Losing Control✓ (New Adult Romance)

Chapter Nine

It starts in the living room of our beach house. I don't know which summer it is, only that I am younger with long hair that tickles the sides of my face. The house is quiet and empty, even after I call out to Mom and Dad. I'm on the couch—the old one that my parents finally sold last year. The springs of the couch cushion press into my back, but I don't feel the usual pain that accompanies them. I shift slightly, lean forward until I can see out the window and onto the beach. It, too, looks abandoned, like maybe, I'm the only one on this side of the lake.

A weird sensation roils through my body, almost like hunger. I don't feel the uncomfortable tightness or hear the aggravating growl, but I somehow know I need food. The sensation comes again, and this time, I press a hand to my stomach, desperate to overcome the gnawing. That's when I realize my body has changed. I'm not thin and athletic anymore—no, I'm the exact opposite. My stomach bulges with fat, folding over my hips and resting on my thighs like a thick blanket.

"Oh my God," I say, but my voice isn't my own. It's deep and gurgled, like the fat of my chin is trapping the words. I pinch the layer of fat between both hands, clenching my entire body without meaning to.

The sensation of hunger once again trails through my stomach, but this time, it travels into every pore of my body. I am hunger, and every thought within my brain is linked to food. It's the only thing to fill my imagination, and soon, the objects around me begin to morph. There are hamburgers and French fries and ice cream bars, all taking the place of our cabin's furniture.

"No," I say. My eyes press shut, but the images remain. The food is everywhere, desperate to be eaten. And my fat is desperate to consume everything that surrounds me. I'm so hungry—I've never felt starvation like this.

"No," I say again, this time louder.

"Addison," says a voice. It's gruff and resounding, a formidable voice I've memorized better than my own. "Don't be weak."

I open my eyes, barely able to see through the sheet of tears. The food is still there, closer and larger than before I shut my eyes. Now, the sandwiches and pizza press against my skin. They crowd against my fat chest and fat stomach until each breath strains to break from my lungs.

"Addison," says the voice, louder now. "Don't you dare."

The hunger is back, ricocheting off my insides and settling deep within my gut. My thick hands move by their own permission, grasping toward a chocolate bar.

"No, don't," I say, but my voice is lost within me. "Please."

I'm not sure if I'm crying. My body trembles and shudders as if I am, but there is no sound, no feel of tears on my cheeks. One of my hands breaks a piece of chocolate from the gigantic brick. I feel my head shake, but suddenly, my body is not my own. My mouth is devouring the chocolate. No matter how fast I chew, I can't keep up with the tremendous amounts of food I'm dumping into my body. The rolls of fat expand with each bite, slowly filling the nonexistent space between me and the attacking food. I feel myself growing smaller and smaller, disappearing beneath each bite.

I let out a tortured wail and close my eyes. And just as suddenly, the pressure of food against my body disappears. Gone.

"Addison, you fat bitch," calls the voice. It snarls with the ferocity of an awakened demon, and the breath of its words trickle down my spine.

I open my eyes, but I'm no longer in the living room. Instead, I'm in the bathroom, the one in our town home. Almost everything is the same as the last time I was here: yellow wallpaper, purple soap bar, Mom and Paige's makeup. But the corner is different, reverted back to its threatening form of one year ago. Where there should be only a plastic rug, there sits an old scale, one that Grandma Joy gave Mom for a wedding present.

My legs drag toward the scale, barely able to move against each other. It's hard to breathe under the fat that encompasses me, and even though the mirror is only a glance away, I'm too terrified to look. I heave one foot onto the scale, flinching when the arrow immediately bounces. Then the next foot.

I have to adjust my fat to see the number on the scale. The arrow lands between two worn numbers, almost indiscernible in the flickered lighting. I strain my eyes, determined to uncover the exact weight.

Fifty-two pounds.

Immediately, I stumble off the scale, snapping my neck to the mirror. There stands a hideous creature looking back at me. A terrifying skeleton of pure bones with a layer of transparent skin stretching over my limbs. Hollowed eyes return my frightened gaze, but then, the Beast's enjoyment flickers through them.

"You are mine," it says.

I fling upright in bed, smacking my head against the ceiling. A strange whimpering fills the room, but it takes a moment to realize I'm the one crying. I press my teeth together and sniffle through my nose. My hands quiver as I drag them down my body, inspecting, expecting. The fat isn't there though, and neither are the hideous exposed bones. It's my "normal" body, all one hundred and fifteen pounds of it. I pinch at the slight belly beneath my ribs, letting myself imagine the gigantic fold in its place. If I keep eating, that's exactly what will happen.

Pressing my hands to my eyes and smearing away the tears, I fumble for my phone. My hands are still shaking, making it almost impossible to dial her number. But after two tries and one misdial, I hear Mom's exhausted voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hello?" she asks. I can hear Dad snoring in the background.

"Hi," I whisper.

"Addie," says Mom, her voice suddenly alert. "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I'm fine," I say quickly. "I'm in my dorm room. I just..had a nightmare."

Suddenly, I realize the childishness of my call. I'm nineteen years old and still calling my mother because I had a bad dream. Something rustles on Mom's end of the phone, and Dad's groggy voice filters in and out of hearing range. They murmur amongst each other before Mom returns to me.

"What was it about?" she finally asks.

"Nothing, never mind," I say, forcing a laugh. "It was stupid."

"You sure?" asks Mom. "Did you take your medication?"

"Yes, Mom," I say, rolling my eyes.

There's an invisible beat of time. I know Mom wants to go to bed—she's not one for late-night conversations—but she won't be the first to say goodbye.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow," I say. A part of me hopes she'll argue to stay on the phone, that she'll press me for details of my dream.

Instead, she murmurs a soft goodbye and hangs up the phone. I keep my phone pressed against my cheek, letting the heat soak into my skin. Dad would freak because holding a phone against your face is one of the (many) ways to get cancer. But I like the feeling of hot pressure on my face. It distracts from the distant hunger in my stomach.

"You're not hungry," I whisper, even though I know it's a dangerous mantra to repeat. "You are not hungry.

I roll onto my side and close my eyes, but even as I try to return to sleep, images of my distorted body fill my mind.