First of, hello again. I've been wanting to continue my demons fanfic for a long time. But life got in the way. This story is quite close to my heart and I needed to take a step back for my own mental health. Hospital visits, family issues and work commitments made things alot more difficult than I intended. I'm unsure whether to just continue this or try and wrap things up and start a new fic that will continue following Carla's ED storyline. I'm going to do a bit of a time jump. Not much, about 6 months.
Please feel free to PM me or hit me up on Twitter AryaMorningstar
Or leave any suggestions in the reviews!
Stay safe. And for those of us who can. Stay inside
-‐-
Butter. The smooth, yellow surface of it shone under the light from the lamps above her, tempting her like gold, but even as one half of her was begging her to just push through, do what she had to do, and place the knife on the slice of bread in front of her so that she could bring her lunch with her to the sofa and continue looking over the accounts from underworld. Carla found herself frozen in place, both unable to continue with the motion and also unable to completely fail and let the knife fall into the sink with the butter still on it.
It was, as it always seemed to be the case, something small and insignificant that started it all. A minor hiccup that left her standing in front of the kitchen counter, clutching the knife so tightly that her knuckles turned white from applying so much pressure to the metal that Carla would not have been surprised if it had had to give way under her intense grip.
Rationally, she knew that this was nothing. It was a dollop of butter, this was not something that was going to magically transport her from that awful stage of not quite being recovered but also not sick enough for people to abstain talking about food in front of her.
But she still stood there. staring at the knife so intensely that it felt like the butter should have melted under her gaze a long time ago. In a way, that would have been a good thing. With how she was angling the knife, if the butter was to melt, it would drip from the tip of the knife and down onto the piece of bread, taking the decision out of her hands.
It was so simple. Just bringing the knife down a couple of centimetres, a few strokes, and then she would have completed the task. But no matter how many times Carla silently counted to three, fully intent on going through with it, she kept standing there, her gaze fixed on the butter.
The surface was like gold, and she knew that it was because she needed it, her body needed it. After all, her brain required fat, and although the word was still connected to a great deal of fear and disgust, during the numerous hours she had spent sitting with her therapist, she had slowly reached a point where she was able to agree with the fact.
Carla took a deep breath, and then remind herself that she was doing this for her future. For Nick, and for the life she promised him they would have together.
She knew that there was still part of her that was controlled by the sickness, trying to trick her into using just a little less butter than what her nutritionist had told her to use with the argument that it was just once, only a little less, what harm could the fact that she was perhaps not being as generous with the butter as she should have been bring to her, instead having decided that, just to spite the voice that was so quick to remind her of how she had lost a contract at underworld, that she should be working rather than eating, she would double the amount of butter she used that day.
Her mind screamed as she finished making her sandwich. Casting a glance at the surface of the bread that was supposed to act as the foundation of her lunch. Carla's perfectionistic streak was quick to point out every flaw. How she had failed to cut straight , one half of the sandwich being slightly biggerr than the other. How there were tiny specs on top of it. Doing her best not to think of what she was doing, not congratulating herself for her victory, but also not giving the voice any room to yell at her for not listening to it,
The worst part of it was that Carla was perfectly aware of how irrational it all was. Even as her heart raced and her entire body shook with fear at the thought of just sitting down to eat, she knew that in just a few hours, as long as she pushed through and finished eating, she would be able to sit down with Nick to pinpoint the exact thing that had made it all become too much and given the voice another chance to try to force its way back into her life. She knew all of that, was perfectly aware of how, even though the thought of giving in just this once sounded so tempting and so easy, it was really a slippery slope that would bring her nothing but grief and pain, and yet, she was still standing there, in her kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon that she has planned to spend by going to see Michelle after finishing the work she had bought home. She had promised she would finally meet up with Johnny. He had been back a few months now, deciding to apparently to stick around for Aiden. She kept making excuses not to see him. Unsure if it from fear or not wanting him to see her whilst she was unwell. A plan that now her eating disorder had promptly seen its chance to destroy by rearing its ugly head again and threatening to undo months of hard work
She tried her best to will the voice into nothingness. Carla pictured how brightly Nick had smiled at her last week when they had been able to celebrate 6 months of being in recovery. Carla for once being able to order from the menu without specifying that she didn't like anything on her plate to touch, or that she would actually prefer if they could also not drizzle dressing on top of her salad.
Having instead shared a slice of cake with Nick after finishing the main course. Nick had practically been beaming as Carla cut of a tiny piece of the dessert, lifting at to her mouth with the same kind of carefully rehearsed movements and look of apprehension and nervousness on her face as someone who was about to taste poison, before finally being able to overcome the voice that screamed at her to place the fork back down and declare that she was full and that Nick could have the rest
If nothing else, Carla supposed that she should see the fact that she knew deep down that part of her wanting to eat the sandwich as a sign that she was improving. Once, not that long ago, she would have hated admitting that she wanted to eat.
That a healthy way of thinking about what she ate had turned into an obsession that saw her getting up in the middle of the night to pace the streets, pushing her self at the gym as she imagined all of the things she wanted to eat but wasn't able to, before punishing herself by withholding the thing her body needed more than anything in the moment: food
Right now, eating was not about what she wanted to do, because even as she got better, Carla still had days where the only thing she wanted to do was to stay at home and refuse to eat rather than going out to face the world. No, right now, eating was something she did for her body to ensure that she would be around for a while longer. Later, when Carla knew she could trust herself more while in the presence of food, she might be able to grant herself the luxury of deciding when to eat, but for now, it was a matter of doing what she had to do and then trying her best not let the voice get to her afterwards.
The sound of her footsteps on the floorboards seemed incredibly loud as Carla brought the plate with her over to the sofa, but even then, the voice somehow managed to drown out the sound, making itself heard even as she tried to hum to herself. Carla had to admit that although she hated being sick and would love to be able to snap her fingers and make the voice disappear in an instant, there were times where she found herself worrying about what her future would look like once she no longer had the constant presence of the disorder to keep her company. Just what had her life been like before everything became a sick competition of how little she could eat, how much she could make the numbers on the scales drop or the endless lists of what she had to eat before she was able to go to bed at night? She didn't know, but as she sat down, almost bringing the sandwich to her mouth before changing her mind and asking Alexa to play the last playlist Nick had been listening to drown out the voice that screamed in frustration at her victory, she knew that life after recovery would be much better than the alternative.
No matter how anxiety-provoking the thought of losing the thing that had acted as a wall between herself and the world around her for so long, the friend that had comforted her the first time she had found herself struggling with the repercussions from the fire, assuring her that it was a friend that only wanted to help her, waiting for Carla to lower her defences before turning ugly and slowly but surely chipping away at her confidence and sanity.
But Carla knew that she was doing the right thing by continuing to eat despite the voice in her head telling her not to, she could feel how it had grown quieter. As small as the difference was, it was still a sign of improvement, and she was going let herself enjoy the small victories that accompanied making an active effort at recovery. For the first time in months. She felt like everything would be alright
Now that we're here
Now that we've come this far, just hold on
There is nothing to fear
For I am right beside you
For all my life, I am yours
