Author's Note: Part two of two. Prequel to a new story of mine which should be posted tomorrow.
Marissa tried not to smile or cry—which was better, these days?—as Summer followed her into the bathroom. She avoided Summer's worried glance in the mirrors above the sinks, heading into her usual stall.
It didn't even take a whole fist anymore.
Two fingers, and if she ate fast enough, one.
The space at the back of her throat was beginning to bleed most days. There was a raw patch there, protective lining burned off by the acidic quality of her purges.
Marissa hesitated, recalling what she'd eaten at lunch. First—a bright pink strawberry milkshake—for identification purposes. Four chicken fingers, half a spring roll, and two California rolls. She'd thought chocolate milk would soothe her throat after hurriedly forcing the food down, but it didn't.
It wouldn't hurt any less coming back up.
Summer had tried to talk to her once—a penned note with hearts and words of support and worry.
Summer didn't understand.
Marissa had to fight this battle. Alone. It was all hers and she wasn't sharing, ever.
This battle of sorts, a battle of wills, perhaps, was consuming Marissa. By the pound.
Her own private war, with herself. It made Marissa giggle when she thought about it, really, really thought about it. Nobody knew, except Summer—and Ellie of course. Ellie was now confined to the girls' bathroom on the second floor. Ellie's means of purging just sickened Marissa.
Of course it had dawned on Marissa that the whole thing was nauseating. Ha. It really was nauseating. But Marissa retained some sort of sick pleasure, seeing her meal at its worst. Not quite digested, but not whole, not sitting on a plate waiting for the greedy pig otherwise known as Marissa to stuff her face with it.
And nobody saw it, either. Of course, Marissa was a little less than jubilant when she started to gain a few pounds. But she was still below average for her height, so all was right in the way of secrets. And the constant feeling of being bloated wasn't all that great.
Marissa had taken her control and sold it, a combo deal along with her soul.
She kneeled on the floor, stomach's contents churning. Her leg touched something...wet...but time was precious and the seconds were ticking away.
One finger, two finger.
Up came the brownish liquid mixed with bits of rice and a whole mess of what tasted like caviar, crab, and that one taste Marissa associated with egg rolls.
One finger, two finger.
Up came the strawberry milkshake. Twice. Until Marissa realized that there was blood infused with the liquid ice cream.
Marissa's eyes watered and she stood up, pressed down on the handle that disposed of the remnants of her dirty little habit.
It wasn't dirty, not in Marissa's mind. She was cleansing her system. Not really, but it was funny how Marissa's mind kept insisting that what she was doing was normal, natural even.
She licked her lips, tasting the last of her strawberry milkshake, and unlocked the stall.
Summer was waiting by the second sink. Wordlessly Marissa washed her hands and rinsed her mouth out—bad breath was another minor downside. She checked her reflection in the mirror and smiled.
Marissa turned off the faucets and nodded at Summer.
She was finished, for now, and Summer wouldn't dare say anything. Summer never said anything, not to Marissa or anyone who could 'help' her.
It was almost like they were sharing the unfortunate habit.
Marissa followed Summer out of the bathroom, biting her neutralized lip and wondering when—if—she should speak.