Gah, right. Before you all read, please promise not to hunt me down and kill me...m'kay? Cos I didn't mean to make it this depressing – well. Maybe I did a bit, but still. Things will get better, I promise.
Vince should not be cold. Its winter, given, but the heating is on full blast and he's wearing a non-descript dressing gown, and is wrapped up in a duvet. But despite this, it's as though someone has left a window open, and even the bed sheets are icy. So, reluctantly, he slumps from out of bed and grips onto the wall – not that it'll do much good if he does collapse – but because the head rush of getting up too fast makes the room spin and the edges of his vision go all patchy.
Recovering slightly, he settles into the usual routine of getting together some clean clothes for a shower, seen as the house is empty for once. The size of the clothing is depressing, too large and imperfect. Vince feels a spike of disgust and self loathing for actually eating last night; some kind of creamy curry with nann breads loaded with oil and cream, probably full fat.
Just when it gets easy to resist, when he almost gets used to crippling hunger spasms, he blows it all. Days and days of resistance and only drinking weak tea or water had gone to waste just like that. Not that anyone notices.
Jasmine is far too wrapped up in a new bloke she's seeing, and the awful children are usually at a childminders or relatives anyway, but that's okay because if anyone did notice, he'd be packed off to hospital. Again. Vince doesn't even see what the problem is. He's coping. He's got a job. There's nothing wrong with watching what you eat, especially when you need to.
Eventually, he wanders through to the bathroom and undresses carefully, in front of the unforgiving full-length mirror, becoming morbidly transfixed with his own reflection. He's not got the gaunt stage yet – the ribs do not protrude garishly. Merely half evident bumps beneath death-pale skin. The hip bones however, in Vince's opinion, look only a little better. They now jut out at a decidedly odd angle, but not quite enough. The stomach is he worse. It isn't concave. Just flat. Fat.
Suddenly, he's back home, re-living a heated argument with Howard a few weeks ago, who threw an article about some anorexic celeb onto the breakfast table, whilst he was eating dry rice crispies from a sugar bowl.
"That's you." He mutters voice with a sharp edge to it. Vince looks up, nonplussed.
"No, that's Victoria Beckham." Who only does it for attention.
"Bloody hell, Vince! You're fucking wasting away!" Howards voice sounds harsh, possibly worried.
"I eat stuff!" Defensive, as always. It's not my fault I'm fat!
"You count how many pieces of cereal you have! You eat barely two meals a day, then leave half of it! You're so selfish; were all worried about you...we're all scared. I try to help and you just blank me!"
"Well I'm happy! I've barely lost weight!" Don't be mad at me, please don't be mad. I don't want to hurt anyone...it's not that bad.
"So happy you tried to top yourself last month?!"
Vince freezes. Struggles to breathe for a second or two and drops his gaze. He glares at Howard and tries desperately to conceal the hurt. Can't think of anything to say. Insults and quick comebacks stick in his throat, so instead, he storms off in what he hopes is a good imitation of anger and sulks in his room, wishing it would just end.
The spell is broken by a noise downstairs – post being delivered with and efficient click of metal, and he's back to the present, still gazing through the mirror, not wanting to look.
He's not anorexic. Can't be. People they feature in cheap, soul stealing magazines like Heat, have thin, lanky hair and bones which Vince can't even identify on himself and white hairs all over their arms and chapped, crumbling lips and bruises.
His spinal cord doesn't stand out from his back, nor do his collarbones dip halfway into his neck. Anorexics think they are fat, think being the operative word because he is fat, so he's not deluded, which means he's fine.
There's a niggling doubt though. He's never seen anyone else pause to consider how many calories are in toothpaste, or purposely break the scales because they lie and he can't be that heavy.
He finally stands, and goes to turn on the shower when something catches his eye – the unmistakable glint of a razor, still packaged and sealed in a sterile, plastic box.
This time, Vince doesn't even try to resist.
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