Overcast

by Sir Rigby

"The covers wrinkle and two deep marks are left in the sheets, reminding me how far apart we sleep now. How far apart we are now, even though we are so close."

Wake up, take your pills dear

I know this time of year ain't right for you

(And you scream at night,

to make them go away)

The sunlight shines through the gray shades. He rolls over slightly, and knocks the pillow covering my arm off. I sigh and get up slowly, stretching and yawning. My eyes land on the calendar above the vanity and I scream in my head. It's Wednesday, weigh-in-Wednesday. I look over at him and he is still sleeping. Maybe if I sneak down to the kitchen, fill up this empty belly with water, I can trick him...I can trick him...It is not a pretty thought. I don't even make it to the door when he rolls over and speaks. "Not today, I can't do this today. Utau, please." His voice is soft and tired, like an old sick man waiting for his sleep to take him away. I face the door and my shoulders drop.

"I don't want you to be disappointed." This is only half-true. I don't want him to be disappointed but I want him to be proud. I haven't lost but I haven't gained, even though I should be a lot higher than I am now. I need his support, his encouragement. I need the sick gratifying thought that I'm getting thinner and he knows, and he knows. He knows.

"Why would I be disappointed Utau? You haven't lost more now, have you?" He leans over the edge of the bed and stands. The covers wrinkle and two deep marks are left in the sheets, reminding me how far apart we sleep now. How far apart we are now, even though we are so close. He walks over to me and places his hand on the doorknob. "Utau, have you lost more or have you gained?"

I don't want to respond. Suddenly I am feeling anxious. Why am I so disgusted and repulsed right now? I haven't gained-that is a terribly good thing! But I haven't lost-and that's horrible. I want to lose it all, I want to rot away until I am nothing more than a mere shadow of my past existence.

But I can't tell him this. These thoughts are maddening, irrational, and stupid. I would die before I would ever reach the perfection I dream of achieving. I smile at him, a sad smile that doesn't meet the corners of my mouth, much less the fillings of my eyes. I smile and pretend to be happy, and he pretends that I'm not pretending, and we will play this silly little game all day. "No, but I haven't gained anything either. I feel puffy. I want to lay down."

"I have to weigh you as soon as you wake up, that was the deal." His voice isn't soft anymore, it's almost like a desperate demand. He is sick of this hide-and-seek game of lies and truths, questions and answers. He is tired of attempting to not care, attempting to care. "Utau, the bathroom, now."

I cross my arms, narrow my eyes, frown my mouth. I will not see the bad numbers this week. I've already seen them ten times while he was sleeping and I was in the basement. I know how little I weigh and I know that it is not possible for me to look as big as I think I do, but I do. "Please, please...Kukai, please! I can't weigh myself!" The fake tears are running down my face. He knows what I am doing. He has seen this routine before.

"Utau," his voice is like gravel. He takes my shoulders and pushes me towards the bathroom door. He opens it, lifts me up and places me on the scale. When the bad numbers come up, the dreaded three-digit numbers, I cry. No more fake tears, these are real. A strangled sob comes out. I have gained, I have gained much more than I thought possible. "Utau, it's fine. You're weight doesn't define you." He writes down the number in pen, and puts the notebook back behind the medical cabinet.

I scream at him in my head, Don't give me any of that 'numbers don't define you' crap! He is reciting lines from the pamphlet my therapist gave me, I know it. I've recited those lines before when I was fooling everyone, including myself, thinking I could get better. Numbers don't define you-what a load of shit. Numbers define your salary, your leisure expenses, the amount of space you take up. Numbers define your age, your wisdom, your experience. Numbers define everything. Everything, including self-worth. And my self-worth is lower than parasitic creatures. I am pitiful and vile and disgusting. I am just so large.

"Here," he hands me a glass of water and three pills. A large purple one, a small white one, and half of a red one. These are my lifeline pills. These are supposed to make the bad thoughts go away, these are supposed to make the sunshine and rainbows come out. Instead, they make me feel like I am trapped under the ocean, screaming for someone to help. And no one comes.

I shake my head. "No, no, no.. I hate them, I hate them so much!" My hand reaches towards them without my permission. I have to obey him, I need him to love me and show me the affection I never got. This is a sick relationship. He cares for a sick needy girl that takes up too much space and I care for a childish adult who is still stuck in the world of bubbles and coloring books. A childish adult who still bothers to play soccer, a childish adult who can't hold a job down for more than a few months because he doesn't understand the difference between professionalism and immaturity. A sick little girl that is trapped between the living and dead, a sick little girl that just wants to curl up in the corner and sleep the world away. We're both mentally ill, the only difference is that he knows how to hide it and I don't.

I swallow the pills down forcefully and regret every second. It feels like I'm swallowing my own funeral, every anxious second it takes for them to go down I know that I'm going to hate the way it feels when they finally stir up my brain. I hand the glass back to him and he smiles. "You said these make you feel better, that's true right? My friend used to take those red pills for his depression, he said that it helped clear his head. Made him more cheerful." He cocks his head to the side and his smile disappears. "But they just seem to be worse for you."

I turn on the faucet and the steam drips over us. While he places the plastic prescription bottles back in the cabinet, I stand awkwardly over the tub. The steam on the mirror reminds me of the time when I was walking with him and we walked past the coffee shop. I stopped and stared at our reflection, and I told him. I told him about the burning and the starving and how my heart flat-lined once. He was speechless. I'm not sure if that was the effect I was going for, but it was anything but satisfying. He held me close to his chest for a while and I could smell his cheap cologne.

He brings me a bath robe and some towels. I unzip the jeans that I accidentally slept in and they slide off my ankles. The shirt goes over my head and I look over at him. He is embarrassed to watch and I told him that he needs to watch me, needs to make sure I don't go crazy and start stabbing myself with the nail clippers.

I bite the inside of my cheek and my irrational thoughts go to work. He doesn't want to look at me because I am large. He doesn't want to look at me because I am ugly. I am fat, ugly, shriveled. I am this huge mess of disgusting and he knows it and he's embarrassed to see it.

I slip into the tub, naked, and the water seeps over my skin, burning every inch of flesh to touch it. My skin turns red and I inhale sharply. He says nothing and slumps down the wall, closes his eyes. I am torn between happiness because he is being respectful and not looking to offended because he isn't looking. What am I supposed to feel right now? What am I supposed to feel all the time?

I rest my head against the edge of the tub and pull my knees up to my chest. Several minutes pass by and a question tugs at my mind. I can't help but ask it. "Why aren't you staring at me?"

He looks up, almost surprised. I wonder if it's because he didn't expect me to speak or because he was partially asleep. "I don't want to make you feel self-conscious." His answer seems fake and I jump to the conclusion that he is reading from the pamphlet again.

Angered, I reply, "You're making it worse by not staring. I must be fat or something. I mean otherwise you would be staring the whole time. Am I fat?"

He doesn't skip a beat. "Even if you were fat I still wouldn't stare." He stands and opens the door. "You'll be done in a minute then, right?"

I nod. He averts his gaze quickly after meeting mine. His face reddens and I giggle softly. He sneaks through the crack in the door and shuts it with a soft click. This is something that I have been dreading. I cannot stand being alone with my thoughts. They eat away at me, every single bit of me is analyzed and attacked. The funny thing is, I am attacking myself. These fat arms-gotta go! These jiggling thighs-need to work on! I am so fat, fat, fat.

I hurry out of the bath and change into my everyday wear. A large baggy sweatshirt and baggy jeans that cover every inch of my legs. I can't risk having people find out that I have fat legs. Fat, fat, fat.

I don't bother looking in the mirror when I wash my face, brush my hair. I know what I look like and I can't stand it. When I was thirteen I smeared makeup all over my face like I was trying to cover myself up. I stared at the reflection and for the briefest moment I couldn't recognize myself. The blue eyeshadow, the dark eyeliner, and the bright red blush-I looked so old and silly.

When I was thirteen my parents got divorced and my dad ran away. When this body was thirteen it was tall and lean from dance classes and its throat wasn't hoarse from constant purging. When this mind was thirteen it wasn't all fucked up with thoughts that don't belong there. When I was thirteen I was normal.

I look at the hairbrush and I want to cry again; a clump of pale yellow hair is folded between the bristles. I hate how I'm secretly pleased by this. Losing hair is a sign of losing too much weight, and I should be happy that I'm losing too much, but I'm not. I know that this is sick and wrong and it's hurting the few that care. I can't keep doing this to myself.

He knocks on the door. "I don't want to open the door so I'm only going to give you another thirty seconds." I open the door right away and the steam rushes out with all of my thoughts. I'm with him again and the bad thoughts, the ones that creep over my shoulder and crawl around in my brain, are silenced. I hug him tight around the waist and bury my head against his chest. He smells like warmth.

"Utau, are you okay?"

I step away from him and pull my hair up into a limp ponytail. "Yeah, fine."

"Do you want something for breakfast?"

I freeze. This question comes three times a day, the only difference is for breakfast/for lunch/for supper. I have to fix this situation, quick. I have to make up something, take control of it-I have to do something! "Um, you know what...I'll make something later, okay? I've got a meeting in half an hour and I don't want to be late. Traffic you know, ha-ha." I stumble over my carefully selected words as I hurry into my shoes. By the time I have reached the front door he finishes comprehending my lie.

"Wait, Utau-I said wait!" His hand reaches my shoulder and I look at him. "Promise me, okay? Don't lie to me today, okay?" I nod and he smiles and I open the door and leave him and everything else behind. My hands are shaking when I put them on the steering wheel. I check my wallet and take out three fifties. In my head delicious stops of greasy, fat-fried fast-food are already forming. I know where my first stop, my second stop, and my third stop will be before I purge it all out and start again.

One day this is gonna kill me and right now I wouldn't mind it happening right now.

After my stomach is stuffed and I'm out two fifties, I turn down the road and shut off the car. The sky turned to gray and the river is reflecting it. I grab my water bottle, lock the car, and rush down the path. Past the tree stump, past the starving pigeons, past the teenage couple making out on the bench. Past the signs of life and everything. I bend over and I've done this so many times before, my body knows what to do. I contract my abdomen and purge.

Standing up is hard and I am...dizzy. Spots...appear in my vision, they're...black. And white. And...all sorts of different colors. I have to hurry up and get back home, Kukai will get mad. My heart feels funny when I run up the hill. I lean my head back against the seat and drink the rest of my water bottle, swish out my mouth, and chew on antacid tablets.

And I'm alone with my thoughts again.

They come rushing in and I can't do anything. All of my walls are down and I'm left defenseless. They scream at me, lose weight! don't be so fucking fat! you're worthless, imperfect, he choose her over you! waste of space, waste of life, waste, waste, waste! you're such a waste! I pound the steering wheel and cry.

And I turn the radio on and all of a sudden I am not alone and they go away. I sit off the side of the road until it's dark outside and the park officer tells me I have to go home. But I don't go home. I drive and I drive and I drive until I'm almost out of fuel. I end up at a gas station seventy miles away. Kukai is probably mad, I think. Kukai is pissed. No, he doesn't care. He has a girlfriend. No, he does care. You're his girlfriend. He's pissed/he doesn't give a shit/he loves you/he hates you because you're useless. On and on and on and on, back and forth in my head.

It's too hot in this car. I take off my sweatshirt and walk inside. "I need to pay for gas. And I need cigarettes. And gum. I have twenty-three dollars." The cashier rings me up and hands me my receipt. His name, I don't know. I don't know anything about this person and it makes me feel so insignificant. I could walk out of here and never come back and he would never notice, much less care.

My fingers fumble with the cigarette package and white snow lands on my arms. That's right, it's February. In an instant I am embarrassed for standing out in the cold with too-loose jeans and a too-large tank-top. I get back in the car and light up. It's damn near ten o' clock at night and I haven't been home all day. Kukai is beyond pissed. He's absolutely sick with grief.

Why do I keep hurting the ones I love?

I throw out the cigarette and chew on gum. I get lost more times than I can count on the way back, but when I make it home, there are lights on. I walk up to the steps, dreading every second. The door is unlocked and I close it silently behind me. Light from upstairs shines down the hallway.

He is laying on my side of the bed with the stuffed animal I gave him for Christmas in-between his arms. I can't tell if he is sleeping or just thinking deeply.

I slip out of my jeans and curl up next to him under the covers. "Where did you go?" he asks in a whisper.

I wait for a long time before I respond. I wait until I'm almost asleep before I say, "I went to think."

"You went to purge."

"Yeah."

He doesn't reply and I can feel the tears running down his face because they're running down mine. I can't beat this stupid sickness, I might as well just give up.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. I want to hug him and I want to tell him that I will feel better in the morning, but I know that isn't true.

"If you died...Utau, I can't...please don't die, Utau," he says. He gets up and locks the bathroom door and turns on the shower. I can hear him sobbing and I know he is sobbing, and I start to cry with him. After all, we are just two sick little children. The only difference is he can hide it and I cannot.

One night, when you woke up

You bled 'till you spoke up

Oh, this ain't pretty dear.

(And you scream at night,

to make them go away)