Happiness Unraveled
Chapter Four
He knows it has to end. Somehow, some way.
He can feel it, in the ache of his muscles, his bones, when his body makes the slow, precarious journey to an upright position when he gets up in the morning. In the dizzy sickened spells that strike when he stands from kneeling over evidence, gets up for more coffee, or just for no reason at all.
Nick stands before the mirror, marks the progression. The ladder of his ribs – he hooks his fingers under each rung, feels the solidity of his prison bars. He smoothes his hands over the jut of hipbones, the concave stomach. None of his bones are that pronounced, but they're clearly visible. If his coworkers saw…but Warrick has seen and he didn't care and maybe he's imagining it all anyway. He prods his stomach just above the navel, then drops to the floor to do some sit-ups. It's not that he's fat. But he used to have a six-pack, and now he thinks he can see each individual organ under the skin. He can't. But he thinks it might be close. He needs some muscle mass, something solid and hard to protect him.
He stares longer at the darkness dusted under his eyes, leaking from his pupils and the depths of his soul. And he knows no one has looked here, because if they had, they'd all know the whole story. It's written across his pale skin, bloodshot eyes, and prominent cheekbones.
Nick knows they won't stop him. It's been months, and no one is the wiser. He'll have to stop on his own.
He starts a journal. He writes his food, his calories, when he throws up. He sketches out a plan.
Nick hasn't eaten a meal without vomiting in a very long time. He actually cannot remember the last time. So of course, the first step must be just a simple meal.
He sits at the break room table in the lab, his paper-bag lunch spread out before him. Turkey (which he hates) sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and a banana. It's a very thin sandwich, a small banana, and he thinks maybe he can eat this much without feeling that sinking in the pit of his stomach.
He takes the smallest of bites and chews fourteen times. He chose a food he hates, chose a number of chews, because he doesn't want to go too far. I am in control.
Second bite. Third. Fourth. He breathes steadily through his nose. His lunch break is almost over and he's eaten a quarter of a sandwich.
"Hey Nick," Greg greets, flopping into a chair across from him and pulling out an In-N-Out burger, Nick's favorite. It smells perfect – meat, cheese, special sauce, onions. God what Nick wouldn't give for one bite - except then it would be . .fivewholeburgers.
"H-hey," he forces out more than a couple seconds too late. It sounds awkward in the silence, and he quickly ducks his head and watches his own food.
"You okay?" Greg asks offhandedly, biting into the burger. Nick swallows hard.
"Uh, yeah. I just…Yeah."
"Want some of my fries?" Nick's eyes lock on the paper boat full of crisp fried potato.
"I'm okay, thanks," he manages, his eyes never leaving them.
"Aw, you know you want some. Really, have a couple," Greg insists. Nick looks up at him sharply, notes the calculating gaze Greg fixes him with. What is this? Are they testing him? Trying to feed him? Have they finally noticed only to draw the wrong conclusion?
He takes one fry, pops it into his mouth. Then another. Another. Half of the second burger Greg bought, then the whole thing when Greg insists he's full. Then the rest of the fries. The turkey sandwich. The banana.
Greg seems pleased – they really did think he was anorexic or something. "Guess it's time to get back to work, eh?" He stands up, waits for Nick.
"I'll be right there," Nick says softly, remaining seated.
"Okay, no problem," Greg says lightly, and he leaves the break room. Nick watches him go, sees him give the thumbs-up to someone down the hall.
No control. No self-respect. God, Nick, how can you do this to yourself? He feels sick. The waistband of his jeans is cutting into his stomach, which feels hard to his touch as he inconspicuously rests a hand on it, conscious of the windows of the break room. The familiar churning feeling begins, the faint hint of nausea because, like Pavlov's dog, he knows what to expect.
No. Nononono. This is not happening. He breathes through his mouth, wills the nausea away. But it won't go. This is bigger than just his will – it's his body confused, his emotions scattered, his thoughts frantic. His fingers prod at his abdomen, feeling the excess pressure, feeling for the fat that's probably already started to form. He knows it's ridiculous. His hand wanders too high and he clearly feels his ribs, but are they less prominent now?
He's in the bathroom, standing at the mirror. He splashes cold water on his face, leans heavily against the sink. He stares into his own eyes in the mirror, then jerks away from it and turns to the side, scrutinizing. The nausea looms. His stomach clenches.
Nick kneels, shoulders hunched, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach as he forces his fingers down his throat.
He no longer can tell when he's empty. It all hurts the same. Now, he vomits until he sees blood, and then he knows it's over. But just in case, he tries one more time. A throbbing, stabbing pain in his stomach takes his breath away, and he stops trying, collapsing to the floor, breathing hard and fast. His head spins and he thinks for a moment that he's going to pass out, his pulse throbbing in his ears so loud he doesn't hear the knock on the stall door the first time. He does hear, however, those dreaded and hoped for words – "Nick, we need to talk."
He flushes, wipes his hand across his mouth, holds onto the latch of the stall to draw himself up, tugs the door open.
He's about to make some cross remark about privacy, but before he can form the words, the grey tile and the spiky hair in front of him begin to dissolve. He feels that sickening dizziness, that ache deep in his bones and the pain deep in his soul, watches from afar as they unravel his vision and consciousness, feels it blindly as he falls forward into nothingness.
