Drops

Dops

I sat in History listening to the endless drone of reports on Egyptian royalty, shadowed slightly by the sound of rain rapping on the scratched windows. The steady drops and endless reports magnified my constant feeling of loneliness intertwined with isolation, and hunger. As I thought of it, my hunger intensified. I flashed back to two hours earlier at lunch, remembering the sole Luna bar I'd barely been able to choke down to ward off suspicion. I felt a toppling, turning, roiling sensation in my stomach. Oh no, I thought not now! I'd managed it for two weeks and in two days I'd be three weeks clean. I felt a twisting, awful sensation. I raised my hand and without being called on I screeched
"I need to go to the bathroom!" A dazed Mr. Jones nodded. I stood, knocking over my chair and dashed down the hall, my stomach contracting and my mouth clamped shut. I stumbled into the bathroom and kicked the door shut, keeling over the toilet. It came. There wasn't much, but I felt it crawling up my throat as it spattered into the bowl. That wasn't as bad as it could've been. I subconsciously realized how little lunch I'd had and how I'd have to restart my count. I stood up and let a single tear drip onto the grimy floor. I looked into the mirror, but rather than seeing the assumed panic of a girl whom had just thrown up, I saw my reflection, looking unexpectedly calm. I saw my sallow, pale skin, tinted green under the the flickering lights, limp hair framing my face which was obscured by round, blank eyes.
I'd been through the procedure; you leave class, throw up, act like it never happened, and tell no one. That's just the schedule of a typical, scared bulimic child.
Nobody knew, not even my limited amount of friends. My friends were a group of loners, we were all children who were alone in life and desperately needed someone. We called ourselves the shadow children. One day Ahnna had been reading The Boxcar Children and Chris had made a joke that we were the "shadow children". We all smiled our hollow, lost smiles as if it was the kind of joke we'd forget by tomorrow morning, but it seemed to stick.
I sat on the grubby floor for a few more minutes, twisting my dull hair around my thin fingers. My fingers were slim and white, like ugly spiders or pale crabs tipped with brittle nails. My fingers eventually stopped trembling and the tsunami in my stomach settled to a steady sloshing.
That was my cue to leave. I pulled myself up, my skinny arms trembling with effort. I attempted to steady my breathing as I stood.

That was it, I walked back to class, keeping the monstrous, unbearable, side of me hidden in a small bathroom stall from which I can let sobs and pain rack my body in peace.
My feet shuffled through the leaves, kicking up puffs of red and brown papery scraps which whipped through the breeze, entangling themselves in my hair. The wind whipped up tornadoes of flakes of fallen leafs. I loved the wind, it reminded me of my father. I missed my father dearly.
When I was younger on windy November evenings, just like the one I was sure would engulf the land tonight; crisp air, chilly stiff breezes that leaves their mark on rosy cheeks and pink noses and chapped lips that crack in the midst of laughter, on nights like these we would sneak outside, far past my bedtime. He would scoop me up and toss me into the air, catching me above his head, parallel to the ground. He would run across the yard, me screeching and giggling giddily into the whipping breeze. My stubby arms would fly out as the wind whistled through the trees and nipped at my nose and ears, I would pretend I was a fairy. We would run around our little back yard exactly three times, him panting heavily, me engulfed in a fit of laughter as he would plop me down on the swings, my body shaking with giggles.
He would push me on the swings, allowing the night air tease my hair into knots. Eventually the efforts of his pushes would cease until I was just a small lump, hidden under a hello kitty nightgown swaying gently. He would then scoop me up and take me into my room, kiss me goodnight, leaving me to gentle dreams filled with fairies and flight. Little did I know that tradition couldn't last.
The wind stopped abruptly. I looked up, my feet had subconsciously led me to my house. I wandered throughout my home. I smelled something baking. Not just something; multiple somethings. The scents of baked sweets and roasting poultry filled the air, perfectly complementing the scent of fall creeping in through the opened windows. I watched the wind dance with the silken red curtains, an upbeat and unexpected change from the usual sheer white strips held back by fancy twirling clips. I breathed it the warm scent, wondering what could possibly be the occasion that entailed this much food. My mother was working and couldn't cook anything beyond toast, cereal, and mac'n'cheese out of a box. It must've been Lucy. Our cook. But why was she cooking something that smelled so delicious? I clicked my phone on. It was Wednesday in November. Did anything special happen soon? I realized; tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I realized that that must be the reason we had the rest of the week off from school.
My eyes grew wide with fear. So much food, so much to eat, and it smelled so good. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to resist. I walked into the kitchen, determined to get a good look at my competition, an army of pies and cakes, stuffing and croutons littered everywhere. I walked in and saw Lucy, her pin straight red hair pulled into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. She looked delicate and overworked. I didn't want to bother her. I grabbed a cereal bar, to reassure her that I wouldn't go to bed hungry, not for eating purposes of course, and left. The second I was out of her vision line, I tossed the cereal bar straight into the trash bucket. I trudged up the stairs into my bland, white washed room. I was suddenly overcome with sheer exhaustion. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed into my bed.