Disorderly Thinking

This story is slightly disturbing...just a warning.

It’s been thirty-seven days since I was allowed to eat a cheeseburger. I’m still not allowed to, but a binge is all about eating what one is not supposed to in portions for which one does not intend. He watches from the other end of the germ-ridden, plastic table. He watches with judgmental, venomous eyes that wish to intoxicate the French fry I just inserted into my mouth. The salt sinks into my taste buds. This is addicting.

            “Why don’t I just inject you with fat?” he asks, “it’d be faster.”

            I stop chewing and stare at him. Do others hear him? He buries his face in his hands, upset at me. I only ever let him down. I open the wrapper for my third cheeseburger and dig my teeth into the illegal sandwich. My food baby is forming.

            “I want the security tape to show you later. Perhaps that will help you understand how foolish and stupid you are. This is agonizing.”

            Do others hear him? Can others see him? I shove a few more fries into my mouth and swallow them, unsure of whether or not I actually chewed them. I know the mistake I’m making. I feel the fat dripping down into my belly…every single calorie.

            “You disappoint everyone. This is just what people expect. You’re just another American, adding numbers to the scale.”

            After my fifth burger, my stomach starts to hurt. I push my tray away and run to the bathroom. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I stick my fingers down my throat and move them around. My gag reflex only allows a dissatisfying burp. Someone in the bathroom grunts disapprovingly.

            “I wish you could purge too,” he says. He’s behind me in the stall, leaning against the rail meant for handicap persons. There is no privacy when it comes to hallucinations. Is he a hallucination? I can’t remember. “Guess the fat is with you until you burn it off, which could take weeks. How many calories did you consume?”

            “3700,” I whisper. My breath smells of ketchup and pickles.

            Two-hundred over a pound; I sat at the table and ate a pound of fat.

            “You should feel ashamed,” he reminds me. I don’t need him to. “Let’s go home; you bought a new razor, right?”

            My mom did. A Costco-pack of razor heads, actually, intended for shaving legs and armpits of my two sisters and mine. That’s not what I use razors for these days.

            He yanks me by the wrist and shoves me into my car. I ignite the engine and drive toward home. My muffin top spills over my seat belt. “You are so fat,” he mutters.

            “I know,” I answer. I push down the acceleration and speed home. It takes fifteen minutes; each second spent regretting what just happened to me. “How many?” I ask.

            “Thirty-seven,” he replies poisonously. “Wait—let’s make it an even forty.”

            “Why?” I beg. He turns to me and rams his fist into my rib. I spew McDonalds all over the steering wheel. The vehicle swerves a bit and cars honk, but I keep driving. He makes me clean up the vomit meticulously, asking me how many calories I upchucked. “Five-hundred,” I guess.

            “You got rid of no calories. If you swallow, they’re permanent. This doesn’t matter.”

            “Then why do you wish I could purge?” I ask him. He presses me against the car and breathes into my ear: