Silent Victim(55)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

EMMA





2017


As I strolled around the aisles of the supermarket, I thought how lucky I was to have my sister in my life. I knew that guilt still plagued her from not being there when I’d needed her the most and it had been hard, growing into a young woman with just Dad to guide me. Theresa did her best, popping back to see me when she could, but she was uneasy at home. She and Dad were not exactly close, and she always seemed to be counting the minutes until she could leave. She had more than made up for it since then, though, and Jamie’s birth had been the balm that had healed many wounds.

My eyes scanned the cake section as I searched for a sponge of the right consistency. Only food could silence my inner voice, the one that plagued me from morning to night. It was growing louder now; the incident with the slashed dress had frightened me. I had tried to distract myself by filling my thoughts with my family, my business, even my choice of clothes. But now as things began to fall apart, the voice of my subconscious became so loud and fierce I wondered if other people could hear it too. Theresa had insisted I finish early, leave reporting the vandalisation to her. But I knew she wasn’t going to call the police. She thought I had done it. I could see it in her eyes. Our seamstress would be able to replace the torn material, salvage the ripped dress. But my relationships with my loved ones were not so easily mended. I could have kicked myself for spying on Alex and Theresa that morning, especially since she had told me their meeting was born out of concern. But not enough was being done about the threat towards me. A cold feeling of déjà vu rose up inside me as I struggled to be believed. Surely the people closest to me must know that I was telling the truth? But Alex seemed more concerned about whether or not I was eating, asking me to mirror him at the table and provide a good example for our son, though he could not watch me all the time.

When I was young, the dinner table was a battleground, my bad habits a small act of defiance. And now I was rebelling again, except the only person I was hurting was myself. I threw three tubs of ice cream into my trolley, kidding myself that they were for Jamie. I liked the different textures and sensations of sweet and sour so I threw in a twelve pack of salt and vinegar crisps as well. Sometimes they felt like jagged glass as I swallowed, barely chewing while my eyes roamed the table for more. The only semblance of self-control I held was against bingeing on alcohol. I had grown up around Mum’s drinking binges whenever Dad was away. I wouldn’t allow it. Not when I was looking after Jamie.

Blaming my mother was easier than taking responsibility myself. I held traces of her in my mind, her pretty scarves and long flowing dresses which hung beautifully on her thin frame. When I thought of my childhood, memories of her were scattered everywhere. Yet I struggled to reach the good ones that were buried deep inside: Mum attending the school play, coaxing the teachers into giving me the lead role; her eyes shining with tears as she sat beside Dad, watching me sing on stage. That had happened, hadn’t it? I hadn’t just made it up.

I scanned my items at the self-service checkout, vowing that this relapse would be a fleeting one. Something to take the pressure off while I got my life back on an even keel. I hummed as I scanned, anything to quieten the voice that would resurface later on.

Puberty happened to my body long before my mind caught up with it. I loved flicking through my mother’s magazines. I would stare at the images of emaciated models and ultra-thin pop stars worshipped by my peers. Each page, each image reinforced the answer that had been staring me in the face all along. I was not popular because I was not like them.

Diets were futile, leaving me with a growing sense of failure, making me despise myself even more. I just could not stick to them, preferring starchy foods and calorie-laden crisps and chocolate to fresh vegetables and fruit. That’s when I read an article about a celebrity who was a self-confessed bulimic. It stated that she kept her stick-like figure by throwing up after every meal. It felt like a revelation. I stared at the article in wonder, a smile touching my lips. I could eat whatever I wanted and would never put on a pound. Looking back, I can see how naive I was.

Shoving my fingers down my throat did not come naturally, but as I closed my eyes, I would imagine my favourite celebs doing the same thing. They must have found it difficult at first, I told myself while I purged. I learned how to mask the smells and always kept the bathroom spotlessly clean for when I gripped the porcelain bowl. I liked the feeling of emptiness, and it soon turned into an obsession. My reward was seeing the weight drop off my face, and hearing the approving voice of my mother in my mind.

At the beginning it was euphoric, watching my body change. For the first time in my life I had sculpted cheekbones, a smooth stomach, and I felt free. But my hair had lost its shine and the knuckles of my right hand were raw from grazing my throat. My menstrual cycle was erratic. I was cold and tired all the time, and I could not keep up with the demands I placed upon myself. I was a failure yet again and found comfort in food. I began to have cravings, telling myself that I deserved it, that I could rid myself of the calorific value later and flush it all away. If only it were as easy to flush away the emotional turmoil that went with it.

The guilt was soon forgotten when I was tucking into the forbidden food. Like an animal preparing for hibernation, I would pull out my secret stash. After the initial euphoria, all I was left with was loathing and self-hatred. The cycle would start all over again. It was a mental battle I could not win.