Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(2)
Right. It’s just the first day. That’s all. I’d be nervous as all get out no matter what.
But that tiny, annoying voice inside my head laughs, mocking my attempt at rationality.
Who am I kidding? Although I graduated the rehab program, my parents told that I made great progress acknowledging my condition—illness, though I was repeatedly reminded not to refer to it as such, so as not to get sucked into the “excuse” trap—I know the truth. The reality.
I fooled them.
My feet are taking me down the hallway as my eyes search for the nearest bathroom before I can even process my speedy retreat. As my head begins to spin, I berate myself for being so weak, my conscience pleads: just today. Just this once, until the hard part is over.
I’m pushing myself into the bathroom as the last of the late stragglers hustle out. One blessing, right there. I choose the last stall and set my books on the toilet back. Then I mentally curse, looking over my white blouse.
Off the shirt comes, bundled under one arm, as I hunker over and push the back of my tongue against my tonsils.
The splash of toilet water reverberates through the silent bathroom and my chest. With each gag, my face flames, tingles, knocking off layer after layer of anxiety. I haven’t needed to use the old finger down the throat method in years. Not since high school. My gag reflexes are piqued easily now, which makes for a terrible time trying to swallow certain foods. Like okra.
Just the thought of its slimy, filmy texture wretches another stream of bile from my mouth.
When the fit is over, I wipe my hand across my lips. My body trembles, but that’s more from the adrenaline easing off than losing my stomach. The calming effect slowly begins to encase me in a warm buzz, my thoughts clearing, the chaos and constant hum drowned out to silence.
It’s like being swept away by a current. Alone. Tranquil. In the middle of the ocean. Peaceful. And that calming sound of crashing waves breaks over me. I can breathe.
Now collected, I slip my blouse back over my head. As I unlock the stall door and ease it open, there’s a small worry that someone heard. I glance around. Still alone. I move to the sink and pull out my disposable toothbrush pack. I swear, the person who thought of these is a genius. I used to go through so many toothbrushes in high school. Just tossing them out at random places; on dates, between classes, church.
No one questions carrying disposables around. It’s just good hygiene, not considered OCD. Like my high school guidance counselor once deemed before the ultimate truth was uncovered—
Bulimia. Anorexia. Social Anxiety Disorder. Take your pick.
They threw so many labels at me my medical file overfloweth. None of those disorders encapsulates me, though. They’re like an extension of the bigger issue—just a way for me to deal. Being the perfect weight means less pressure I have to endure from my stepmother. Looking pristine means I don’t stand out amid esteemed society. Following my father’s direction means I’m valued.
And losing his approval isn’t an option. I’ve already suffered four months of emotional isolation…a lifetime of being a blacklisted Wyndemere infuses me with fear.
Who am I, if not a Wyndemere? Who am I? Who am I?
My reflection in the mirror blurs around the edges, the image fading out of focus.
My thoughts are starting to drift again, becoming muddled. I use what focus I have left after the initial purge mutates, transforming into guilt, to brush my teeth and collect myself into perfected, have-it-all-together Arian.
I’m not stupid. The counselors and nurses at Stoney Creek didn’t have to explain how this is a vicious cycle; I understood that long before my four-month commitment. Still, understanding something doesn’t make it any easier. It just brings on the guilt quicker, the shame deeper. Like a notched razorblade slicing jaggedly through my awareness.
I rinse my mouth and spit into the sink, then toss the used plastic brush into the trash. Looking into the mirror, I note the red puffiness around my lips. The newly bloodshot vessels of my eyes.
I actually did try, or at least trust that I would give it my best shot this time. That I would use the tools given to me by the faculty at Stoney. That I’d reinvent myself, having been given a new, redeeming chance—because I know more than anyone that this obsession will eventually be the death of me.
It’s just…how do you defend yourself against an attacker when the attacker is you?
* * *
Lunchtime: Only the second most dreaded part of my day.
But at least here at Braxton—with its small student body—almost everyone ventures off campus for lunch, absorbed in their own lives. Friends. Studying. Food that is not cafeteria food. Which leaves the actual cafeteria practically vacant.
I find Vanessa easily, seated at an oblong table near the back wall. She has a book propped against the table and her knee, absentmindedly feeding herself from a tray, her eyes never leaving the page she’s reading.
Hiking my tote higher on my shoulder, I wander into the short line and nod to random food items: small house salad; dry celery and watery ranch dressing; turkey croissant. None of which looks appealing, but I know—from past experience—that if I don’t get something on my stomach soon, the afternoon drop will hit hard.
I plan to take full advantage of the campus gym later this evening.
Besides, I think, as my gaze longingly sweeps over a lone piece of carrot cake, with my steady-climbing adrenaline pumping my heart rate super fast, my nerves will work off the sugar in no time.