Charlotte Eagles

Piggy 

By Charlotte Eagles 

Humming, luminescent lights meet my face as I open the door to my fridge, squinting at the sudden brightness. I stare blankly, my eyes mindlessly glazing over each container. I reach for the half eaten apple, debating if I should finish the only food I’ve touched today. 

The crunch as I bite into the fruit, the tart juice that fills my mouth, followed by bitter skin, feels magnetic. Fatso. My mind whispers to me sometimes–well most of the time, actually–telling me exactly what I am. Every bite, every taste, it all comes with crushing guilt. Are you really hungry? You’re just bored. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I feel like the only way to silence them is to listen to them. But occasionally, I can’t help but drown in it.

Fiercely, I grasp the jar of peanut butter, knuckles white as I struggle to pry the lid. The thought of a spoon never crosses my mind. Scooping it out, I lick each tantalizing smear off my fingers like an animal. Like a pig. I reach for the leftover take-out next, not bothering to wash my grubby hands, watching as the grease smudges against the white cardboard box. The crude stench of day-old rice and egg meet my nose, and it takes almost my whole being to plant my feet and remain standing, refusing to collapse. I don’t look at it, scarfing it down without a second thought. Disgusting. The turkey meat is my next victim. Swallowing it whole, I finish the once full bag of deli meat, the empty plastic fluttering to my feet. How many calories were in that? Tortillas? Torn to shreds, each bite a starchy reminder of what I am. Fatty. Cheese, bread, chips. All you do is eat. Sodas, cookies, pasta. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Crunchy, soft, chewy, sticky. I guess you’ll have to run an extra mile tomorrow. Salty, sweet, tangy, bitter. Every bite is ruining your progress. 

I want to stop, I have to. Then stop. I want it to be over with, unable to deal with the sin of my gluttony. Filthy animal. I want to throw it all up, to hurl it away and never eat anything again. Do it, redeem yourself.

But I can’t.

Gorging down, each bite so sickenly enthralling, each swallow nauseatingly irresistible.

I stand face to face with the massacre of grease and scraps in front of me, the buzzing of the lights matching that of the thoughts inside my head. Only one thing remains untouched. In a hard plastic dish, the store-bought type that pops and snaps when you open it, fogged by a tiny bit of condensation, lies a starch white, palm sized cake, the words “Happy Birthday” swirled out in purple cursive surrounded by lilac flowers. Gently, I slide the box towards me, guilt eating at me with every inch it gets closer. My finger nails slip under the hard folds. Slowly, I remove the clear top from its inky reciprocal, each crack reverberating around the empty room. Tears prick my eyes as I turn my gaze to the colorless cylinder in my hands. I thought you said you had discipline? I feel my legs start to give out under the weight of my guilt as my vision fades to nothing except the cake in front of me. Almost. 

Wait. 

What was that?

Head snapping to the side, I blink into clarity. Heart pounding, head rushing, I frantically try to pin down what I just merely glimpsed. I see it. In my window. A shadow. No. Its head cocks as its misshapen form turns to square me . A monster. 

My body freezes as I feel my legs collapse under me. The ground rams into my face with a hard kiss, and I think I recognize the metallic taste that fills my mouth when I lift my head. I make out the feeling of hot liquid dripping out of my bitten lip, but I have no time to concern myself with that.

Run.

And I do. Faster than I thought possible, I scramble up off the wooden boards of my kitchen, narrowly avoiding the open jars and tupperware lining my floor so I don’t trip and fall,  so I don’t become a victim of whatever is lurking behind me. I make my way to the closest room, my bathroom, slamming and locking the door shut behind me. barricading it with what little I have, I find the stick of the toilet bowl brush and use it to try to jam the handle. Not long after, banging and booming rattle the door, shaking it intensely. 

Violent sobs rack my body as fear consumes every inch of me. I use the windowsill behind me as a crutch, because I know if I were to let go, I’d crash into the floor and never get up. Snot runs down my cheeks, mingling with the salty tears that cloud my vision. It grows louder and louder, forcing me to remove one of my hands to cover my ear, sandwiching the other in between my shoulders. The banging roars, the only sound surrounding me, drowning out my sobs. Louder, and Louder, and Louder, and Louder, and LOUDER, AND –

It stops. 

Nothing but my sniffling and cries echoing around the room. I bury my face in my shirt, using the cloth to wipe the remaining fluids off my face. It’s not until I regain my breath that I dare to look up. The door is still, no cracks or any trace of the commotion that just arose, only my flimsy toilet brush, a feeble attempt at defense, dangles from the door handle. I calm, only slightly, moving my gaze to the mirror before me, viewing myself in an attempt to clean my appearance.

There. Right there.

Staring back at me through my mirror. It's hideous. It's absolutely, horrifyingly, revoltingly hideous. Pink boils speckle its skin, looking like volcanoes threatening to burst, texturing it like a poorly paved road. Disgusting. The hair atop its head, dead and dry, yet so disgustingly greasy, taking the shape of a man that was just electrocuted. Filthy animal. A thick, oily second chin outlines its first, while rolls outline its wide, apple-like frame, resembling the look of a cartoon beehive. Pig. Thick, sausage fingers lay and the ends of its meatball hands, one of which lays idly by its side while the other grips the window sill beside it. Fatso. My eyes unwillingly trace their way back up, trying to veer away from the ghastly sight. It is only when I peer deeply into its own that my realization hits me hard and true.

All I can do is silently cry as I accept reality. When I reopen my eyes, it's my own that glare back at me with absolute, horrifying, revolting, hideous disgust.