the parts of me I have lost

(trigger warning for bulimia/eating disorders/body dysmorphia)

I have dreams of cutting up my stomach.

Taking out all the organs and fat so that I am left flat, and empty without feeling anything inside of me. Without a stomach, I wouldn’t have to eat

anything. I stand in front of the mirrors at work, lifting my top up so that I am staring at my stomach. My mama told me that I’m going thinner by the day, but

why can I not see that? My waist seems to be wide, along with my flabby stomach.

I breathe.

I leave the bathroom, pretending that I haven’t had a vision of me chopping up my flesh. My colleague, Natalie smiles at me, and I smile back, a grin so

hard that it should’ve been a clear sign that I’m insane. But she looks away. She goes back to putting the books back on the shelf, and I go to the reception.

Adam comes to check out some books. I think they’re about German history or whatever. He gives me a sweet grin, sugar dancing on his tongue.

“Hey. Just these books please.” I give him a smile back, taking the books so that I can scan them.

“Library card, please.” I say. He leans on the counter, his brown hair flopping down

with him.

He passes it over to me, “I can never forget it.”

“It should be second nature for you to pass it over then.” I tease, sliding his library card through the card machine.

“Maybe I wanted to hear you speak.”

I try to hide my smile as he says this, stamping the page on the front of the book with today’s date.

“It’s due a month from now. If you want to renew it, you can either come in or do it online. But you knew that.” I do the same with the other book.

“I know.” I think the smile on his face is permanent as his dimples start peeking through.

“Okay, that’s all done for you. Do you need anything else?” The questions are clockwork, but it isn’t a surprise. I expect him to give me a nod and turn to leave with a flirty comment. Adam comes to the library every week to either study or take some books out. I’ve gotten used to his presence. He’s slowly becoming one of the good things about this job. But right now, he stays standing there.

“Yes, I do.”

I look at him, “yes?”

“A date. With you. Let me take you out.”

***

Mama told me I need to eat dinner. I told her it’s something she wants me to do. I don’t need to.

There’s this game that I play with myself. How long can I go without eating something?

The longest time that I’ve gone without consuming anything with substance was four days. I was strictly on a diet of water and ice cubes that have been filled with berries. That way I’m getting some of my five a day.

It was great for a while, the little game becoming a competition with me and my belly. Whenever I win, I reward myself by buying a new fruit to put in the fruit bowl. I wonder if I can put it into the ice cubes, but a lot of the time they sit there slowly disintegrating.

On the fourth day, I accidentally ate a Ritz cracker. I said fuck it and ate the whole pack. Mama asked me where the packet was, so I had to tell her it was out of date.

She doesn’t need to know it’s all down the loo now.

***

Adam is 20 minutes late for our date. He told me he will make it, reminding me to wear my best dress and look beautiful.

The red-haired waitress comes by my table again, asking if I’m going to order again.

“Y’sure he’s coming bab?” She looks at me with pity, green eyes boring into mine, holding the iPad close to her chest. I think she’s trying to be kind, but I’m convinced that she’s mocking me.

I nod. “He’s coming.”

I’ve already stared at the menu enough times to memorise the breakfast menu, lunch, and the different drinks that they have, including all the ingredients that go into it. The white tables are new too, they have no scratches and knife indentations the same way that an old table would.

The place itself is new. It’s why I suggested it out of them all. The interior itself is cosy. It’s one of those Instagram, aesthetic places that had dimmed lights on top of those tables. Adam sent a bunch of places to choose from, but all of them were a hard no from me. This one seemed like the best option.

The 20 minutes turn into 30 minutes. 40 minutes. 50. An hour. Two.

I stay here waiting for him, haunting the booth for what feels like an eternity.

I send what seems like my hundredth text.

Adam

hey! i’m waiting at the café

let me know when you’re on your way

is there a lot of traffic? i can still hold the table

are you coming?

if you’re not going to turn up at least tell me

shall we reschedule? i don’t mind

you’re not coming, are you?

please tell me what’s happening

did i do something?

read at 22:14

He’s not coming.

I curl up, trying my hardest not to let the tears come out. But I can’t help it. The saltiness drips one by one, one falling into my mouth, and I savour it. I didn’t eat for two days so I could look beautiful. He told me to look beautiful.

From my peripheral vision, the waitress is cleaning tables and sees me in all my miserable glory. She walks towards me.

“You okay, love?” She says.

I shake my head, “he’s not coming.”

“Lemme take your order anyway.” She coos, and I nod.

In front of me is an aubergine and cumin grilled sourdough sandwich, a bowl of sun-dried tomato pesto pasta, a chicken and watermelon salad, fries with garlic aioli, granola with yoghurt, and banana bread.

If I’m going to wallow in pity, I may as well turn it into a party for one.

I start with the pasta, scoffing down the pesto tagliatelle. I don’t even acknowledge the flavours that tingle on my tongue. All I want is for it to go down, down, down.

The waitress stands on the side, placing my glass of iced vanilla oat latte and Coke Zero onto the table. She sits down without any invitation from me, but I don’t mind. It doesn’t even matter anymore that someone is watching my misery.

She gives me a smile. “Men. Women. They aren’t worth it. No one is worth your tears.”

“He told me to look pretty.” I say after I swallow a bite.

“And y’look gorgeous. He’s a prick for not turning up.”

“I probably don’t look gorgeous anymore.” I’m nearly done with the pasta. I think the sandwich is next.

“You are beautiful, bab. No man can take that away. Whether that be from your outer or inner beauty. I promise ya, men don’t mean shit.”

“Thanks.” I say to her, my eyes glassy from the tear residue. Or maybe it’s the eye gunk. But she still looks at me like I am a mirror ball. But I am not dazzling. Instead, I am trying to be as mindless as possible so that I can eat all of this in one sitting. I pick up the sandwich, dip it in the aioli and take a bite.

***

The toilet is my best friend.

I’m perched over it again, waiting for the next wave of food to projectile out of me. I wish to feel empty, like a well that doesn’t hold any water. So that the next thing I eat bounces around at the pit of my stomach.

My fingers are touching the back of my throat, the inside of my cheeks warming up with every heave. I can feel the chunks of chicken dancing in my throat. The salty tears roll down and drop onto my hand, mixing in with the saliva.

One of my hands grip the edge of the toilet seat, whilst the other one guides the vomit down the toilet. I’m retching, making sure it all comes out. It splats onto the side, and I lean against the bowl, breathless.

I want to be an angel. They’re made out of light. I wish to be that weightless.

By Farzana Ali