Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Struggling to my feet, I move to the sink. The girl staring back at me in the mirror’s reflection is unrecognizable. My hair is drenched, messy strands plastered to my face. My mascara has left black streaks down my cheeks, and my eyes are bloodshot. My lips are swollen, and bruised. My face is pale, except for my right cheek that’s turning an ugly shade of purple from Jenny’s slaps. Her rings must have caught my skin, because there are two rough cuts on my cheek.
I hate this…
— this feeling of worthlessness.
What is my value now?
***
The rich, savory taste of pizza fills my mouth and my taste buds are tingling. Soft, springy texture of bread, sweet and savory tomato and cottage cheese. Salty olives, sour pineapples and chewy, roasted meat.
Everything tastes like heaven, and the euphoric feeling of binge-eating courses through my body. Even though I know once I’m done, I’m going to be filled with disgust and the need to purge will overcome my senses.
But, right now, I just can’t stop stuffing my face with everything flavorful and gourmet.
My brain barely registers the lack of control, and my hands — shaky but desperate to reach for the next pizza slice. I can’t stop. I need this.
I can’t get my hands on this food, that food and all the food in front of me. It’s a buffet, yet not enough. A buffet that I can’t eat fast enough.
My brain doesn’t even recognize the calories I’m stuffing in my body. All my senses are filled with pure bliss — the delight that comes with indulging.
I need more.
It’s okay if I eat another slice…it’ll be the last piece I eat.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Half of my tray is cleared, and that’s when it starts hitting me. The euphoria and adrenaline that accompanies my eating is replaced with guilt and shame. Sadness and anger.
Yet I can’t stop.
This is wrong.
But I can’t stop.
I shove another spoonful of whip cream in my mouth, and I don’t stop until the container is empty.
I need to stop. This is bad.
Sniffling, I drop the empty whip cream container, and grab the Oreo package. I shove three Oreos in my mouth, chewing until my jaw hurts and my stomach cramps.
Why am I doing this?
Why can’t I fucking stop?
No more pizza, no more Nutella, no more whip cream, no more Oreos, no more bread and carbs and calories. No more—
A loud urgent knock interrupts my thoughts, and I drop the package onto my lap. “Riley?” my mother calls from outside the door. “What are you doing? We have to leave in five minutes.” Her voice is cold and stern.
Wait…what?
“What?” I ask, loud enough for her to hear me through the door. “Leave, where?”
She bangs on the door again. “Open this door right now!”
My eyes grow wide, and panic surges through me. Jumping off my bed, I drag everything down, hiding the tray and all the trash from my binge-eating under the bed.
I can’t let my mother see this.
She can never know.
No one can ever know.
This is my ugly secret.
I quickly rub a hand over my face, catching any leftover crumbs to make sure I am presentable enough for Nora Johnson.
When I open the door for her, she barely spares me a glance, pushing past me to stomp into my room. “Why are you not dressed yet?”
Confused, I can only stare at her. My stomach is bloated, and I feel a rumbling deep inside me. I’ve never had someone walk in on me while I was binge-eating. And I’ve also never had someone interrupt me before I can purge.
Blood roars between my ears, and I feel sick.
“Riley! Are you listening to me?”
I can barely focus on my mother’s irritated voice as she speaks to me. “What?”
“How can you forget about the Christmas gala?”
I blink. “I thought it’s tomorrow.”
Her eyes sharpen with a deadly glare. “No, you stupid girl. It’s tonight.”
It’s now that I notice my mother’s attire. She’s wearing a silver evening gown, with her favorite black fur wrap around her shoulders. She has a cloud-pearl embellished clutch in her hands and a heavy diamond necklace around her neck.
She looks posh and elegant — expensive, exactly like the Nora Johnson she’s known as. The perfect image of a rich, billionaire wife.
She stares at me exasperatedly, as if I’m a naughty, unruly child.
“The gala is tonight,” I say blankly. How did I forget such an important event? My father has been mentioning it every chance he gets. The charity gala is the event for him to gather more social connections. He needs all the support he can get since he’s running for Senator.
My mother sighs in frustration before she heads to my walk-in closet and starts rummaging through my various evening gowns.
She walks back out with a plum-colored strapless gown thrown over her right arm and a pair of black heels in her left hand.