A/N: Part of my Nervosa Disorder Series. Obscurity in characters was done purposely - only for Prologue. Enjoy.

Prologue

The acid burns my throat, tearing apart my esophagus as the bile pours from my mouth.

The blood vessels in my eyes expand and constrict, bursting beneath the surface.

I fill the toilet beneath me with my remorse and shame – with my imperfections.

And when I'm done, I flush it all away.

Then I wait…

For the next cycle to begin.

~O~

"Heard you made the cut," he says to me.

"Yeah," I murmur, pulling down my sleeve, sub-consciously, to cover the scars no one can see but me.

I grunt a little when he pats me hard on the back. "Another year, pal," he cheers, amber eyes beaming. "You and me. The dynamic duo."

I give him a tiny smile. "Can't wait."

~O~

He's not there.

That's what I keep telling myself.

He's not there.

He's not.

I repeat the words in my head until I gather the strength I need to push open my front door.

I peek inside, around the darkened living room.

He's not there, I think again.

Then I walk in.

The kitchen light is on and it shines on my face from across the hall.

From where I'm standing, I can see my sister peering into the fridge.

Her face is twisted in discontentment; her eyes full of annoyance as she looks over at me.

"We never have anything to eat in this house," she mutters, closing the fridge door. "I feel like all I do is go to the supermarket, and yet we have no food. You and mom are going to bankrupt me."

"Sorry," I mumble under my breath, remorse rumbling in my stomach.

"It's not your fault." My sister sighs. "You're a growing boy. You need to eat. But, geez, sometimes I wonder," she says, gesturing at my frame. "Where does it all go?"

I am not overweight in the slightest; neither am I underweight.

As the doctor told me a few months back, I am at my ideal, perfect weight.

Lucky me.

"You know," I say, shrugging. "Metabolism, exercise – all that jazz."

"You men have it so much easier than girls," she huffs, picking up her dark hair and pulling it into a ponytail. "We have to actually watch the things we eat."

"Where are you going?" I ask her when she puts her coat on.

"Out," is all she tells me. "Mom's sleeping. I'll be back in a few hours. You need anything?"

Can you stay?

That's what I should have said.

Because when she's home, it keeps me from acting out too much.

But the addiction is too strong.

The thought of being alone to do what I pleased too good.

"No."

"You sure?" she says.

I had two chances that night to speak up.

And I turned down both of them.

Because, at the end of the day, there's only one thing that will make me feel any better.

"Alright, don't wait up for me."

I wait until she walks past me and out the door, before I lock it behind her.

Now it's just me, and the self-control that had been slipping from my grasp all day is gone.

My hands move on their own, rummaging through the cabinets and kitchen drawers.

I pull out what I can find.

And I binge.

I eat until I can't anymore.

Until my stomach is full of solid forms of resentment and self-hatred.

Until it's bubbling with disgust.

And, by the time I get to the bathroom, I don't even need to stick my fingers down my throat.