He sits in his basement bedroom. His window faces to the north. Outside a summer breeze lifts

the stems of wildflowers and gives them a ripple to set them waving, but he sees none of it. His

eyes are on his screen. With a delicate finger he pages each image up and away, but he forgets

none of them. They all have immaculate faces. Their skin is held in place by magnificent

structures of bone beneath. With each push he sends the image away, while saying to himself,

“Not me. Not me.”

He watches dramas on his screen each night. The stories are simple, maudlin even, but they

reach him very deeply. He sees the girl and boy meet. He observes the pre-written dance. One

gives way before the other’s touch. Then one responds to breathless words. Finally, two hands

touch for the first time. He sees this and compares his frame to the bodies on the screen. He

knows the rules and tells himself not to care. But he cares far more than can be easily thrust

aside.

It begins simply. “I’ll just not eat this one time,” he says. Or perhaps, “I’ll only leave off this half

slice.” Because he is so young, only fifteen, his body responds immediately. Within days he feels

the change. Less folds of skin which so tormented him in the past. More chisel in his face. Sharp

skin drawn tight against the skeleton beneath. He loves it.

Like most good things, it cannot last. One day his father asks him how much time he spent in the

gym. His mother catches sight of abandoned food. At first, it’s easy to nudge their concerns

aside, but soon the lies begin to pile high. It isn’t possible to keep them all straight in his mind.

How could he? By now it’s been months and he’s beginning to waste away. It’s no longer just

muscles now. Now it is his mind which has also cruelly left him behind. His eyes lie to him

when he observes himself in the glass. Where once he saw sculpted beauty, now all he sees are

unwanted pounds.

Where will he put these thoughts? He’s come too far from where it started. Like all addictions

the first sip of the day never satisfies. Except with him there are no sips and no bites and no

mouthfuls. It’s about denial and forbearance and limitation.

However, he’s one of the lucky ones. One day, when his mother begs him again for truth, he

confesses what’s been happening behind closed doors. He tells her what the sound of the flush

has been concealing. He’s frightened himself into realization: If I don’t find help soon, I’ll dry up

and blow away. Like images on a screen.

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete

Authors Notes: My son went through treatment for an eating disorder a year ago and was one of the few people in his group to successfully graduate into a healthy lifestyle. I wrote this piece when he was in the deepest part of his struggle. It is a joy today to see where he is and to realize how much he is willing to talk about it with others. He has broken the stigma of his eating disorder.