These Demons

Chapter Thirty-three

After a certain amount of time has passed in blissful silence, joy and a sense of peace I haven't known for longer than I can remember, we both finally leave the bed and I take a shower while Zoe heads for the kitchen.
As the hot water pours down on me, I fervently hope she will have finished eating by the time I join her, but the thought that she might not have, or even worse, she is waiting for me and might actually want to make me eat is so scary that I start shaking all over again even though I'm standing in the middle of so much hot steam that the glass walls of the shower are too foggy to be seen through. 
As always, I don't look at my body even once and after I've finished blindly scrubbing my body with the girliest shower gel I've ever used in my entire life that smells like an entire box of sugared fruits, I motionlessly stand under the calescent jet of water, my eyes closed and my skin damp from the steam, and try to breathe as slowly and deeply as possible to keep myself from hyperventilating, but the fear of the situation that might await me doesn't loosen its grip in the slightest and my head keeps replaying the worst case scenarios.
At some point, I turn off the water and step through the floating mists to reach for a towel and my clothes, relieved to find the mirror too cloudy to see my reflection. 
I think about just staying here, locked in the bathroom, but I know how ridiculous that idea is.
It wouldn't get me anywhere because I would have to leave eventually if I don't want Zoe to break into her own premises. I can't get away.

With a mood that seems so bright that I feel horribly guilty for racking my brains like this, Zoe is standing in front of the fridge, apparently looking for food. 
When as she notices me entering the room, she shuts the door and turns around, a smile so beautiful that my heart aches. 
"Hey! You were taking so long!" Obviously not long enough. She hasn't eaten yet.
"So... I was thinking," she begins and pours herself a glass of wine, "you definitely have to eat something, but I figured we should choose together." I take a step back, hiding my trembling, and she adds: "To make sure it's easier for you, but also a real meal, if you know what I mean."
Easier. That word almost makes me roll my eyes. 
When I don't visibly react, Zoe looks uncertain, but keeps talking nonetheless. 
"There are a ton of places that deliver, but I figured I'd just show you my favorite places. If you want to get food delivery, I mean," she cautiously suggests and picks up her smartphone from the counter to show me the websites of several restaurants.
I haven't had food delivered since Juliet and I were still together, and I'm terrified of it because of those memories and the fact that I have absolutely no control over the meal I receive.
I neither know about all of the ingredients, nor about the portion sizes or the number of calories, and even if the restaurants offer menus that provide nutritional values, I don't trust them.

"What are the alternatives?" I quietly ask and try not to appear too shaky and suspicious. I don't want her to think that something is wrong, but she notices it anyway.
Perking her brows at me, Zoe puts her phone back on the counter. "So you don't want to get anything delivered?"
"Not really," I admit without giving her any details and I know the questions are burning on her tongue, but she presses her lips together and nods, knowing how much I appreciate it that she doesn't make a big deal out of it or digs into my thoughts.
"I have leftovers, instant stuff in the freezer or we could cook," she offers and crosses her arms in front of her chest when I start shifting my balance from one leg to another and wish I could run for the hills.

"Do I really have to?"
The look in her eyes is understanding and caring, but also stern and not willing to negotiate when she nods again, and I dig my nails into my palms. I'm being utterly ridiculous, I realize. This is just a meal. Just one meal. I don't have to freak out like this.
But I do.

"We can something fresh if that's easier."
"We have to?"
Swallowing to ridden myself of the lump that has formed in my throat, I slowly nod again when she does and throw a glance at the fridge in the corner that appears like the monster from a horror movie.
This is stupid. It's just food.
But I can't shake the feeling of sheer terror that starts to build as she approaches the fridge again and lets me take a look at its insides.
My fridge at home is filled with fat-free yogurt, all types of diet shakes and soda and salad, but this variety causes my heartbeat to fasten.
It's just food.

But why does it scare me so much? Why do I immediately and automatically calculate the calories of everything I see? I've always sucked at calculating, so why am I doing this? All I know is that I can't stop it from happening because this is the only form of control I have left, and I need this control more than anything. Losing it is the worst thing that could possibly happen. The reason why doesn't seem to matter. 

Still busy inspecting the food, Zoe doesn't look at me which is relieving because my body's temperature has just dropped about twenty degrees within a few seconds. 
"We can make something classic and healthy that goes fast," she says and I couldn't be more clueless about what she means.
"Like some vegetables in a pan with rice. What do you think? We could add some chili or curry."
"The vegetables sound good," I weakly respond, my head pounding and my thoughts spinning even though my brain keeps trying to tell me that I'm being an idiot and don't have a rational reason to do this.
Rationality doesn't matter.

"Really?" She seems relieved and points to one compartment where she has tidily arranged all of her vegetables and I wonder why on earth she has so many different types. How can someone enjoy cooking this much? I despise being in touch with food at all times.
Of course I know that calories can't get through my skin, but I still avoid it at all costs to spend so much time with them. 
"What do you want?"
If I started going through all of these, calculating and planning it all neatly and perfectly, I would take ages and she would definitely think I'm crazy, so I choose not to do it. It will be hell either way.
"I'll let you pick," I choose the smartest option and step away while she shrugs and gets a few items before closing the door again. 

"Do you want to cut them already or get the rice?"
I don't want to get rice, but I don't want to touch and cut that stuff either, but I can't refuse to help her. 
"Where is the rice?" I spontaneously pick what I believe is the lesser evil and reach for the cupboard she shows me to get what she asked me to.
I feel a tiny spark of joy when I discover that it's a new pack with nutritional values, so I can at least know the exact number of calories in there, but seeing them takes me back to my familiar panic right away. I've calculated rice at least a hundred times, so I shouldn't be shocked, but looking at this number that's as high as the total number of calories I consume on most days makes it even worse.

"Can you get a pot and boil the water please?" Zoe requests and I do it without saying anything because I'm glad not to have to touch anything else than the pot I get from one of the drawers. 
"You're really pale. Are you okay?" she then wants to know, a red bell pepper in her hand, because I'm completely silent and just staring at the water in front of me, waiting for it to start bubbling.
The yellow pack of rice is standing next to the stove like it wants to provoke and intimidate me.
"Sure," I lie while looking down at my palms to see a few single drops of blood because I dug so hard into my flesh to stop my childish trembling.
Zoe sighs audibly and quickly finishes the pepper to be able to put down the knife. 

"I get it, you know," she mentions, but I weakly shake my head.
"No, you don't."
I don't even get it myself.
"Well, I get that you're scared and uncomfortable," she concedes, but that's more than an understatement. 
I refuse to react and just stare at the metal pot, so she adds: "I don't know what it's like, yeah, but I know that you can do this."
"Do what?" My voice is husky and I have to remember to breathe.
"Get better." 
I scoff, shaking my head. "I'm fine."

She notices the drops of blood on my hand as her eyes look down on my entire body and make me even more uncomfortable because a part of me knows that she's judging everything she sees.
"No, you're not. And you have to eat tonight."

And I know that I can't.

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Alkaline Trio - Dead On The Floor