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It was never supposed to go like this.
Azul stared at himself in the mirror, red faced and puffy, pulling his loose pajamas over his bloated stomach. He felt sick, disgusted. A way he hadn’t felt in so long.
Oh, did he regret it.
Just 30 minutes ago he stood in the kitchen of the Mostro Lounge.
He was always strict about his eating schedule. At first, it was a goal, a goal of 1800 calories a day. That turned into 1600, and before he knew it, it was a limit. Anymore than 1400 a day, and he’d find himself on the bathroom floor, kneeled over the porcelain of his toilet.
He missed a meal, which caused him to be irritated and lightheaded at work. He lashed out at Jade in his office, lectured Floyd in the kitchen, avoided customers in fear of snapping. Inelegant, emotional, vulnerable. A stupid way to be.
He stared at the fridge for 5 minutes. First, he grabbed an apple, around 90 calories. A light snack to satiate his cravings, something sweet to make him happy and give him some nutrients. An apple turned into a piece of grilled chicken, 250, which he dipped in sauce, 300. He wanted more, grabbing whatever seemed good and stuffing his face. 300 to 500. 500 to 800. Eventually, he lost count.
In those moments, he felt completely insatiable. His stomach burned, his throat closed, but he was alone for no one to see. He could be whoever he wanted, eat whatever he wanted.
3 minutes ago he rushed to his dorm room in horror.
The sight of him now, his face puffy from the sodium, lips dry from lack of water, stomach bloated and sick from the overconsumption.
And all of a sudden, he was that silly little octotwerp.
He stared down at his hand. Just below his middle and ring knuckles, there were two healing scabs, one deeper than the other. How he’d hate to reopen them, to taste the blood running down his mouth.
Though, he did this to himself. It was only fair.
He walked over to his closet and pulled the scale onto the tile, reluctantly taking off his pajamas and staring down at it.
It read 55.2 kilograms.
That was impossible. This morning he had weighed in at 52.8 kilograms. He couldn’t possibly have eaten 2.4 kilograms of food, could he?
Next thing he knew he was over the toilet. His throat stung, wind pipe gasping for any air he could get. His body begged for him to stop, fingers twitching in his mouth, arm involuntarily pulling away.
It just kept going, a never ending cycle. Undigested food poured out of him like a bottle of wine in an antique glass. He could feel the scabs reopening, blood dripping onto his tongue. That only made it worse, more pouring out. The combined tastes and textures helped, his fingers having to do less work.
When there was nothing left, he kept going. He couldn’t stop, not until he was sure. His body had definitely processed at least 20% of the calories he had consumed, so if he were going to take out of all the trash, he was going to get it all. Numbers ran through his head, the thought of seeing the scale making him numb. Horrified. He never wanted to see it again.
A tear fell onto the seat, and a sharp pain followed.
His pale forehead hit the seat. A nasty thing, really. His throat closed up, nothing left but air coming out of him.
Dry heaving was his least favorite part of it all. It felt like death, what it felt like to suffocate, or maybe even be waterboarded if that was possible. Either way, it was terrible.
Eventually it stopped, leaving Azul nothing but his sniffles and tears. He picked his head up, heavy, and looked into the toilet.
He couldn’t help but let a sick smile appear on his face.
He slowly got up from the floor, vision blurred and black, head about to topple over. The cold wall of his bathroom woke him from his trance as he held on for stability, reaching over to flush the toilet. The aftertaste and smell began to hit him, he’d have to shower off all the grime and sweat tomorrow morning.
The walk to his scale was euphoric, he felt so much less heavy despite the exhaustion. He knew his face was bloated, but that was a side effect he’d have to deal with.
When he stepped on, it read 52.4 kilograms. Not only did he lose the food weight, but he somehow managed to shed off .4 kilograms since the morning!
It wore off when he looked in the mirror.
His face was puffy and unbelievably red, and despite the numbers, he looked the same.
A pale, bloody hand ran over his stomach. It was a little inflamed, but it’d wear off. It was better than whatever it was before. For some reason, it looked the same.
Cold fingertips ran over his ribs. The ones that seemed to poke out under his skin, but were covered by fat and rolls in the mirror.
He ran a hand between his thighs. His ankles were together and he could easily run a hand through air, but in the mirror, inner thigh fat ran against each other unapologetically.
He turned to the side, arms looking big and soft. Fingers wrapped around his wrist, overlapping on each other. He ran it up his arm as far as he could until they broke.
Azul had no idea how he looked anymore, and that broke him.
When a yawn escaped his mouth, he decided his self loathing was over. Reluctantly he slipped on his pajamas and tightening the waist string, feeling a little more loose than before.
As soon as he fell under his sheets, he was out.
. . .
When he woke up the next morning, he felt disgusting.
He slipped in the shower and scrubbed violently, rubbing his skin raw, waiting for the grime and feeling of disgust to just go away.
He blow dried his hair and stared at his face. It looked a little better, less round, less elegant than usual. He prayed the Leech twins would let him off the hook today.
The rest of his routine was relatively normal. He stayed at 52.4 overnight, which was better than gaining weight. His skincare helped his face, Gua Sha reducing his irritation. Skin-tints helped with the redness.
He slipped on his uniform. At the beginning of the year, it was perfect. Hugging his chest perfectly, pulling his waist tight. Now, it was a little baggier. It sagged where it used to accentuate. He could tell, he knew he was getting thinner, but for some reason without his clothes he seemed to revert right back.
The doors to his dorm room opened with a silent creak, and closed with a louder slam.
And then it all went black.