orange, retired kitchen towel, she tiptoes to the bathroom and picks up one of her scales. She washes her hands for the 20th time today. Back in her bedroom, she strips her clothes off and weighs herself. Whew, she thinks when she sees the numbers; they are the same as before she binged. Yet she is not satisfied. She is sure that she missed something, that a little hunk of fat is sitting there gnawing at her stomach, eating her insides. The fear tears at her, until finally she decides that she will have to drink another glass of water and clean her stomach. Ten minutes later, she purges her body of the last bits of poison. This time, the scale reads half a pound less than it did before she binged. Excellent, the girl thinks.

She sits on the floor a while longer, staring at the bile drenched bits of food, the stained towels. The sour smell is stronger now. She thinks for a while about princes and dreams, about love and hate. About death and loneliness. Standing up, she gets dizzy and grabs a bed post, holding on until the room stops spinning.

She rinses her mouth with baking soda and warm water, and then swallows a handful of water pills. I refuse to blow up like a balloon because of this, she thinks, knowing that without the pills her body will bloat by morning. After all, it's not my fault food makes me ill.

She creeps quietly to her bedroom, brushes the crumbs out of her bed. Never will she sleep on crumbs, because what if they absorb into her skin and make her fat in her sleep?

The girl slips through the dark and silent living room to replace the scale in the bathroom. On her way back, she stops and stares at the blue computer screen.

Write! her mind tells her. Because you want to. No, not want to; you need to. Right now, this moment. Confess. Who cares what they think.

She ponders her puke a bit longer, wanders around her house blind. Trips on her cat.

Makes her way back to the computer and sits down, and writes. Writes about throwing up, but not really writing about throwing up. Her shame, written in tears, here before her. Only she tells herself, its not really her, and its not really her problem. Imagine.