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It was Brad’s birthday. His real birthday.
He stared at the computer screen, not really registering anything. He was too wired to work, so he tossed one of his stress balls up and down. Jo scribbled away at her notepad in the corner, occasionally stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He was. She wasn’t slick.
He was craving a mochachino, but he didn’t want to ask Jo for one, and he might puke if he tried to get one himself. And he fucking hated the taste of black coffee.
That morning, he’d eaten some Cheerios. Birthday treat, he supposed. Their sweetness lingered on his tongue like rot.
David walked in. “Sup Brad,” they said at the same time.
“I swear to god!” David exclaimed. “I will never understand how you do that.”
Brad didn’t respond, switching tabs to some dumb game so it looked like he was typing and actually working instead of just sitting in his office, too on edge to go home. He hated his birthday.
Jo stood up abruptly. Brad watched her. “Where’re you going, Jo?” he said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“I’m your boss and you’re on company time, so, yeah.”
“Please don’t start circling each other again,” groaned David from the other side of the room. Bad glanced at him before shrugging.
“Whatever. Get me a fucking mochachino,” he ordered, and Jo nodded before hurrying out.
Mochachino. Brad grit his teeth. He was such a fat fucking fatass pussy. Stupid fucking piece of shit. A mochachino. Jo was probably going to talk to Zach about killing his fucking pig and Brad was gonna drink a mochachino.
He glared at David across the room for no reason in particular. Maybe because of the whole debacle with Zach and his ‘birthday’ a few weeks ago, maybe because he was bored. David looked up after a few seconds.
“What?” he said nervously.
“Hm?” said Brad, playing dumb.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I wasn’t,” he lied, going with the gaslight gatekeep girlboss method. Just for funsies.
David shifted uncomfortably. “Are you plotting something?”
“Always,” said Brad. He smiled evilly. He loved to watch David squirm.
“Why are you smiling?” asked David, clearly getting anxious.
“I can’t just be happy?”
“Are you gonna kill me or something, Brad?”
Brad almost laughed at that. (Pussy, can’t even kill a pig.) “No, you’re useful enough to keep around.”
It was David’s turn to smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Useful in that you’re easy to manipulate,” he amended.
“Nope! I’m useful! You said that!”
“Well, I take it back. Looks like I will be killing you.”
David was about to reply when Jo kicked the door open, carrying her notepad under her arm and Brad’s stupid fucking delicious mochachino carefully in both hands.
“Here,” she said, putting the mochachino on his desk as meanly as she could without spilling it.
Brad nodded instead of thanking her aloud and slid the mochachino over to himself. He took a slow sip. Sweet sweet chocolate caffeinated goodness. He could feel it fall into his stomach, warm along his esophagus. He wanted to fucking die.
He drank the whole thing. And then two more in as many hours.
Three mochachinos was 1125 calories. He dug his nails into his palms. Fucking fatty. Fatass. Motu.
He excused himself to the bathroom.
He didn’t think anyone at MQ had noticed his trips to the mostly unused bathroom on the second floor. If they ever did, he’d just say he had some indigestion, his go-to excuse in college. But no one had noticed. He didn’t think they ever would. The only person who knew he went there was Jo, but he didn’t think she knew they type of shit he did in there. He was very good at walking normally.
The bathroom was empty, as always. He locked the first stall behind him, rolled up his sleeve, and crouched over the toilet in such a manner that none of his clothes or body touched the floor or toilet.
Deep breath. Two fingers in the back of his throat. He made sure not to bite his knuckles so he didn’t get Russell’s sign. The scars from college had mostly faded. He’d learned his lesson.
Brad gagged, but nothing came up. His stomach did a painful flip. He spat saliva into the toilet. He tried again, pressing hard on the back of his tongue. It was bumpy and slimy and his hand was covered in spit. His fingers tasted slightly salty. Disgusting.
It took a few tries, but he heaved, taking his hand out of his mouth just in time, stomach contracting, vomit forcing itself up and spilling out from inside of him with a wet splat, dark brown mochaccino mixed with yellow bile. Brad grimaced. Puke and spit hung from his mouth in strings, slowly dripping down. He wrapped his non-slobber coated hand around himself, dropping his head a little. He swallowed.
His stomach hurt and his throat hurt and he felt so much better. He stood up, flushing with his foot and holding his spitty hand away from himself until he reached the sink and washed it immediately. Then, he bent down to slurp up some water from the tap, swishing it around his mouth a spitting it out a few times. Vomit is terrible for your teeth. And Brad kinda needed those, so he was pretty careful about taking care of them. He even had baking soda in his desk. He’d rinse his mouth with baking soda water in a bit, and brush his teeth when he got home, as instructed by the several websites he’d found while frantically googling after his first time purging.
Beginning to end, this all took less than three minutes.
Brad splashed water on his face. He made eye contact with himself in the mirror. Fatty. Such a fucking fatty. No more fucking mochachinos. Piece of shit fatass pussy. So fucking stupid. Just like his dad said. Just like Zach said. Fucking Zack. Fuck him, and fuck David for that stupid birthday party stunt. Fuck, he hated his birthday. He was glad no one knew his real one.
He rubbed at the healing cuts on his arms through his sleeves. He wanted to cut up his stomach, but it was hard to do standing up, and there was no fucking way he was letting his ass touch that toilet seat. He may shove his fingers down the back of his throat on the regular, but he had standards.
He fixed his hair. It had gotten messed up a little when he’d puked.
Perfect.
(He’d stay at the office way later then he had to that day, until midnight struck and his birthday was over. He really didn’t want to go home.)