Heavy footsteps shake the old wood of my door frame, the panic in my blood skyrocketing as I hurry and stuff the bag of Doritos under my pillow. It’s after midnight. I didn’t think anyone else was still awake, but I guess I was wrong.
Despite knowing it’s coming, I startle, jumping nearly out of my skin when my door is flung open with enough strength to knock it off the hinges, smacking my wall as my brother’s wide build takes up the doorway. His beady eyes land on me immediately, a sinister smirk sliding across his face. The pungent smell of tequila and menthol cigarettes hits me from all the way across the room.
He’s drunk.
He’s always drunk. He’s not even old enough to drink… barely old enough to vote, but Dad lets him drink anyway. Charles and my dad play poker with some of the guys from the dealership a few nights a week, and it always gets rowdy. I can always tell how well they do by how they treat me afterward. If they win, they usually leave me alone. If they lose, well, those are the hardest nights. And the way his bloodshot eyes narrow at me lets me know it probably wasn’t a win tonight.
“The fuck you looking at, ya fat fuck?” His words slur as spit sprays from his mouth.
“You came into my room, Charles,” I mumble.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up. Both my brother and my father are assholes. They’re bullies, and they’re cruel, but the one—very minor—difference between them is my father has never laid a hand on me. Never once. No matter how mad or hellish he’s gotten, he’s never gonethere. Charles, on the other hand, enjoys slapping me around from time to time. Especially when I disrespect him or mouth off to him—his words, not mine.
I don’t even have time to think or process anything before he crosses the room in three long strides, his large, calloused hand wrapping around my throat, shoving me down onto my bed until he’s hovering over me. His demon eyes practically glow as he glares down at me, teeth bared, hand tightening uncomfortably around my throat. My head grows light and dizzy as Charles watches me, not saying anything yet. The liquor on his breath assaults me when he finally speaks.
“If I were you, I’d watch your fucking mouth when you’re talking to me, Bodhi.” The blunt tips of his nails dig into my flesh, and I know without a shadow of a doubt, there’ll be marks there by morning. He runs his gaze over my face before looking somewhere beyond me on the bed. “And if you’re going to be a fat ass and gorge yourself in your room, all alone, in the middle of the night, clean your fucking face off before someone comes in and sees the fucking cheese residue all over your lips. You’re fucking disgusting, bro.”
He laughs menacingly, the sound like a million razor blades to my chest, before he lets go of my throat, leaving the room. My hands fly to my neck as I gulp in lungfuls of air. Pressure builds behind my eyes, hot tears springing into my line of sight. Truthfully, I don’t know why or how he still affects me this much. You’d think after years of this, I’d be used to it. The words wouldn’t slice me anymore. But they do.
Because not only am I disgusting and fat and gross, but I’m also a fucking baby. Climbing off the bed, I walk into the bathroom that’s attached to mine and Noah’s rooms, locking his side before turning on the faucet. Cold water splashes my face, but it does nothing to extinguish the flames of self-loathing raging inside of me. My eyes, bright blue and ringed with red, lift, meeting my gaze in the mirror, and I hate what’s staring back at me.
Why can’t I be like Charles? Why can’t I be tall and attractive, confident, and sure of myself? Or even like Noah. Everybody loves him. Sweet, caring Noah, with his dimples and perfect smile. Instead, I’m me… the kid who eats until he’s so full, his stomach might explode. Me, who hides food and soda in his room, so when he’s all alone late at night, he can eat without feeling any shame of people watching him. Me, who wakes up thinking about food and goes to sleep thinking about it too.
Hot, shameful tears cascade down my face, sliding over my chubby, rosy cheeks, and it’s like I can’t look away. I don’t want to stare at myself, but like a bad train wreck, I can’t stop. I will never be Charles or Noah. I will never be someone my father is proud of. I’ll never be someone people stop and stare at for any other reason than to laugh. I’ll never be anything other than what I am right now… miserable and pathetic.
Finally tearing my gaze away from my own reflection, I look behind me. My feet are moving across the cold linoleum before I even truly know what I’m doing. Knees cracking against the hard floor, a hiss falls from my lips as my eyes zero in on the porcelain bowl in front of me. With both hands, I hold on to the corners, a chill racing through me. Tears fall faster, my vision almost completely blurred. A puddle of misery forms on the lip of the bowl as I stare into the toilet like the Evil Queen looking into the mirror for all her answers.
My eyes slam shut as I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a whimper. My breathing comes out harsh and shallow, and it feels like I can’t suck in enough air. Like an elephant is sitting on my chest, suffocating me.
In… out…
In… out…
In… out…
Dragging in one last deep breath, I peel my eyes open, finding my reflection in the water again, a warmth spreading through my blood, replacing the dread. Taking my right index and middle finger, I jam them into my mouth, down my throat, until I gag. My mouth waters, saliva pooling around the intrusion, but I push past it. I shove them deeper, farther, until I gag again… and again, my stomach finally emptying into the toilet.
But it’s not enough.
I do it again.
And then once more until nothing but stomach acid spills out.
By the time my head hits the pillow, my mouth tastes of mint and bile, and my stomach feels emptier than it’s ever felt. I fall asleep on a tear-soaked pillow, but don’t recall even dreaming that night.
Chapter Eight
Jules van der Meer
This has felt like the longest week I’ve ever endured. I know it’s because I’ve been anxiously waiting for tonight, but the days have dragged by so slowly, I was sure Friday would never come. And now that it’s here, I’m giddy—a feeling I haven’t felt in years. I wasn’t sure I was even capable of a feeling such as that anymore, until now.
After I finish getting dressed, I head over to the opposite side of the house, softly knocking on the door that’s slightly ajar.
“Come in.”
Pushing open the door, my eyes land on Jasmine. She is our Tuesday through Friday night-nurse. Unlike Rosa, she doesn’t live here, and neither do the other nurses. Lorelei needs around-the-clock care, so for the majority of that, we have Rosa. She works Monday through Friday, six in the morning to six at night, and lives in the guest house out back. We have three other nurses, including Jasmine, who work when Rosa isn’t.
It took a lot of getting used to, having people here at all hours of the day and night, but it’s second nature now.
