She left the window open tonight to shiver out the food she couldn't purge. Left herself available, vulnerable, laid her corpse out with her ribcage regalia on display-- all breathe in breathe out with the quickening pace of the heartbeats in her head-- for the walls, for the sky, for the gawkers and the pointers and the perverts to see, oh, to see how fat and disgusting and terrible she really, really was.

She pressed play.

"... you're wrong, you know."

"Yeah, I'm wrong, then. You say I'm wrong, so--"

"...it must be true."

Ghosted lips and scripted words. She'd listened to it enough times now to whisper the words by her failure of a heart.

Fast forward. Play.

"--nd it doesn't take a genius to figure out that nobody is good. Nobody. And anyone who thinks otherwise is a fucking fool."

Rewind. Play.

"--who thinks otherwise is a fucking fool."

Rewind. Play.

"-- is a fucking fool."

Rewind. Play.

"--fucking fool."

It was the truth and Riley knew it. Too well. Too, too well. So much shit she couldn't keep herself from dwelling on because it was all going to rot in her body like so many goddamn maggots.

Fast forward. Play.

"--first time?"

Rewind. Play.

"What did you want from me when you brought me here the first time? What do you want from me now?"

"The same thing I want from everyone else. Help passing time."

"Oh. Oh, I se--"

Fast forward. Play.

"So, Keane. How do you pass time?"

"I waste it."

"Perfect person to waste time on, huh?"

Perfect. Ha.

Rewind. Play.

"I waste it."

"Perfect person to waste time on, hu--"

Rewind. Play.

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

She laid swaddled in the filth of those recorded words for a long time, simply watching the ceiling fan spin round and round and round.

Nov. 1 - 147 (200 calories)

Nov. 2 - 146 (400 calories)

Nov. 3 - 146 (600 calories) try harder.

Nov. 4 - 146 (24 hour fast) try harder. plateau? no options.

Nov. 5 - 145 (fast extended) chest pains.

Nov. 6 - 143 (another day)

Nov. 7 - 142 (broke fast with chicken broth. can't take in too much.)

Nov. 8 - 140 (24 hour fast)

Nov. 9 - 138 (24 hour fast)

Nov. 10 - n/a. Dehydration. Hospital. Failure.

Nov. 11 - n/a. Dehydration. Hospital. Failure.

Nov. 12 - n/a. Dehydration. Hospital. Failure.

Nov. 13 - n/a. Dehydration. Hospital. Failure.

These days, it seems as though you think I'm dead more often than not-- with the way you speak so low, the way you won't touch me, the way you don't want me. Like I'm rotting right in front of you.

Nov. 14 - 143 (oh no) SI. Failure. I hate how uncontrollable I get sometimes.

Nov. 15 - 142 (getting back on track. I'm finally getting back on track. 540 calories)

Nov. 16 - 141 (230 calories)

Nov. 17 - 139 (purge count, 6. I had to stay under 500 calories. I had no choice.)

Nov. 18 - 139 (binged. no purging.)

Nov. 19 - 140 (oh, no. 24 hour fast)

Nov. 20 - 140 (Fast. I hope and I pray and I hope and I pray)

The word passion comes from the same Latin root as the word patience-- pati.

Nov. 21 - 139 (310 calories)

Nov. 22 - 138 (130 calories)

Nov. 23 - 137 (light headed. upped calorie count. 800 calories)

Nov. 24 - 136 (metabolism boost. 400 calories)

Nov. 25 - 135 (400 calories)

Nov. 26 - 135 (mass amounts of alcohol. I don't even want to think about it.)

It means 'to suffer'.

Nov. 27 - 135 (at least it's not up. 24 hour fast.)

Nov. 28 - 134 (chicken broth.)

Nov. 29 - 133 (24 hour fast)

Nov. 30 - 132

Dec. 1 - 130 (good start for the month, stupid, keep it fucking up.)

I want to suffer.

Dec. 2 - 129 (fast. prep for extreme measures.)

I want you to hear me .

Dec. 3 - 128 (cocaine.)

I want you to be there to lap up the tears I lay down.

Dec. 4 - 124 (cocaine.)

Listen to me.

Dec. 5 - 121 (cocaine.)

I want you to be selfless.

Dec. 6 - 120 (oh, my head.)

I want you to be selfish.

Dec. 7 - 119 (passed out from something. no hospital.)

I want you to look at me.

Dec. 8 - 118 (could not eat. was forced to do so.)

I want you to say it. You know what I mean.

She felt so sick and terrible and depressed and elated and everything all at once, naked in her room with the windows gaping wide, eyes glazing over the silhouette of the ceiling fan spinning in the shadows of her cottonmouth night.

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

"I waste it."

He could play my spine like a piano if he took the chance to. And he could make this pain worthwhile if I wasn't so scared. And I could make it go away if he'd open his eyes and say something for once.

Fast forward. Play.

"...just because something is buried doesn't mean you should go digging it up. More often than not, you're gonna find trash instead of treasure."

Click. Stop.

It was amazing how close to nothing Keane made her come. And, hey, maybe that was self destructive, but feeling like trash made her feel like treasure and the closer to nothing she got, she figured, the better.

I'm starving, still.

It seems to be a common disease.