He was kneeled over the toilet, throat burning and stomach churning. Reaching up with a shaking hand, he flushed the toilet, a few tears escaping and rolling down his cheeks. Sometimes he really hated himself.
Scooting back so he was sitting against the wall, he let the tears flow freely. What was wrong with him? He promised himself over and over that he wouldn't do it anymore, that he would stop, and then he went and did it anyway. Oh, he always made up something to try to excuse it, but he knew there was no excuse. What he did was disguisting, and the fact that he did it filled him with shame, but he couldn't seem to stop.
There was a knock on the door. "Tay? Are you alright?" Diana's voice was full of concern.
"Yeah, Mom, I'm okay." I'm just sitting here, crying and hating myself. "I'll be out in a minute." He could feel her hesitation. "Really, Mom, I'm fine."
"Well...if you're sure..."
"I am." He waited until he heard her footsteps retreating down the hall before he tried to stand. His breath was shaky as he inhaled, and he grasped the sides of the sink tightly, trying to find something solid to hold onto, trying to find a reason to pull himself together. He glanced at himself in the mirror, hating the image that he saw there. Averting his eyes, he splashed his face with water, trying to wash away evidence of his tears. He rinsed his mouth with some Listerine, plastered on a fake smile, and left the bathroom.
********************
He was back again, kneeling once more. It seemed to him that he spent half his life kneeling. He didn't even have to stick his finger down his throat anymore.
It wasn't a matter of trying to lose weight. Maybe, at the very beginning, it had been, but it wasn't anymore. Now, it was just a comfort thing, as sick as that was. If he had a bad day, or if he got in a fight with someone, he would throw up. It made him feel more in control, made him feel as if he were actually real. As if something mattered. But he could feel himself spinning out of control, could feel his body starting to reject food, and it scared him. But he needed to do this - there was nothing else.
After he was done, he sat back on his heels and waited. He'd found out long ago that standing up too quickly caused white dots to dance in front of his eyes. While he waited, he studied his surroundings. A few people had taken it upon themselves to inscribe lovely words and phrases about people on the side of the stall. Tipping his head to the side, he noticed there seemed to be a lot of comments about someone named Becky, and he wondered who she was, wondered if she had any idea that the most intimate parts of her life were on display in a men's bathroom.
Finally feeling as if his head were clear enough to stand, he made it to his feet. Somehow, as he emerged from the stall, he wasn't surprised to see Isaac leaning against one of the sinks, arms crossed. Once again, he found himself averting his eyes as he headed to the next sink to wash his hands.
"Taylor."
He didn't say anything as he turned the water off and brushed past Isaac to get to the paper towels. He dried his hands and started for the door.
"Taylor, turn around and look at me."
He stopped, debating with himself in his head. He knew that if he walked out the door, Isaac would let it go for a while, and he could continue with his dirty little secret, but Isaac would eventually tell their parents. If he turned around now, he would have to face it, would have to admit that he had a problem. He would have to admit that he couldn't stop.
Slowly, he turned around and hoped he wouldn't cry.
"Taylor, how long as this been going on?" Isaac's voice was hard, demanding answers.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't-" Isaac stopped and turned his head, staring at the wall, trying to get some control. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, steady. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"No, I don't."
"The puking, Taylor! That's what I'm talking about! How long have you been making yourself throw up!"
Tears sprang up in his eyes, and he stared hard at a piece of cracked plaster, his hand stretching towards it and picking it away. "Can we not talk about this right now?"
"No! Taylor, I want answers! Now!"
He looked at Isaac for the first time, and Isaac could see the tears shimmering in his brother's eyes. "Please?"
Something stabbed at Isaac's heart, and he felt himself relenting. "Okay. But we're going to talk about it at home, so prepare yourself." He motioned towards the door. "Come on, I'll drive you home."
Without another word, Taylor led the way out the door.
******************
"When did it start?" Isaac's voice was softer now, sitting across from Taylor on his bed. He was ready to talk, had been preparing himself the whole way home.
"I'm not sure. A couple of months ago, I guess."
"Tay - why? I don't understand."
He shrugged hopelessly. "I...I don't really know." He looked down, fiddling with the wadded up tissue he held in his hands. "I guess that...I couldn't stand the thought of food in my stomach, couldn't stand the fact that maybe I was...letting everyone down."
"Taylor, what are you talking about? How would that let us down?"
"You don't know what it's like." He studied the ceiling, as if he'd written the answers up there and now had to find them. "I have to be this perfect person for-for Mom, for Dad, for you, for everyone! And if I let the food stay inside, then-" His voice caught in his throat, and he took a few shaky breaths, not sure where the words spilling out of him were coming from. "Then I was just some, some disguisting blob and I wasn't perfect because perfect people don't need food to survive, but perfect people don't shove their fingers down their throats, either." He covered his eyes with his hands, too ashamed to let Isaac see him, too ashamed to let Isaac see the tears. "I know it's stupid, but I just can't stop! I hate this! I hate myself! I'm stupid, and disguisting, and-"
"Taylor!" Isaac grabbed his hands and held them, interrupting his rant. "Stop it! You are not - look at me, Taylor. You are not disguisting, and you're not stupid, so just stop it!"
"Don't lie! I saw the look on your face when I came out of the stall!" He ripped his hands away and started to stand, ready to run away.
"No! Taylor!" Isaac grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to stay seated, forcing him to listen. "I was not, nor have I ever been, disguisted by you! You're my brother - I love you!"
He didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to run, but part of him wanted to stay, too. Finally he threw himself at Isaac, sobbing, needing comfort so badly it hurt. "Help me, Ike, please help me. I don't know what to do. I can't stop, and I don't know if I really want to, anyway. Oh, god, you've got to help me."
Isaac held Taylor tightly, his heart pounding with fear. "What do you mean, you don't know if you want to stop?"
He pulled back, looking at Isaac, tears streaming down his face. "If I don't do it, then how will I know I'm real?"
Taylor's words made Isaac's heart pound even harder. He pulled Taylor back to him, trying to comfort him. "Hey, it's going to be okay. I'll help you. We'll get through this, okay? Everything will be fine, you'll see." But even as he spoke the words, he wondered if they were a lie. He didn't know how to handle this, and Taylor had already proved he couldn't handle it on his own. It felt too big and too scary for them to handle, even together. But he had to believe they could, not only for Taylor, but also for himself. "It's going to be okay...everything is going to be okay..."
*****************
The bathroom. Once his sanctuary, but at the same time his prison. How could he have ever believed that throwing up would solve anything? All it had done was make everything ten times worse. But yet, there was still something so comforting about the still water, about the thought that it would always be there...
"Taylor? Are you coming?" His mom's voice floated up the stairs.
But that part of his life was over. His family's love for him was much stronger that anything else ever could be. Never again would he kneel. "Yeah, I'll be there in a second." Casting one last look at the toilet, he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him before running down the stairs to join his family.
