Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

Journal Entry No. Eight

TW: Issues around weight and food; starvation and extreme weight loss due to trauma.

From the Private Journal of XXXXXXXXXXXXXX (Name Redacted).

Dated only by year, not month: 1979.

I still can't believe she's back; it simply doesn't seem real ...

Then again;

Any good news my way never seems real.

Perhaps I've become a bit of a martyr - I'm willing to admit that.

But wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you be the same as me if you'd suffered through the things I have, if you'd seen the things I've seen?

Wouldn't you be just as much the ghost of a man?

I say you would.

But let's refocus, shall we? With my spirits lifted at her return, I will now endeavour to recall for you my conversation with her, our private encounter this evening:

...

... Having descended the stairs, having dared to brave the world beyond my private bedroom once more, I go looking for her.

And sure enough I find her, seated alone in the study.

Alone -

Alone!

Him, mercifully nowhere to be found.

As I go, I'm aware that I barely make a sound.

How could I? I weigh so little.

In fact, just this morning I found new ribs poking out angrily when I dared to look at my naked body in the mirror before my bath.

Ribs poking out; hip bones more prominent than ever before; my face, more cheek and jaw bone than anything else.

I swear to you ...

... My skeleton's trying to escape my body.

And believe me, it's doing a damn good job of it.

Perhaps another week or two, and it might have won.

My body might have completely given up on me, the same way my mind seems to have.

But now that she's returned ...

I won't let my skeleton win.

... I've strengthened my resolve to try and eat more.

Food is fuel; fuel is life;

And I need to live.

Because I can't leave her, though I do so want to leave this world.

... If she's here, I suppose I'll stick it out.

As my feet carry me silently forward, I clear my throat loud as I can so as to not surprise her.

And sure enough, I watch the way she straightens up in her seat, head whipping around, smile broadening on her face at the mere sight of me.

How?

How can you smile when looking at someone so grotesquely ghoulish?

And yet she does.

Rising to her feet, her smile never fades, never leaves her face as she steps around the sofa, moving quickly towards me so as to meet me halfway, to help me along.