These Demons

Chapter Eighteen

**I'm still not sober, so let me just tell y'all please how incredibly cute you are, okay? Seriously. I love you. (Don't drink, though. It's stupid.)**

Feeling Brittany's eyes on me makes me even more insecure, but I can't let her notice that and take a deep breath while picking up the cheese bread.
Blinking a few times, I finally take a bite and chew as slowly as possible, but I can't really taste anything. The consistence of the cheese is slimy and the bread dry, but the mild flavors don't reach me, which deeply confuses me. I'm not entirely sure whether this is a good thing and I miss the explosion of taste or enjoy not having to deal with it, and all of this wondering makes me even more insecure about eating these forbidden foods. Should I quit eating? Do it as slowly as possible? Get it over with as fast as I can?

Quiet conversations have started at the tables and some people even laugh together, but I can't get myself to loosen up at least slightly.
Trying to focus on other things, I force myself to continue to chew this tasteless hell, but it feels like it just keeps getting harder the longer it takes, so I put down the bread. "Andy, if you don't eat this, I will have to take you to the doctor on duty and you'll need to have a quick chat with whoever is in charge there, alright? Your files clearly say you need to consume at least a minimum of food." Fucking Brittany even checked my damn files. "Andy, did you hear me?"

"I'm not deaf," I press with a hoarse voice because of how shaky I am right now.
"But are you okay? You look pale."

Once more, the attention of the entire table of crazy people is on me, and when even these people think I'm acting weird, I can be rather certain that it's true, and that's definitely not what Kellin told me.
He's not sitting at the same table, but I have a feeling that he was being honest and knew what he was talking about, and I really don't want to get into any trouble here. Three days are short when I don't make them more unpleasant than necessary.

Hoping that this will calm things down, I pick up the carbs and take another bite, but it's still nothing but a thick gross mash between my teeth that makes me want to vomit.
Now or never- without thinking, I simply force the rest of the bread into my mouth and chew, chew, chew. Faster, harder, just do anything to get it down and finally get this shit out of my mouth, and I close my eyes to make the seconds pass by even faster.
It feels like ages, but at some point, the entire slice is gone, the plate is empty and my stomach pokes against the fabric of my shirt, immediately expanding due to the huge amount of food.
Sickness overcomes me and the trembling worsens, but what matters the most is that nobody notices, so I ignore the urge to run and stay where I am. Brittany praises me like a puppy, but I couldn't care less and just wait for the meal to end, which seems to take hours.

When it does and the flatware has been collected and counted again, I finally get to leave, and where I go is out of question. How stupid they must be not to realize it is a mystery to me, but I profit by their indulgence and head for a bathroom stall in the back that can be securely locked.
I pretended I was fine as much as possible and ate that slice, but it's not even an option to keep it inside my body. The thought of that already horrifies me more than words could explain.

The food simply needs to leave my body before even more calories can be absorbed and turn me into a bigger gruesome mess than I already am.
Every second I don't jam my fingers down my throat is a second I give the carbs and fat a chance to ruin what I worked so hard for, and that cannot possibly happen, so I purge until nothing but water and acid come up, stinging in my nose and my throat and causing my eyes to burn like someone set them on fire.
I'm proud when I'm sure it's all gone because I know the food left my body and I created the illusion that fooled them into believing I'd at least a little bit (which is a ridiculous thought after all) and that discharging me won't be a problem at all.

This is what I need to do and it's nobody else's business. The side effects like what it does to my hair and nails are annoying, but there is always a price to pay.
I'm not seriously harming or endangering myself and anyone who says that doesn't know what they're talking about.

I'm not like them and they don't know what I think like.

All I can hope is that nobody could hear my gagging when I leave the stall and scrub my hands until the tiny scratches open more and bleed heavier, but that doesn't matter because I need to get rid of this smell that disgusts me so much. It's a materialization of all the guilt and shame that comes with eating, and getting rid of that is important to be able to focus on the pride that comes with being able to ridden myself of the consumed food.

Everything I do makes perfect sense, but unfortunately only to me.

Once I've fixed my hair and wiped the tears away that automatically flow when my eyes redden extremely while I throw up, I pull my sleeves down far enough to cover my hands that are littered with the tiny wounds I can't hide otherwise because I no longer have my gloves.

But now I really need that cigarette.