Havoc
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Brittany and Rachel
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"I am at war with my body."
- Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns
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There is nothing more daunting than her reflection in the glass.
Brittany stands in front of the mirror in the girl's bathroom, pressing her fingers into the hollows of her cheeks. They're too soft. They shouldn't feel like that.
Her arms and legs are muscular from lifting girls in cheerleading. It's disgusting. Her butt's too round and her thighs are too big. Her stomach's huge – she's surprised no one wonders if she's pregnant. Her collarbones don't stick out enough and her hair's a mess.
It wasn't always like this - she knows that. She just can't remember when that time was. How did she ever make it through the day without wondering how she looked through someone else's eyes?
This has become normal. Emptiness has become normal.
Everyone should try it. It's fantastic. Really, the room spinning every time she stands up just makes her feel alive. She likes feeling empty. Really truly likes it. It means she's accomplishing something. It means she can contain herself.
Brittany knows everyone will like her when she's skinny. She just has to get there.
It's halfway through fifth period, right after lunch. Brittany only told her English teacher she had to go to the bathroom because it was too cold to concentrate and she didn't know what anyone was saying. It's been happening a lot lately. She's freezing, even though she knows it's not really all that cold outside. Maybe she's sick or something.
And then there's the sound of a toilet flushing along with what sounds like vomit falling into the bowl. She thought she was alone. Now she'll probably have to go back to class…
The stall door opens and out pops Rachel Berry, looking sick and tired as well as shocked. She also thought she was alone. She skipped class to come to the bathroom and purge since she didn't have any time at lunch, what with Quinn stalking her and everyone giving her concerned looks. They're really all too suspicious for their own good if you ask her.
She pales at the sight of the Cheerio standing there, staring. Brittany doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut. She'll probably go blabbing to Santana, and then Santana will want to torture her with it, of course. Then everyone will know. Well. She'll have to get Brittany to keep quiet about it. Like Quinn, though she isn't exactly doing a stellar job of that…
From where Brittany's standing, Rachel's eyes are bloodshot and watery. Her lips are bright red, cheeks pale, fingers trembling. Some of the knuckles on her right hand are bleeding or maybe just bloodstained. She looks like she wants to kill her or just fall asleep for a really long time. Brittany doesn't blame her. She understands that feeling.
"You look awful."
Rachel sniffs but doesn't say anything. It's just Brittany, right? She doesn't know anything. So why would she be concerned about someone throwing up? The Cheerios must do it all the time.
"Were you throwing up?"
"No."
Alarms go off in her head, like always, the panic leaping into place before she has a chance to rationalize anything. She's going to tell people.
"It's okay if you were. I mean, I want to be skinny too. I just can't puke."
That's a surprise. Brittany is already skinny. It's not fair. As if she wants more. As if she's that much better at losing weight…
"You… but you're a Cheerio. You're popular."
Brittany stares at her blankly. Why would those things matter? Rachel should understand that.
"That doesn't make me pretty or anything. Does throwing up make it easier? Like, can you eat whatever you want?"
That'd be so easy. To just eat and eat and then puke it all away… but she can't do that. She's tried before. It doesn't work. Not eating is… neater. Throwing up is gross anyway. That's why she stopped drinking Miss Sylvester's master cleanse. No one knows the difference.
"… sometimes," Rachel says weakly, moving to wash her hands and face. She stares at herself for a long time in the mirror, pinching underneath her eyes, cheeks, and throat.
"That'd be nice…"
She turns quickly, shutting off the water and glaring at her hands, "No. I wish I could starve."
She watches Rachel as she uses paper towels to wipe off her face and rinses her mouth out with water, "Well… we could hang out sometime, you know. My mom has these great diet books. I could help you with hiding food and stuff. I'm really good at it."
She tries to smile as the brunette stares at her, "Why would you want to spend time with me?"
"Because we're the same."
Rachel doesn't see how they can be the same at all. She's a complete failure, while judging by the look of her, Brittany has losing weight down to the simplest terms. Rachel's a loser, Brittany's popular. Rachel's fat, Brittany's skinny. They're different.
But Brittany sees all the ways they are the same. After all, they want the same thing, don't they? They both want to be skinny. They both want to feel better. That's got to be enough to bond in some way.
"Well…" Rachel sighs, whipping out a pen and paper as she scribbles down her phone number, "I suppose it'd be nice to have someone to talk to."
"Yeah. I'll call you, for sure," she smiles, giddy again. She likes having friends. It'll be good to have Rachel. They can talk about important things, like weight and food and stuff. Stuff she can't talk about with Santana. Not anymore, anyway.
Rachel leaves the bathroom, still sniffling, and heads into the hallway only to wander around until fifth period is over. Maybe she can go to the choir room. It's bound to be empty. Mr. Schue has Spanish every period except for glee…
Maybe it won't be so bad, talking to Brittany. She'll have someone who understands somewhat. As long as it doesn't backfire… but why would Brittany tell? At this point, she's obviously quite good at keeping secrets.
Brittany leaves the bathroom, walking slowly back to class. It's still sort of hard to concentrate because now she realizes she is hungry. Really hungry.
That hunger persists through the rest of the school day, all through Cheerios practice and her drive home when she makes a wrong turn and ends up driving twenty minutes out of her way before she realizes what she did and goes back.
She's so hungry. Hungry hungry hungry hungry-
It's almost as if she's actually digesting her stomach. Maybe she is.
She steps into her empty house and falls into the kitchen island. Standing up and shaking her head, she decides eating one thing wouldn't be so bad. Just one thing…
Except it isn't just "one thing." It can't be, and it never will be.
She finds a bag of marshmallows. Her nails dig into the plastic, ripping it open and inhaling the sugary scent wafting from the bag. She picks up one hesitantly, bringing it to her lips and chewing. It tastes good. Too good.
Somehow, they keep coming, one after the other. She can't chew fast enough.
Everything is spinning at hyper speed, so quick that she can't even taste it. She is like a robot: chew, swallow, chew, swallow until her insides are bulging at the seams and empty, flimsy plastic is clutched tight in her hands.
What did she just do? Oh, now she's in for it.
She's going to get fat now.
Maybe she can be like Rachel. It's so easy for her. Maybe…
She sprints to the bathroom, diving down onto her knees and inserting her fingers into her mouth, pressing as hard as she can on her throat but nothing comes up. Nothing ever comes up. She can't do it. Weak. Loser. Failure. She can't even finish what she started.
Brittany stands up, wiping the spit off her hands and glaring at her reflection.
This calls for something special. The place she hates the most.
She digs out the box of laxatives from underneath her bed. She skips dinner, locked in the bathroom, moaning to her parents that she has a stomach bug, she's fine, old enough to take care of herself. The rest of the night is spent in the dark, forehead pressed against the cool tile until the dirty work is done, trying to keep herself from screaming and waking up her parents.
She sincerely hopes this is the worst pain she will ever feel. It's worse than any cramps she's ever had. Probably worse than child labor. Worse than dying, even.
This is the price. She doesn't remember when it happened, but at some point she became willing to do anything for it.
Finally the pains subside at close to three in the morning. She crawls into bed, exhausted, dreading waking up in two hours for her morning workout.
Well, one thing's for certain. She's never eating marshmallows again. Never eating anything again.