David knelt over the toilet seat, shaking slightly, barely noticeably – much akin to the gentle rustle of leaves on a warm summer evening.
He did not feel gentle.
His stomach was in knots, upset, angry, absolutely not in the mood to accept – let alone process – the generous amounts of food it had just received.
Of course, three teaspoons of peanut butter is hardly a meal, but to one who lived day in, day out on vegetables and mild tea, coupled with a helping of gum and morning jogs, it was simply sickening.
He wished he could be just as sick as it made him feel.
But it was futile; there was something wrong, perhaps his fingers weren't long enough, perhaps he hadn't eaten enough to bring up again (I've had way more than enough, he thought), perhaps all of his claustrophobic nights with Mr Campbell all those years ago weren't completely filled with lies – that he'd have fun, that he'd love it, that it wouldn't hurt – when he said he was such a slut to not even have a gag reflex.
He tried to force his fingers in again.
The force sent him choking, something in the back of his throat finally giving in to the intrusion, which he immediately removed, giving way to a sharp intake of breath, as though his life depended on inflating his lungs as rapidly as possible. That's it, he though. I can't do this, he thought. I'm just going to be stuck with this in me for the rest of the night, he thought.
He stood up and slammed the toilet lid shut.
Then he went to bed and kept waking up throughout the night thinking he had accidentally eaten what turned out to be just dreams each time.