Clove.
The minute I swing my front door open, revealing my quiet-as-ever home. I kick off my shoes and sprint as fast as I can up the stairs to my bedroom. Although I know my parents won't check up on me - they prefer to be separate from my personal life - I lock my door behind me for safe measures.
Knowing Pia could be here at any minute, I move quickly. I throw open my bathroom door, getting down to my knees too quickly that I wince in pain as I can feel where a bruise will be forming sooner or later from my harsh fall.
The longer I take, the more I feel the fat infecting each and every inch of my body. Tying my dyed-red hair up with one single movement, I grip the sides of my toilet bowl.
You can do it, Clove.
It's only making you prettier.
Just imagine how good you'll look in that new dress you bought.
Taking a deep breath and squeezing my eyes shut, I take my finger and shove it towards the back of my throat.
I can still perfectly remember the first time I made myself throw up. I was at a slumber party in the seventh grade and all of us girls had just gone in the hot tub together. My eyes wandered around at all my friends' bodies; all slender without a single inch of fat on them. I could just feel all their eyes on me as well, my ass barely fitting in my bikini bottoms.
After we stuffed our faces with junk foods as we watched cheesy romantic comedies, I excused myself to the bathroom. I closed my eyes and imagined myself being all skinny along with my friends and shoved my finger towards the back of my throat as I have read about in health class.
Sure, we were taught about how bad anorexia was, but we barely covered bulimia and other forms of eating disorders. I doubt they're as unhealthy as anorexia. I'm not depriving my body of food, I'm merely getting rid of it before it can make a permanent home in my thighs.
The familiar feeling of my gag reflex brings tears to my eyes. No matter how many times I've done it, the tears always come.
Because of experience, it doesn't take long for me to reach my gagging limit. I heave and all the contents of today's binging empties into my porcelain toilet. Satisfaction swells through my body as I continue to extract all those gross fatty foods I can't stop myself from eating.
As soon as I finish, I get off of my knees and flush the evidence down. Not a single soul knows about my little secret; not my parents; not Pia; no one. And I definitely intend on keeping it that way. If someone found out, they'd only try to get me help. They don't understand how selfish that'd be of them. They're blessed with this thin body, and I have to work for mine.
I'm sure I'll stop at some point, perhaps once I reach attractiveness, but until then, this secrets going with me to the grave.
Doing my little routine, I brush my teeth twice, wash my face, reapply my make-up that had been smudged from my teary-eyes.
The bathroom door swings shut behind me as I turn on my stereo, causing bass to vibrate the floor beneath my feet. No matter how loud I play my music, I know my parents won't bother coming up and asking me to turn it down.
That would mean them actually trying for once and that's just out of the question.
Gently, I start to play with my nose ring as I gaze into my closet, searching for the new dress I just bought a few nights ago. My eyes keep wandering back to my baggy sweatpants and sweatshirt; so easy to hide behind the fabric of those; so easy to hide the fat.
