She sits on her pink bed staring at the dinner plate she has put on the floor next to the puke-green garbage can. Dinner tonight is a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, a typical college student meal, but she stares at it like it is the most appetizing thing she has ever seen. Her eyes shine with longing, and a small string of saliva starts to slide down the corner of her mouth. Snapping out of her daze, she wipes her mouth and stares down at the glossy red film on her hand. She averts her gaze to the pack of Djarum cloves sitting on her dresser on the opposite side of the room from her garbage can. Cigarettes. Food. Cigarettes. Food. Cigarettes. Food. Her head, as well as her mind, turn back and forth like she is watching a little green ball at a tennis match. Just a bite. One bite won't hurt. She looms over the sandwich, her blue eyes flickering with desire. Carefully, she rips off a piece of tender crust that has just a dot of peanut butter, and places it in her mouth. It tastes so good. Too good. Before she knows it, she is staring down at an empty plate, not a crumb left.
She's lost control again. Shit. She fights back tears. Don't cry you stupid bitch. Stupid fat bitch. All her muscles tense as she feels a wave of anger rush over her. BAM. She punches herself in the thigh with all her strength and then slams her knee into the wall, leaving a mediocre dent in the white drywall. Tears roll down her cheeks, but she's not crying, oh no, fat bitches don't deserve to cry. Grabbing her side, she is convinced she can feel the sandwich already digesting and forming fat on her hip. She violently crawls towards her bathroom and hovers over the toilet. Got to get this shit out. Got to get it out before it poisons me with more pounds. She sticks her finger down her throat and presses down hard. Nothing. She pushes her limb further in, until the top of her wrist touches her upper lip. Nothing. Fuck. She begins to panic, moving her fingers circularly deep in her throat, trying to get her body to react. She coughs uncontrollably, but no food comes up. No half digested sandwiches, just blood. And not just blood, small chunks of flesh, presumably pieces of her esophagus, come up as well. She looks down at her stained hand in curiosity and smirks. How lovely. Getting dizzy, she places her forehead against the cool, smooth marble tub and wonders if the sandwich she ate is hidden somewhere in that mess of red. Even if it's not, she decides she feels better. Standing up, she instinctively pulls a razor blade from beside the sink, pulls down her pink pajama pants, and deeply carves a third small line, no bigger than half an inch, on her hip. That's the third time in two weeks you've eaten, you fat fuck. You're not sick until you look sick.