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The nausea hit him like a wrecking ball. He’d been fine, fucking fine, when he’d arrived at his sisters. He’d been fine when they’d been in the kitchen together, cutting up green apple into large slices and placing them in a big flowery ceramic bowl that Dee must have stolen from mom. He was fine putting his chin on her shoulder and staring at the anorectic models on the homepage of some trashy online clothing store Dee wasted hours blankly scrolling through but never buying from, pointing his index finger at items he thought would suit her. He didn’t hate her when they were alone. He was even fine when she opened up a family size bag of microwaved sweet n salty popcorn that they ate together watching America’s Next Top Model. He’d been fine all evening. It was the text from Mac asking if Dennis wanted him to leave out the leftover spaghetti he’s made for Dennis to eat when he got back.
Dennis ignored the text, but the damage had been done and he began to feel so impossibly sick that even the taste of toothpaste couldn’t kill it off.
No, I don’t want your disgusting artificial garbage, asshole.
He did though. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial in 2 days, besides a black coffee yesterday morning and a piece of white toast with almond butter. Today, a glass of orange juice and nothing more than the apple and popcorn. He couldn’t shift his thoughts from the hot pan of hardening gooey pasta sitting on the cutting board back at his apartment.
Empty calories. Fatty slop. Bloat. You don’t need it. Get your shit together.
He’d called it a night early, avoiding the mirror as he kicked off his loose jeans, taking a xanax from his sister’s bedside table that he swallowed dry and collapsing onto the bed. Pulling her flimsy pink bed sheets up to his neck and squeezing his eyes shut, he turned onto his side, wrapping his arms around his aching gut and bringing his knees to his abdomen, pleading for it to stop, anything, anything to make it stop; anything but eating.
Oh, amazing! Sure, go ahead, not like I was trying to sleep or anything!
Suddenly all the light in the entirety of Philadelphia had decided to flood his sister’s tiny bedroom. He had nearly reached unconsciousness, lashes fluttering as uneasy tiredness finally embraced his weakened frame, when Dee, unaware of and indifferent to her brother’s discomfort, shocked him wide awake again by flipping the switch of her main light.
You’re fucking kidding me.
“You bitch, I was trying to sleep.”
”It’s pitch dark in here, asshole, I gotta get my makeup wipes.”
”It’s pitch dark because that’s usually the preferred condition for sleeping.”
With his elbows extended either side of his head, he hid his face with his hands, trying to block out any excess light leaking through the gaps of his fingers by closing his eyes once more, but the room started to rock. Dee padded around the room, moving belongings and honestly just being way too fucking loud.
I hope she fucking trips, Goddamn fucking flat feet, flapping and slapping everywhere, shut up, shut up, shUTTUP.
Inducing a long intolerant moan from her twin as she turned her tap on at its fullest.
She wants me to go deaf.
He grit his teeth in frustration at not having enough hands to shield his eyes and protect his ears at the same time. He hated her all over again. He flipped his body over and, now lying face down, yanked the pillow from under him and held it tight over his head.
Oh, yeah, great - now your electric toothbrush. Exactly what I needed. Dumb bitch.
”Dee, I’m serious, please turn the light out, I feel like I could throw up,” Dennis groaned against the mattress.
”I hear ya, Den, I was chucking up all morning.”
Her voice was muffled under the vibrating plastic against her molars and spearmint foam splatting hard against the rim of the sink.
Not helpful, you stupid bitch.
“Not like that, for Christ Sake, I mean I actually feel sick, can you please shut up, my head is spinning.”
After what felt like literal eternity, the buzzing stopped, and once the sound of her piss obnoxiously hitting the side of the toilet had faded, he heard her switch the bathroom light off and pad back into the room. He swallowed. Every time he thought he felt better, another wave of dizziness collided with the agony of his churning stomach and he felt worse. He turned back onto his side, praying that he’d find a position pleasant enough to sooth his sore abdomen and incapable of shifting the thought of Mac’s pasta.
Dee turned the light out and clambered into the bed, pushing her hand hard against the middle of Dennis’ back and shoving him further away.
“Jesus, Dennis, can you move? You’re hogging the entire duvet and you’re right in my space, move.” She had meant this literally; he had been lying in the centre of the mattress, but he was too tired to be rational. To him, she’d called him fat again.
Clutching at his sides and bringing his legs up again to his chest once more, making himself as small as possible, he crossed his arms over his midriff and dug his nails deep into his ribs, hands shaking under the pain of puncturing his skin. Dee fell asleep within minutes, snoring lightly against her pillow. She sounded lovely. He tried to let the sound of his sister’s breathing take him with her, but his mouth felt clammy and nothing was breaking the nausea.
He lay on his back a few moments longer before hauling himself up and standing in front of the mirror. He took his shirt off - he’d been burning up under the bedsheets and this new heat wasn’t helping his revulsion. He tilted his head to the side slightly; all was dark besides the light blue glow from a streetlamp outside that bled through the slit in Dee’s curtains. Dennis put a hand on his belly - finally flat, but still, not flat enough - and stared blankly at his frail reflection. He was so fucking hungry.
He quietly tiptoed into the kitchen, and clumsily got to his knees besides the fridge, the off-white tiles cold on his bare ass. He had to be quiet, he couldn’t wake her up, she can’t see this. The hairs on his naked thigh against the floor stood up as he exhaled, so weak that he has to use both hands to pry open the freezer door. Met with a rush of cool air, he didn’t move; instead staying still for a moment, before moving to sit on his heels and running a tender hand through his messy hair, pushing back the disobedient curls falling out of place in his eyes as he looks down at his bruised legs.
Propping himself up and resting his right forearm on the ledge of the freezer door, he used his free hand to reach in and retrieve a handful of loose broken ice from the top shelf. He looked at the contents of his palm, fingers already wet as the ice has already started to melt under the natural warmth of his skin.
Baring his canines, he pushed the frozen mess against his lips and began teething, grating his fangs against it and letting it scrape onto his tongue, then swallowing once his mouth was full. He grabbed another fistful, feeling his fingers grow numb, and opened wide before shoving more sharp glass-like shards of ice into his mouth, allowing it to fill his cheeks. He crunched hard, wincing at the pain in his teeth and letting water trickle from the corners of his mouth as he tries to fight every urge to get up and go home and eat the pasta.
He threw his head back, blinking repeatedly in a desperate attempt to bat away the soft tears starting to form over his irises for even considering eating anything at all. “Keep it cool, Dennis, cool as ice,” he muttered to himself, his own temperature getting lower from his close proximity to the freezer, before ripping frantically at the excess slabs of ice breaking down from the freezer walls as he wastes money letting the fridge thaw.
With every manic compulsion that tornadoed through his mind, he fought back hunger, refusing to let any thoughts in his brain fully form because all engaging with his own masochistic mental terrorism would do is force him to confront his pathetic situation. Thirty years old, naked, eating ice from his sister’s freezer.