Chapter Text
April 26th, 2019, 1:12AM
"Happy one-week anniversary," I whisper to myself.
I rub my hand across my jaw, trying to relieve the itchiness of my scratchy stubble. I am I feel disgusting. The only thing stronger than my B.O. is the food beginning to decompose into cesspools of bacteria and fungi.
It's not actually that bad. Not yet. The cucumbers are turning soft, and the chicken is taking on a dead, gray tinge, but they're still perfectly edible. But when I imagine preparing them, I imagine the microscopic growth that will eventually render them unsuitable for consumption. The line between perfectly fine, and vomit-inducing is nearly nonexistent to me.
And there's so much of it. Why is there so much food in my fridge at all? Did I sense I would have to prepare for financial doom, and stock up? Maybe I went shopping while hungry again, and didn't to stick to the list. Probably. When I shop by myself, I never stick to list. That's why I always save groceries for Maya and Pearls. The idea of them seeing my lack of self-restraint is motivation enough for me not to grab extra goodies. I guess I haven't had anyone to keep it together for in a while.
If they were around, I'd know what to do with all this food. They would throw out suggestions and demands, leaving me no wiggle room for resource usage. I would have to meticulously plan how to use the food so that every item would be consumed in accordance with their wishes. There's not a lot of opportunity to throw together a random dish for myself, not unless I wanted to mess with the food schedule. A perfect state for cohabitation.
Until they stopped living with me.
Now my apartment is filled with the makings of future gourmet meals, and artery-clogging junk.
Last week, just after the trial, I went to the grocery store. I had started all the way at the left; gotta get my daily servings of fruits and veggies. I cross food after food off my list. Soon there are only four items left. Easy. Grab rice, bouillon cubes, salt, and hot sauce. One, two, three, four more things and you're out.
So, how had I ended up next to the bakery, picking out a half-dozen box of donuts, and then a second half-dozen box because the pastries were so tantalizing. Fuck, I remember that chocolate cake we had for Pearls' ninth birthday. Just a slice, because I have a dozen sweets already. That's not too bad; I just eat a bit a day, because treating yourself is supposed to be healthy. It's easier to follow that philosophy when you have a friend to enjoy it with. I missed Pearls. I missed Maya. And I missed Miles. And I needed something to forget the beginning of the end of my life. Something akin to my last meal.
I wished that I could put away the sweets, but I already touched them with my greedy, grubby hands. Back to the list. Focus, Phoenix, focus. I know exactly where the rest of my list is, go to aisle three first.
And then I snaked right over to aisle two. Tons of canned food. Kitchen tools. Baking supplies...condensed milk. That'd be delicious with the croissant shit, keep walking, you shouldn't be here. I impulsively swipe a couple cans of Chef Boyardee, because I haven't had it since I was a kid, and I wanted to remember what it tasted like.
Aisle three. Grab the salt, grab the bouillon cubes, get out. I successfully make it out without any casualties, but I faintly think how that's because the aisle is filled with flour and other non-immediately consumable items. My hands are damp, and they have thoroughly crumpled up the list. I shove it in my pockets.
Then the international aisle, just next to aisle three. I pick up a bag of long-grain rice, then check out the hot sauces just a couple yards down. I select a mild, hot, and blazing bottle. Two blazing bottles; I need one ready to send bombs aflame on those fucking pastries. If it's too hot, I won't be able to eat it. Hopefully.
If I had just went to the checkout aisle, I think I would have been fine. But then I had to remember that I ran out of cereal. Just a quick trip to aisle five. Just a box of Cheerios, and then I'll leave. And then Cheerios turned into Frosted Flakes, and this random Pop-Tarts cereal, and then Honey Bun cereal. And then I travel to the opposite side of the store to grab whole milk, because cereal tastes better when all the milk fat can coat your tongue. I lost it when I was forced to pass the frozen aisle. Because I have been craving Ben & Jerry's for months. And onion rings. And when was the last time I had some chips?
I'm almost shaking when I roll up into the checkout aisle. I always plan my lists so that I don't go over the item limit for self-checkout. Fucked that up, over to the traditional check-out. My eyes stay glued to the rickety conveyer belt as it feeds the cashier item after item. I wonder if they're thinking "Oh, they must be feeding their family," or "Isn't that the lawyer who forged evidence," or "What a fucking pig." I never looked up to find out.
And then I got home. A whirlwind of almost frenzied eating took place. I thought about how horrifying this would look to Edgeworth, or to Maya. I don't even want to think about the questions Pearls would ask. Grabbing a donut to eat, I rip open the bag of onion rings, and chuck it on a sheet pan to bake without waiting for the oven to preheat.
I arrange my eating in an order such that I maximize the different kinds of food I can have at one time. I don't understand how I can be so methodical and yet so out of control. I think I'm going to explode. I miss Maya. My jaw hurts. I hate living alone. Everything is so sweet and greasy and melt-in-your-mouth and crunchy. It tastes like sand.
Shit...what time is it. I check my phone.
1:27AM
Friday, April 26
Right, I came to the fridge because I was hungry. I hate when I got lost in my thoughts like that. That was only a few hours are State v. Gramarye...so long ago.
Looking into my fridge, all I can think about is the slick mold probably beginning its descent into my food, nearing enough growth to create an opaque coat.
I can't eat all of this. I don't care about food planning, or extending food life through the freezer; I can't eat all of this. It sits here day by day, taunting me.
"We're just food, Phoenix. Cook us. Cook us all at once, and dole out cute lunch sized portions in the Tupperware, just like you used to do when Maya was with you. But she's not here, is she? Oh, what about those sweet, sweet two days with Edgeworth? Gone again? Guess you'll have to eat for two, just to make the time by yourself bearable. Ha! As if you'd stop at two meals. Make that eight. Twelve. The whole pot. Whatever it takes to stop hearing yourself, to stop from feeling your feelings. But you can't stop yourself. You'll never be able to stop!"
I would rather let my fridge turn into a toxic wasteland than open it one more time, only to see food practically tumbling off the shelves and spilling out the drawers.
I grab a trash bag, and start tossing food into it, trying to ignore the shame that quickly overtakes me for this severe wastage. It shouldn't matter. The food is the same in the trash as it is in me; nobody would ever know the difference. There's no one here but me. It doesn't matter.
Now the fridge is truly stripped down to its bare essentials. All the items could now fit on a single shelf.
And after all that, I reach past the rice, ignore the eggs, and take one chilled bottle of grape juice to nurse before bed. It's easier this way.