I stand there blankly, wondering what the hell I've done. You idiot! Now you've got this moron here! My mind keeps bitching me out for calling for help, especially Graham. I stand there, still, blankly, chuckling madly to myself. The scent of the dead corpse is actually starting to fill the air and get a little gross. Graham has his shirt pulled up over his nose as he guides me to a chair.

"Well, we'll get him cleaned up," He dialed his phone, probably to call authorities to take Paul away. "and we'll figure out what to do with you."

I'm rocking back and forth, cigarette hanging from my lip, just burning away. I take another drag, and blow smoke out my nose. Graham looks around and finds the Febreze, spraying like mad so it smells like apples and cinnamon. I'm still smoking, trying to calm down, and soon the nicotine hits my brain, calming me down with the very small high it supplies. Graham rubs my shoulder before going into the kitchen and pulling out boxes and stuff.

"You want oatmeal, I suppose?" He takes a packet (100) out. "You're shaking. You need to eat something. Like now."

"No, I'm fine, it's because I haven't had a cigarette until now and I'm shocked." I lie.

He sighs. "You need to eat something. You don't have to eat all of it, at least take a bite or two. Or have some fruit."

No, I don't need to eat anything, I already had 66 calories today, which is way too much for my little balloon of a stomach. I'm fine now please go away and never come back and let me disintegrate alone. I bite hard into my cheek, reminding myself that I already had breakfast and I'm fine.

"I already had breakfast, Graham." I said.

"What did you have?" He interjected.

"I woke up early, so I decided to make some eggs and rice cakes. And tea."

Graham heated a skillet, and he smiled. "But I haven't had breakfast."

He takes out a small potato (163) and starts to chop it up into small little portions, taking peppers (15) out and leftovers of corn (133.) The pan is searing with butter (72) as he mixes his ingredients together and fries them up in the pan, taking out the eggs (90/egg) and cracks four (360) into a bowl to whisk together. The sound of the sizzling potatoes and peppers and corn is o̶v̶e̶r̶w̶h̶e̶l̶m̶i̶n̶g̶ disgusting. He starts to put in pepper and season salt and lots of other gross things. My stomach turns and I punch it in a unnoticeable manner.

You don't need to eat that. It's disgusting, fattening; it'll go into your blood and harden in your vessels and kill you. Do you want that to happen? No, so shut up and keep at it. I'm in the kitchen, taking in the aroma of the cooking food. I go and get two english muffins (100) and jam (50) and start toasting. Then I stop. Nononononono you don't need this stopstopstop.

"Ivorie? What's wrong?" Graham pauses from turning the eggs.

I stand there, and I say nothing. I don't know what's going on. I don't know where I am. The clouds close in, wind sweeping my hair to the side. The snow starts falling. Oh no, not again. I stand there vacantly, a living ghost in a dying world. Snowflakes turn into bunches and it's no longer fluffy; it's like hard sleet detonating against my cold skin. Everything is blue, then grey, then nothing.

My heart is beating hard. B-bmp...b-bmp...b-bmp...and slow. It skips a beat, and I don't mean romantically. It's all spinning, and the toaster pops up. I'm wondering what I'm doing. I'm not supposed to be eating this. Graham takes the muffins out for me and starts to put raspberry preserves on them for me. My mouth is overflowing with words and saliva. I want to yell and scream and cry but then again I want to sob and hug him and tell him everything that's wrong.

I'm standing there, still, and Graham is poking me, but I don't notice it. I'm feeling it, but not noticing, if that makes any sense. My legs feel heavy, like I've been running and I haven't stopped; my arms are weighed down with sand. Maybe if I pulled the cord, a flame would erupt and I'd start flying. Or maybe if I just-

Wait no, that wouldn't work.

Graham is shaking me now, but I'm still gone. The blizzard gets worse, the wind beating hard against my ice cold skin. The temperature keeps dropping, to the point where I'm confused as to why Graham is still alive. He should be frozen solid, his eyes still open and blinking in a confused demeanor. My breath is fog, heavy and cold, soulless. I'm trying to dig my way out, but I can't. I'm stuck.

I'm lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. I'm eating english muffins smothered in jam (250) and not even worrying about the jam on my face. I'm selfishly stuffing my mouth and not even caring. I'm drinking tea (0) and telling Graham how I came in and just saw Paul there and the voice messages. I'm just a normal girl crying my eyes and heart-hurts out to a boy. Simple.

He's nodding and trying to understand, forking a potato and putting it in his mouth. Paul spent maybe a dime on that potato he cut up, a dollar for the corn, and 50 cents for the pepper. Wait, no, I bought that pepper to eat as a snack with hummus, or maybe in soup. I'm talkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalking

shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutup

Shut up.