syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Ok, so you had noticed her not eating. Even when you were choking down white rice and bread just to soak up the alcohol, she never joined you. All she ever ate was candy and chocolate.
Looking back it is always easy to see where you fucked up, but at first everything just seemed so natural and perfect. So she skipped a few meals, so she wouldn’t eat in front of other people. It’s not your fault you didn’t notice she always had an excuse not to eat. We were always so fucked up. So she didn’t eat a lot, neither did you. So she threw up a lot, so did you. We were both drinking and snorting constantly. It just all seemed so normal.
And yeah ok, she was skinny, too skinny, but you had always liked the skinny girls. You thought she was beautiful. Her small, fragile features and tiny frame had been what attracted you to her. She had looked like a junkie angel.
And yeah, maybe you did just sit there drinking or smoking or snorting the days and weeks away blissfully unaware of what was going on.
That day you saw her, fingers jammed down her throat, breasts resting on the rim of the toilet, jerking violently, even then you had ignored it. Your first thought had been how you would like to slide up behind her beautiful ass, and your second thought had been, hell sometimes you just needed to puke.
Even now you can see her in your kitchen, standing with just her bra and jeans on, ribs showing, reading the label off a jar of red pasta sauce.
This has so many calories in it, she had said.
Yeah, we should never eat again, you replied.
I’m serious. This kind of stuff is bad for you. Too many fats and preservatives.
And the wine and coke last night?
That was different.
You remembering thinking, yeah it was different. I should really watch what I eat.
Instead you both stopped eating almost all together and just drank more. Then she had told you she was a vegetarian, and how if the two of you were going to go anywhere, you would have to give up meat. You had asked her if there was any meat in whiskey.
You had always eaten so little you barely noticed the lack of protein. Sneaking off for a bugger or a bloody steak you never felt guilty about it. You had just figured she was doing the same, or eating some other guilty pleasure.
Alright, you had noticed more and more that she was still not eating. Now, of course now, you can remember her not eating her salad or her veggie bugger or her soy whatever the fuck it was. Of course now it’s all too clear why she kept going to the bathroom right after dinner. All those diet sodas, all those times you wondered why the water was running in the bathroom. Of course now it all adds up. You swear you didn’t think it was that serious. The idea of a food diary seemed perfectly normal to you. You thought it was nice that they actually had size zero clothes for someone as thin as her.
Even when she had finally come to you, after you had caught her that day with her fingers jammed down her throat, even then you had told her it was ok. She had explained it, and made it sound so normal, or at least as normal as you were.
You are constantly destroying yourself with drugs and alcohol to make yourself feel better, she had said. This is what makes me feel better.
Ok, you had said. I understand.
And of course you really thought you did understand. It made such perfect sense. There were people killing themselves everyday doing all sorts of shit. Working a job so stressful it would soon explode their heart, worrying themselves into a stroke, drinking until their liver quit on them, eating themselves into oblivion, everyone was killing themselves one way or another. Throwing up on propose just seemed like another way to pass the time. So what if she dealt with her problems and emotions through the use and abuse of food? Who were you to tell her any different? You can’t coupe with real life so you drink and do drugs. Unfortunately, that’s all the advice you had to give her. Do it.
I have no morals, you had said. If it makes you feel better, than do it.
Of course that doesn’t sound like such good advice now. Now it feels like such weak rationalization.
And maybe you had noticed her yellow tears while she complained about the pain in her lower back, her liver and kidneys already trying to tell her what she wouldn’t accept, what you wouldn’t accept. She was killing herself.
Only when you noticed her hip bones stabbing you as you fucked her, only when the disease started to effect you, only then, did you begin to show concern. Only when she was too sick to go to the bar with you did you start to understand what was happening.
Only when the doctor had said the words “kidney failure” and “I’m sorry” did you realize how blind and fucking stupid you had been. Yeah, it took you that long.
I sorry baby, you say to the empty room.
We were both killing ourselves, but I let you do it too soon. I hope it’s what you wanted.
Looking back it is always easy to see where you fucked up, but at first everything just seemed so natural and perfect. So she skipped a few meals, so she wouldn’t eat in front of other people. It’s not your fault you didn’t notice she always had an excuse not to eat. We were always so fucked up. So she didn’t eat a lot, neither did you. So she threw up a lot, so did you. We were both drinking and snorting constantly. It just all seemed so normal.
And yeah ok, she was skinny, too skinny, but you had always liked the skinny girls. You thought she was beautiful. Her small, fragile features and tiny frame had been what attracted you to her. She had looked like a junkie angel.
And yeah, maybe you did just sit there drinking or smoking or snorting the days and weeks away blissfully unaware of what was going on.
That day you saw her, fingers jammed down her throat, breasts resting on the rim of the toilet, jerking violently, even then you had ignored it. Your first thought had been how you would like to slide up behind her beautiful ass, and your second thought had been, hell sometimes you just needed to puke.
Even now you can see her in your kitchen, standing with just her bra and jeans on, ribs showing, reading the label off a jar of red pasta sauce.
This has so many calories in it, she had said.
Yeah, we should never eat again, you replied.
I’m serious. This kind of stuff is bad for you. Too many fats and preservatives.
And the wine and coke last night?
That was different.
You remembering thinking, yeah it was different. I should really watch what I eat.
Instead you both stopped eating almost all together and just drank more. Then she had told you she was a vegetarian, and how if the two of you were going to go anywhere, you would have to give up meat. You had asked her if there was any meat in whiskey.
You had always eaten so little you barely noticed the lack of protein. Sneaking off for a bugger or a bloody steak you never felt guilty about it. You had just figured she was doing the same, or eating some other guilty pleasure.
Alright, you had noticed more and more that she was still not eating. Now, of course now, you can remember her not eating her salad or her veggie bugger or her soy whatever the fuck it was. Of course now it’s all too clear why she kept going to the bathroom right after dinner. All those diet sodas, all those times you wondered why the water was running in the bathroom. Of course now it all adds up. You swear you didn’t think it was that serious. The idea of a food diary seemed perfectly normal to you. You thought it was nice that they actually had size zero clothes for someone as thin as her.
Even when she had finally come to you, after you had caught her that day with her fingers jammed down her throat, even then you had told her it was ok. She had explained it, and made it sound so normal, or at least as normal as you were.
You are constantly destroying yourself with drugs and alcohol to make yourself feel better, she had said. This is what makes me feel better.
Ok, you had said. I understand.
And of course you really thought you did understand. It made such perfect sense. There were people killing themselves everyday doing all sorts of shit. Working a job so stressful it would soon explode their heart, worrying themselves into a stroke, drinking until their liver quit on them, eating themselves into oblivion, everyone was killing themselves one way or another. Throwing up on propose just seemed like another way to pass the time. So what if she dealt with her problems and emotions through the use and abuse of food? Who were you to tell her any different? You can’t coupe with real life so you drink and do drugs. Unfortunately, that’s all the advice you had to give her. Do it.
I have no morals, you had said. If it makes you feel better, than do it.
Of course that doesn’t sound like such good advice now. Now it feels like such weak rationalization.
And maybe you had noticed her yellow tears while she complained about the pain in her lower back, her liver and kidneys already trying to tell her what she wouldn’t accept, what you wouldn’t accept. She was killing herself.
Only when you noticed her hip bones stabbing you as you fucked her, only when the disease started to effect you, only then, did you begin to show concern. Only when she was too sick to go to the bar with you did you start to understand what was happening.
Only when the doctor had said the words “kidney failure” and “I’m sorry” did you realize how blind and fucking stupid you had been. Yeah, it took you that long.
I sorry baby, you say to the empty room.
We were both killing ourselves, but I let you do it too soon. I hope it’s what you wanted.
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