Pah. Hello again everyone. This is the product or a pretty crap day, so I did what everyone does – write depressing, eating disorder unrequited love-angst!
Anyway. Its probably utter, utter rubbish, so I dunno...read at own risk?
Dedicated to Eve, cos she's a darling.
When Howard wakes up at ten-to-seven, he switches off the alarm before it can wake the whole house in a rude, bad tempered way. The duvet, shoved off the bed in the middle of another sweltering night lies crumpled, curled in on itself next to the plywood bedside table. He thinks its uncharacteristic for it to be this hot in may – middle of summer hot – and humid, because its England, and it usually rains all summer, save for one boiling, dry day usually in august, when everyone gets sunburn. Then it rains again, but its kind of irrelevant, because no matter what, they all complain anyway.
The sun has already risen, blinding and white-hot against the single pane glass that they never had enough money to replace, but there's clouds in the distance, which means its going to be stormy later, so he'll have to remind himself –somehow- to put the covers on the cages at the zoo before him and Vince leave.
Morning is his favourite time of the whole day. Everything looks shiny and new its the time before anything can go wrong, which is a blessing, given the fact a lot of things have been going wrong lately.
Pulling on the plain green overalls and descending the stairs (avoiding the creaky one fifth from the bottom), Howard plugs the toaster in and flicks the kettle on, which stutters angrily as though its going to maim, then settles. The sound of the kettle whistling when it was boiled used to wake Vince up, and he used to come bounding down the stairs, then eat a huge bowl of cereal that was actually coloured, and probably banned in most EU countries, then have a cappuccino (with full fat milk) then a biscuit, and then a handful of sweets of bar of chocolate, which Howard remembers berating him for with a weird kinda ache.
Now he slumps down the stairs with dead eyes and eats half an apple prepared the previous night, black coffee with low-cal sweetener and a single plain rice cracker.
When Howard glanced in the room on his way past, Vince was wrapped up in the quilt, one skinny arm outstretched on the grubby linen, breathing soft. His eyes automatically jump to the thick black notebook wedged under the far end of the mattress, of the week before when the house was empty and curiosity got the better of him. A diary, but not the nice kind.
Page upon page of food lists, numbers written in the bottom left corner slowly decreasing. The beginning is most disturbing.
Everyone's talking about pre-summer diets, and its months away yet! It's a waste of time anyway. One girl at work is almost enviably thin, but she eats loads! It doesn't seem that fair. Its kind've
interesting though. Maybe I should try it. I'd be able to fit into more clothes. I'm a bit fat anyway. There's loads of people –beautiful people- thinner than me.
Peach 67 cals
Full breakfast 700 cals
Chocolate 353 cals
Turkey sandwich 200 cals
Orange juice 258 cals
Hot chocolate with full fat milk 300 cals
Sweets 76 cals
Cocktail sausage 40 cals
Vodka 50 cals
Martini 110 cals
Something alcoholic and green 200 cals
The difference between the normal entry and the latest one makes Howard feel ill.
March 5th 2008
Diet still isn't working, still 8 stone 4. Can't believe how I'm still fat. I'm trying, I really am. I can't help it. I'm so awful. Howard keeps trying to make me eat. Is he trying to make me even more disgusting? He could never stand looking at me anyway, so I don't think it makes a difference. I want it to though. I love him but...that doesn't matter. I'm too fat, I'm too useless. Too stupid and worthless and never even close to good enough. So I'll keep quiet, even if it's killing me. I just want it to stop hurting, just for a little bit.
Salad, no dressing 50 cals
Water 1 cal
Apple 64 cals
Rice wafer 19 cals
Plain rice 60 cals
The creaking of the kitchen door jerks Howard from his trance.
"Morning, skinny." He says, smiling like it'll make things better. Vince visibly flinches at the nickname, and gets out a pack of wholegrain biscuits from the bread bin. He takes a seat opposite his friend. He's visible shivering. His eyes are fearful and dead.
"Morning" he mumbles back, chipping off a corner of the food with his teeth. He visibly shudders and forces himself to chew, swallow, rinse, repeat even though his stomach's growling loud enough to be heard.
"Are you gonna eat while I'm at work?"
Don't be ridiculous Vince thinks, silently.
"I've put pasta in the fridge, and theres bread in the cupboard, okay?"
Stop telling me to force myself to eat.
"Try and butter it?"
"For god's sake..."
Please don't make me. I'll get fat again and I'll be on my own and I'll hurt.
"Please, Vince, you're starving yourself! I...like you, yeah?"
Oh god. Oh god this is agony. Make it stop.
Vince bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. He wonders how many calories that is.
A tear drip down his cheek. Thank god for long hair.
" I don't want to loose my best mate.."
Oh fuck. Please, stop it. Please. You're making the hurt worse. You're ripping me again. You are tearing me apart.
"So you'll eat then, yeah?"
A nod. He's having to breathe deep to control the dry sobs.
If only air had calories.
Please review – I'll give ya waffles! And replies!