We are the Young|| jughead jones

Chapter Nine: Medicate

Escapism is a normal thing. It's why people write or paint, or how kids play pretend. Sometimes, it's good for us, healthy, even, to take a break from reality and let our minds relax. Not for my mother, though. She escaped from reality all the time with gin and tonics. I was the one who watched her sit in her chair, eyes blankly staring at the television, while I begged for her to move, blink, do anything. She never did move, or blink, or respond to any of my cries. She just sat there, only moving to take another sip from her glass.

I chose to escape through art when I was young. With a set of acrylic paints and a handful of brushes that left bristles behind all over the paper, I would paint childish renditions of landscapes. When I was twelve, though, I received my first set of oils, and by then, I had given up on trying to imitate the landscapes I saw on TV. That phase of my life featured a lot of red paint and it was when I first painted people. Many canvases and sheets of paper were covered in a thick layer of paint, portraits of people with horns and wings and various disfigurements. It was a very Picasso time in my life. Eventually, I started painting people properly, and there's a large canvas in the lobby of Ocean Park Hospital, five feet long and three feet wide, of the garden in front of the hospital.

My paints are the ones restraining me me from walking downstairs to the kitchen and eating whatever I see first. Crimson and blue isn't enough to steady my hands, though, nor fully distract me from the stabbing pains in my stomach. What is a usual chorus of 'feed me! feed me' inside my stomach with the comforting ache I'm used to now is ten million times worse. My hunger isn't slowly whispering into my ears anymore, it's screaming so loudly my lungs burn and so does my throat, still raw from all the puking I've been doing lately, and it feels like I got a root canal, but in my stomach.

Sighing, I put down my paintbrush and cover my paint back up. I can finish this coral reef later, I just need my stomach to shut up first.

I head to the bathroom first, and I step onto the scale. The devilish piece of machinery tells me that I weight eighty-seven and a half pounds which is too much. Groaning, I get off of the scale and pull out my medicine, swallowing my handful of pills and then walk up and down the stairs a few times.

Other people stop exercising when they feel dizzy or hungry. Not me. I keep on going until my calorie balance is in the negatives. I need to shed five more pounds off before Leo and Jordi's wedding, because I don't want to embarrass them with my fat ass.

I give up and go lay on my bed, pulling the covers back up around my shoulders, my numb fingertips rubbing against my goosebumps. I'm so cold and I'm so, so tired.

I don't get much peace, though, because someone is knocking on the door, and I can practically hear my grandma fussing about it possibly being Ted Bundy. Swinging my legs off my bed and pulling on three sweatshirts over my tank top and suspenders.

"Hey, Mathilda," Jughead says when I open the door. "Are you busy?"

I shrug. "No. Not really. Want to come in?"

Jughead looks slightly taken aback by my offer. "Um, sure."

"Want something to eat?" I ask when I lead him inside and tell him to take off his shoes. I won't eat anything myself, but I need to touch food, to make it, if nothing else.

"Are you going to eat?"

"No, I ate just before you knocked on the door, actually. Here, I'll make you a sandwich."