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Drops of Acid



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Sat Jan 07, 2012 4:38 am
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confetti says...



Drops of Acid


It isn’t a problem. I can stop anytime I want. This habit doesn’t have a cent’s worth of control over me. I’m the driver of this so-called addiction and I’ve got my sights set on the horizon. It’s hard to believe, but I’m going places. Down long highways and through bustling cities, keeping my eyes on the prize. I’ve lost three pounds this week and I’m not stopping for anything. Full speed ahead, there’s no going back now.

They say success tastes sweet, but I disagree. In my experience, success is anything but sweet. It’s that biting feeling at the back of your throat, the drops of acid that run down your tongue and across your wearing teeth - the bitter taste that reminds you of sacrifice. I know, it doesn’t sound like much of an accomplishment, but I can see it in the mirror. In the way that my skin holds close to the bones and the way that my clothes clutch to my body, I can see success. It might not taste good, but it sure as hell looks good.

There’s a disapproving glint in Travis’s eyes when I jump into the front seat of his truck and pull the seatbelt over my chest. I do my best to ignore his hard gaze, act like there’s nothing up, but there’s usually no sidestepping his question. The truck is quiet and, for a moment, a surge of hope tells me I’m in the clear.

The silence is stiff and uncomfortable. I figure I should break it. “So, where are we-”

“Olivia, have you eaten anything today?” He cuts me off and wraps his thumb and forefinger around my wrist, as if to prove some sort of point. Frowning, I try to pull from his grasp, but I’m too weak. He never understands, and I have my doubts that he ever will.

“Of course I have. I had a bagel this morning.” And then I threw it up, but he doesn’t need to know that detail. It isn’t really lying. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Travis nods and brings his hand to the gearshift, gives the gas pedal a good go, and speeds down the street. Satisfied, I lean my head against the headrest and watch the houses disappear one by one behind us. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Thought we’d get a bite to eat.”

Eat. Go figure. We’ve been doing that too often lately. “I’m not really hungry, I had a filling breakfast.”

Travis flashes his eyes from the road to meet mine quickly - a warning that I’ve seen one too many times. With a cold look like that, I know to keep quiet. Like it or not, I’ll be eating today. Not a problem, though. Maybe if Travis sees me eating, he’ll get off my back. After all, I can always rid myself of the problem later, if you catch my drift.

It’s a beautiful restaurant, with a classic kind of feel that you can only get in the comfort of your own dining room. I particularly like how the picture frames on the wall are crooked; it reminds me of my living room. My mom never could hang a picture straight. Our waitress brings us to a two-seater table at the back of the room and asks if she can get us anything to drink. Travis orders a coke and I order water, which earns me another glare. I raise an eyebrow. There’s nothing abnormal about getting water.

After the waitress leaves, Travis leans in close and wraps my hands in his. The warmth radiating from his fingers does wonders to my skin.

“I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about eating,” he says quietly while his thumb rubs gentle circles on my palm. He bites his lip like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. I feel like I could float in this silence forever.

“It’s okay,” is all I can manage.

“You’re just so thin, I feel like I’m going to break you.”

A smile plays at the corner of my lips. The way he cares starts butterflies in my stomach, but I wish he’d do it less. I wish I could show him that I’ve got everything under control, that I’ve got the wheel in my hands and I’m not giving it up anytime soon. “You won’t break me.”

Travis’s eyes meet mine and light up playfully. “Just have a big lunch, okay? It would make me feel a lot better.”

Well, if he insists. A burger might calm the churning in my stomach, even if it were only for a moment. And so, when the waitress comes back with our drinks, I order the biggest burger they have and watch the smile start at the corner of Travis’s lips. He orders the same and the waitress turns to leave.

Travis seems satisfied along with my groaning stomach. I feel bad that I’ll be disappointing them both, but not bad enough. Twenty minutes later, when the waitress brings us our food, I tentatively take a bite. There’s a strange burning sensation in my throat as the food slips down, almost as if I’m purging, but less bitter and more painful. I shudder and glance up from my meal, hoping that Travis doesn’t notice my response. He doesn’t seem to, so I quickly scarf down the rest of the burger and chase it with the remainder of my water.

“Hungry?” Travis asks, laughing quietly.

Hungry doesn’t even begin to describe it. “I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

Unfortunately, the washroom is dirty and I’d rather not do it here, but here is better than nowhere at all. I pick the cleanest, or so I’d like to think, stall that I can find and shut the door behind me. Then, like so many times before, I drop to my knees and lean over the leering toilet bowl. I’m in control, I remind myself. With closed eyes, I stick my finger as far down my throat as I can manage and hurl acid. The feeling is familiar, but not welcome. No matter how many times I do it, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the awful aftertaste. Panting and slightly dizzy, I pull myself up from the floor. After wiping my mouth clean with some toilet paper, I flush the toilet, keeping my gaze away. I never look.

I walk out of the stall, wobbling slightly as I do so, and make my way to the sink to wash my hands. There’s a strange dizzy feeling in my head that I’ve never felt before. I’m sure it will go away in a moment. The woman beside me is eyeing me with hard, judgmental eyes. I do my best to ignore her as I run my hands under the cool flow of the water.

“I used to have an eating disorder, too,” she says quietly.

“I don’t have a disorder,” I say sharply. Who does this woman think she is?

She ignores me. “What you have to realize is, it isn’t worth it.”

I eye her carefully. She’s not exactly thin, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her fat either. Curvy, let’s put it at that. She has her dark hair pulled into a ponytail that hangs just below her shoulders. Had she not said anything, I wouldn’t have suspected that she had a disorder of any kind. That is, until I notice her teeth. They’re stained yellow and worn away – completely cringe-worthy.

“I’ve got it under control,” I say in a tight voice.

She frowns. “That’s what I used to say, too.”

I don’t need this. Without so much as a glance her way, I leave the bathroom and make my way back to Travis.

He glances up from his spot at the table and smiles at me. “Hey.”

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The room’s spinning slightly, as if I’ve just gotten off an amusement park ride and white dots cloud my sight. Then, I faint.

*


The room I’m in is bright – annoyingly so. I groan and cover my eyes.

“Olivia?” The voice sounds far away, as if I’m dreaming. Maybe I am. I turn my head towards the voice and open my eyes. Everything is fuzzy around the edges. I must be dreaming.

“Where am I?” I ask. My voice is hoarse and crackly, how attractive.

“The hospital.” Oh, it’s Travis. If I squint an eye and tilt my head a bit, I can make out his face. His eyebrows are knit together in a familiar way, a disappointed way.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asks, reaching out to grab my hand in his.

I grimace as it comes back to me. “Refresh my memory.”

“You fainted at the restaurant, do you remember that? You wouldn’t wake up...” his voice trails off and his eyes drop to the floor. “A woman came out of the bathroom, said she’d heard you… well, I guess you know.”

I wince. So, he knows then. When he brings his gaze back to me, his eyelashes are wet with tears. It takes me back for a moment; I’ve never seen him cry before.

“I-I…” I struggle to say something, anything that would make this better, but words refuse to form on my lips. Nothing I have to say is going to fix this mess. It looks like I’ve lost control of the wheel. Now there’s nothing to do but crash. The habit finally got the best of me.

We sit in silence for a while; I don’t think either of us can find the right words. Travis has let go of my hand, maybe out of disgust, maybe out of disappointment. Either way, I definitely fucked up.

“Where’s my mom?” I finally ask. She must be around here somewhere.

“She just went down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.”

“Have I been here for long?”

“Not too long, no. Just a few hours.”

I nod and shut my eyes; the light really is too damn bright. “I’m sorry.” I say it quietly because it feels like quiet is all that I can manage right now.

“Why?”

“Because I really messed up- ”

Travis cuts me off. “No, I mean why did you do it? Christ. I knew there was something up, but I never thought it was that.”

I’m glad I have my eyes closed. I don’t think I’d be able to handle the expression on his face. I can already see it all too well in my head. “I had it all under control, I don’t know what happened.”

“Under control?” he spits. “The fuck you did. You fainted, Olivia! Do you know how much you scared me?”

Great, now I’m crying. “I just wanted to be enough.”

The words hit me as much as they hit him. I’ve never spoken them before, never had the courage to say them out loud. I feel so incredibly lame. Travis doesn’t say anything for a moment and the room becomes so silent that I can hear my pulse. Finally, after what seems like hours, Travis speaks. “You’re more than enough.”

I wish I could believe him. I want to believe him. But I can’t. Travis must have noticed the doubt in my eyes, because he pulls my hand to his lips and kisses the palm. “I mean it.”

“Maybe I’ll believe that one day.”

Spoiler! :
Thank for reading (assuming that you did). This was originally for a contest in which I was given a title and had to come up with a story from it. So this is what I got. I'm not completely sold on the ending of this, I sort of went into the story not knowing how it was going to end. So, if you have some advice on it, I'd love to hear it. Thanks a bunch.
Last edited by confetti on Tue Jan 10, 2012 8:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
"So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads."
— Dr. Seuss
  





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Tue Jan 10, 2012 1:33 am
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mistielovesyou says...



This is really good. Wow, I'm surprised. I don't know why you haven't gotten a ton of comments. This is fantastic.

The only thing I would recommend was that sometimes you ended things too quickly:

“I don’t have a disorder,” I say sharply. Who does this woman think she is?
She frowns. “That’s what I used to say, too.”

I don’t need this. Without so much as a glance her way, I leave the bathroom and make my way back to Travis.


This part is a little short. You have great potential for a nice scene here, but you don't take advantage. I'm not saying you should have a huge paragraph, but a few extra lines about what she thinks about this exchange would be good.

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Then, I faint.


Again: it's good that you don't make it overdramatic and movie-like, but a longer description would be better.

I like how real this story is. It isn't prettied up too much. You state things clearly: you don't dress them up to be "poetic". The main character seemed real to me, and I could actually relate to her on a thing or two (not the bulimia though, thank God) and that's fantastic. Good job and good luck.
mistura is awesome and she loves you
  





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Tue Jan 10, 2012 7:09 pm
sargsauce says...



The story is well-written, that is undeniable. The voice is clear and accurate and you present it sensitively. And I liked the second paragraph; it was stylish and sassy and confident.

However, it has a preachy/infomercial feeling that you just can't escape because of the admittedly contrived setup:
1) the main conflict is the disorder. Not something else, not a relationship issue or psychological issue or societal issue. I have a disorder and these people feel sorry for me and then I was caught and I admitted and I repented a little ("The habit finally got the best of me.")
2) we step into the situation at just the right time. Boyfriend is worried. She purges. She is caught. They both feel sad. There you go, audience. A nice, neat little package.
3) we get the older, wiser (scared straight) perspective from the woman who just happens to be in the bathroom and just happens to used to have an eating disorder. Supposedly 2% or 3% of women suffer from bulimia, so what were the chances that of 100 women who could've entered the restroom at that particular time of day, it was two of those two or three (and none others)?

Audiences can often react negatively once they sense a preachy mood. We don't like being told what to think through allegory. So we ultimately come away from it with a bitter taste in our mouths (almost inappropriate pun intended).

So how does one avoid preachiness? Maybe the disorder isn't the focal point of the story, but an influence of variable strength. Maybe she doesn't get caught. Maybe cut out the other woman. Maybe it's told from a different point of view.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

You can't drop a hint of doubt on the side as a secret message to your audience. All of this is from your narrator's mind. If your narrator thinks she's right, then she's right. If she thinks she's not lying, then she's not lying. Don't inject your authorly wisdom into her words to pass on a message.

Anyway, I've got little to say about the writing itself. You're confident and move along well enough and communicate your ideas effectively. It's just you've played a little too close to convention here (worried boyfriend, unwell girlfriend, wise older woman) and went with the safe choices that just seem like well-trodden paths by now.
  





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Wed Jan 11, 2012 9:23 am
Lavvie says...



Hi confetti!

I really liked this. It's not every day one reads a well-written and well thought-out short story along the popular and equally distressing theme of eating disorders. I've read a few here at YWS and I must admit I've always been disappointed. There's nothing worse than reading something based on assumptions and mythical facts - most of them false. However, I enjoyed this very much since you seemed to demonstrate a good understanding of this now rather common societal issue.

First, I found the first paragraph a little dull, kind of a detour or almost a protagonist's preface to a story they're going to tell. It does nothing to hook the reader in any way and I honestly don't see its good point as the opening paragraph. It's mostly redundant. I think there would be much more of a hook if you removed the current first paragraph and used the current second one as the first. It's a terrific paragraph with a terrific first line. I think that would really make an impact as the opening for such a serious and distressing short story.

Second, I found there was only one rather serious thing you lacked in relation to research was perhaps the fact that most, if not all, people suffering from an eating disorder are obsessed with food. In this case, the people are thin but all they think about it food. That's all that goes on in their heads. What I'd really like to see is maybe a stream-of-consciousness spouting from Olivia or maybe some allusion towards the fact that, despite she is bulimic, she is very much obsessed with food and everything about it. It's their disturbing willpower and distorted body image and life events that usually provokes the disorder. Anorexics and bulimics cook/bake a lot because they are obsessed with food. And now I'm off-topic. But I really like to see more of this coming from Olivia. I think that, though your short story is already 110%, you could totes make it 150%. Without a doubt.

As for the remainder of the story, I feel like there's not much else I can assist you with. This is truly a great story and honestly well-written. I loved it.

Yours,
Lavvie


What is to give light must endure burning. – Viktor Frankl
  








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