These Demons

Chapter Fifty-eight

"Don't tell me you didn't see that coming." She isn't wrong. "I kind of did."

"I'd like to write yours with you," she clarifies and surprises me with this whole act of doing things together and not getting it forced upon. "We write that?"

"It's your therapy." I don't trust it. "I bet there's a hook."

"There are requirements." I knew it.

"Sounds great." Irony drips from my words like thick honey, words slow and bittersweet.

"Let's start with your breakfast." My stomach twists. "You're obviously a phase one."

"A phase one?" I repeat, unable to understand what she means.

"We watch over you during every meal," Dr. Gale declares, "with no food intake taking place elsewhere or without therapists." Summed up, every single bite of mine will be watched and documented, and the thought of that is sickening already. "And what do I eat?"

"What do you like?" That's going to be a short list. "Yogurt." Plain and fat-free, but I bite my tongue.

"We can get that into your first snack," she suggests, innocently mentioning that the three regular meals won't be my only misery, but my head starts spinning. "There are snacks?" She refuses to react to the start of my panic and returns to the original plan instead. "Let's start with the breakfast. Without yogurt."

"Fruits?" I try because they're high in sugar, but rather low in calories compared to other things people have for breakfast.

"Carbs?" she counters and I swallow audibly. "I have to?" I knew it. Of course I knew it. I'm not stupid. "That's not really a question, is it?" I had hope. A fatal mistake. "What kinds of carbs?"

"You can choose between bread, bread rolls, granola and corn flakes, but during your first phase, you only get two or three variations a week." One sounds worse than the other and I'm glad I only remember the number of calories and not the taste. "What if I don't want any variations?"

"Didn't I mention that you have to?" She's good at having these discussions, but she probably has them every day. I can't imagine anyone simply accepting these terms. "Why?"

"It's not a healthy behavior to eat the exact same thing every day." It's hard not to roll my eyes, but I keep it together. "My mom does too."

"You're not your mom." She would probably even stay calm if I threatened to jump off the roof right now. "Obviously."

"So?" she expects my disclosure, but I'm not done with the questions. "How much?"

"The calories are always equal, so don't try anything there," Dr. Gale sighs and I do too. "Cornflakes don't sound as bad as the rest."

"Full fat milk," she informs me and I make a face. "Gross."

"Only option," she adds and I knew that, but chose to deny the obvious truth until the last second. A tactic I might maintain throughout this therapy, but I won't admit that. "With what?"

"You pick one kind of fruit every morning, up to two variations a week. Apples, oranges or bananas." I wrinkle my forehead. "But the calories are totally different."

"It's all packed in plastic cups you pick up. Do you really think we want fighting anorexics about who gets the tiniest apple because mother nature is cruel?" The images that are immediately created in my head almost make me burst out laughing, but she looks so dead serious that I don't dare. "Does that happen?"

"It did before the portions." I believe every word because the visible pain on her face at the memories are too intense to be dishonest. "Sounds like a bad movie," I comment and she breaks the seriousness with another small gracious smile. "It was." Maybe she's not too bad.