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spookydrreid · 3 years

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE BAU

Pairing: Unsub!Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Content Warnings: being hit on, mentions of drugs, flirting, talk of 'the handmaids tale', anger, name calling (whore, slut, skank), murder, an arrest, reader is very angry. (let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count: 2.2k

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“Jack and Coke,” I shouted to the bartender to be heard over the ridiculously loud music. I lean against the bar with a bored look on my face. But I’m not bored. In fact, I’m practically vibrating at what’s going to happen tonight. I can feel Spencer’s eyes on me from across the bar, watching me to incase he needs to intervein. But he wont have too. I’m capable of taking care of this myself, but the sentiment is appreciated.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?” Victim #1 places a hand on the small of my back, a little too close to my ass if you ask me. I resist the urge to shudder. His hands are rough and heavy, nothing like the soft and sweet of my Spencer.

I grip my drink, placing my hand over the top of it; the last thing I wanted was to be drugged by a man who wasn’t Spencer. I plaster on my sweetest, most innocent smile before turning to face him.

I size him up quickly. He’s tall, I’d say about 5’11. He has the eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day, and hair that matches the shore. He’s attractive, but it’s the forgettable type. He’s nothing even close to my Spencer. No one compares to Spencer.

“Long day! I needed a little pick me up,” I smile as I hold up my drink. He smirks, his eyes scanning my body, drinking me in as if I was the beer in his hand. I continue, “what about you?”

He sighs, “heartbreak. You know, the typical.”

Liar. This man was pathetic. Sympathy wasn’t usually my game. But, tonight, it was. “Well, she’s pretty fucking stupid to let a man like you go.” I lean in, letting the distance between us shorten and my hand gently caress his arm. I lock eyes with Spencer from over the man’s shoulder, he looks pissed and I know its because someone else is holding my attention for the time being.

“What’s you name, sweetheart?”

I shudder at the thought of giving him my real name. So, I don’t. “Serena,” I hold out my hand and hold back a shiver as he shakes it. His handshake is firm, and I’d say he does this a lot. I’d say he probably has a job where handshakes mean something? Finance? Business? Damn, Spencer’s rubbing off on me.

“Jepson. You have a beautiful name,” his smile was bright. Too bright to be real.

I smiled back at him, batting my eyelashes, “thank you. I was named after Serena Joy. The mistress from ‘The Handmaids Tale,’” I watched him sip his drink as he digested what I’d just said.

Serena Joy was an absolute anomaly. She could go from sweet and caring, to absolute devil in two seconds flat. When she didn’t get her way, she would lie. And when it all goes to shit, she burns down the house and points the finger at the others.

I guess I wasn’t like that. Not yet at least. But I knew I could be capable of something like that. Burning down the metaphorical house so I could get my way, just to turn around and point the finger at those who are in power. Even if it cost me said finger. Or my life.

“You’re mother sounds like a smart woman. Though, I find you are nothing like Mrs. Waterford. You’re more like… Janine or June.” Jepson’s comparisons brought my attention back to him.

Handmaids. That’s who those women were. Seen as nothing but sex objects; wombs to hold the fetuses that the wives couldn’t. Is that how he saw me? Just a womb? An object?

I wanted to throw up. Spencer would never talk to me like this. His compliments were more thought out and beautiful. My Spencer would never compare me to women who are seen as objects. And I know, I know, June and Janine are fighters, but still. My Spencer would never. I looked for him then, looking for the man who owned every part of me. I found him in the same space as before. But this time he wasn’t alone. No, this time, he was sat next to a blonde-haired skank of a girl. She was definitely younger than me. Probably used a fake ID to even get in here. And she was all over him.

I watched as her hands ran down his chest and over his arms. How she threw her head back laughing at everything he said. I noticed the way she shifted so that her dress would ride up on her thighs. Like I said, skank. Whore. Slut.

“Are you okay?” Jepson asked, moving so he caught my eyes. I’m not sure how I managed, but I plastered the sweetest smile to my face.

“Perfectly fine. I actually have some business to attend too. But it was so nice to talk to you.” I didn’t give him a chance to answer before I pushed past him, practically stomping my way over to Spencer.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing,” my tone was cold and bitter as I approached. Spencer’s eyes growing wide at the sight of me. “Who the fuck is this?”

The whore dropped her hand and looked at me with disgust, “Taylor. And you are?” She spoke to me like I was scum. Like I was nothing more than gunk on the bottom of her stiletto. But she didn’t know me, she didn’t know what I was capable of. Especially when it came to Spencer. I would do anything to keep him with me.

“His fucking girlfriend,” I was ready to rip her off of him. If she wanted to become a corpse, I was happy to make it happen.

“Well, looks like you aren’t a very good one if you left him alone that long,” her smile was sarcastic and the head tilt made my blood boil. I was going to fucking kill her. She had sealed her fate.

I scoffed, “why don’t you meet me outside and we can talk about it out there?”

“Pup, don’t.” Spencer’s eyes were a warning, but I was too far gone. My mind was made up and I was ready to play God with the girl to his left.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer. She can make her own choices.” I spat. I turned on my heel and started walking, knowing she was going to follow me. And I was right once I made it outside. Her heels clicked obnoxiously on the concrete as she followed me into the alley way beside the bar.

“Y/N you cannot do this! She didn’t do anything!” His voice echoed through the night and chilling my spine. But I didn’t care. She was the one who messed with the wrong bitch.

“I can do whatever I want, Spencer. She asked for this,” and before he could protest, I pulled the trigger. Right between her pathetic blue eyes. The ‘thump’ of her pathetic body hitting the ground was like kindling on a fresh fire, burning up and remaining sanity and sympathy left inside me. She deserved this. She’d done this to herself.

“Are you fucking crazy! You just killed her out in the fucking open! Are you fucking crazy?!” Spencer was quietly yelling at me, but I didn’t miss the flickering of pride in his eyes. He was proud of me. He was proud that he’d dissolved the girl I was before him. The weak, pathetic, scared little girl who wanted nothing more than to hide away and die. He saved me.

“She deserved it. You never know who you’re messing with. She should’ve been more careful and maybe she’d still be fucking breathing. I looked down at the lifeless girl at my feet. “Fucking pathetic excuse of a life.”

“You’re fucking crazy, pet. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it hot.” His words where gasoline on the flame, the fire roaring into my blood as the whores pooled at our feet. I pulled him in for a heated kiss then.

Our tongues danced as our feet grew redder with our victim’s blood. I knew we were made for each other. That in some cosmic way, he was sent to me. I’d like to think my mother sent him to me, to help make me the girl she knew I was capable of being. It didn’t matter if I was a killer, I know she was proud.

We were so enraptured with each other, that we didn’t hear the sirens. We were deaf to the world around us. Nothing else existed. But Spencer pulled away suddenly and I saw the fear etched in his features as the sirens got louder.

“Fuck! Fuck! You have to go, pet! Take this and go!” The sirens rang louder and louder. And I felt like I was going to throw up.

“No! If we go down, we go down together. That’s what you said!” I felt the tears sting my eyes as I silently begged him to come with me.

He just shook his head, “go, pup! Listen to me for once and go! I��ll come back to you! I promise. They cant keep me away from you. Get rid of the gun and talk to no one. Do you understand me?”

“Spencer, please! I-I cant do this without you! I cant-“ the voices rang out around us and I knew time was running out. I had to go now, or I would really never see him again.

He pulled me in for a bruising kiss. I couldn’t help but feel like we were saying goodbye. I guess we were, but I refused to fully believe it. How was I supposed to do this without him? I didn’t know how to be on the run without him.

“I love you, pup. So fucking much. Now, go! I’ll be okay! I promise! This isn’t goodbye. Do you hear me?” His thumbs rubbed my face as he spoke. But it didn’t stop my heart from shattering. Because I’d done this. Me. I fucked this up. I was so fucking stupid.

“I love you. And i-I’m so sorry. I love you, Spencer. Please, make it back to me.” I sniffled.

He kissed me again, “I will, pet. I will. Now, carry your shoes, and go.”

I stepped out of my shoes, picking them up before booking it down the alley way. I was lucky I could get out that way. I hid behind one of the dumpsters knowing if I made it to the streets that I would be caught. But it also meant that I watched every moment of the scene in front of me.

“Put your hands up, Spencer!” a raven haired woman shouted, her gun drawn. “Get on your fucking knees!” I could hear the cracking of her voice as Spencer dropped in front of her.

“God, Spencer!” a darker man shouted. “We could’ve saved you, kid. You didn’t have to do this! We would’ve helped you.” I covered my mouth to choke back the sob.

Spencer just laughed, “where were you ten years ago? Huh? I needed you then and you fucked me.”

A blonde woman, the same one from the broadcast, JJ, patted him down in search of weapons. But she found none. Because I had it. And when she was satisfied, she pulled a pair of cuffs from her pocket, roughly grabbing each of Spencer’s hands and cuffing them behind him.

“Spencer Reid, you are under arrest for the murder of 29—um—30 innocent people,” she made him stand, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand the rights I have read to you?”

Her voice was sad, and I couldn’t help but want to kill her too. How could she be so upset when she was one of the fucks who caused this? She was one of the assholes who turned her back on him. They all did.

“You know I do, Jennifer.” He had no emotion in his voice.

“Spence… why did you do this? Why didn’t you come to me?” she was crying now. It was pathetic. They all were pathetic.

“I didn’t do anything, Jennifer.”

I watched as they led him away without another word. My face was wet with silent tears. The BAU had caught him, and now, I was alone. The people who had made Spencer who he was had caught him, because of me. Because I didn’t listen to him.

“Stop fucking crying,” I said to myself. “You’re better than this. Spencer taught you better. You need to finish what he started. Make them pay. All of them. Make them sorry they ever fucked with him. Kill them. All of them.”

Kill them.

All of them.

Kill them.

All of them…

......

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frauleinsmaria · 6 years

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The Holiday Season(s)

Summary: Emma Swan is not fond of holidays. But maybe a routine encounter with a local bartender could change that. CS AU

Written for @jones-alice for this year’s Captain Swan Secret Santa. I had so much fun being your CSSS and hope you enjoy this story! Big thanks to @forestiyari for reading this over <3

Also on AO3 and FF.Net

Emma Swan was not fond of holidays.

To be fair, it’s not that she didn’t want people to celebrate whatever was important to them or spend time with their friends and family. But when you’ve gone nearly twenty-eight years without much of either, seeing other people experience it usually stung.

This particular night was Valentine’s Day, arguably the worst of the entire year. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she saw every storefront in Boston covered with giant pink and red hearts and flowers, as people lined up to buy gifts for their significant others (who they likely ignored during the other three hundred and sixty-four days.)

She actually had plans this year- if you can even call a fake date with her latest skip before she dragged him to the police station “plans.” This one had put up a fight, and came close to breaking her nose. (His punch had hit her cheek instead, where she was now sporting a vibrant, purple bruise.) But she’d still been successful; the jerk was behind bars before eight o’clock, and she had a nice salary in her purse to prove it.

To be fair, she could have spent her Valentine’s Day in better company, and had actually planned to take the night off. But Mary Margaret, bless her, had jumped at the chance to set her up on a date as soon as she heard Emma would be free. She’d then arranged to take tonight’s job and claimed she had to fill in for someone else. Her friend meant well, but she’d been on one too many awful blind dates to be up for another.

Emma had left the police station, one hand on her bruised cheek as she walked through downtown Boston and observed its lovesick residents. Every bar, restaurant, ice cream parlor, and even hair salon was offering some kind of holiday-themed deal: Come in for a haircut and get a second half-off for your Valentine! Anyone with common sense would have to find it cringe-worthy.

It felt like a breath of fresh air when she stumbled upon a bar where the only hint that it was Valentine’s Day came from the couple making out in a secluded corner booth. Emma ignored them as she walked in and took a seat at the bar. The place was mostly empty to her relief, aside from the couple engaging in tonsil-hockey, a few guys playing pool on the other side of the room, and the bartender, who’d come out from the back when she’d taken her seat.

She didn’t look up at him until he approached her. “What’ll it be, love?”

It was far from the first time she’d heard an English accent in Boston, but it still managed to catch her off guard. His looks were only an added bonus: dark hair, blue eyes, a smile she could have easily fallen for if she wasn’t so careful. “Whatever you’ve got,” she muttered.

“One of those nights, eh?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered.

He made her a rum and Coke, something she rarely chose herself, but she gave no objections when he slid it across the table toward her. “There you are.”

“Thanks.”

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but a small group walked in and sat down at the other end of the bar, subsequently holding most of his attention for the time being. Even before this, she was grateful he hadn’t tried to flirt, or get something out of her she wasn’t willing to give. (Sleazy bartenders were just as bad as sleazy fellow-drinkers.) All he’d done was smile sympathetically and refill her drink when she’d asked.

And when she left the bar later that night and glanced back at him over her shoulder, it occurred to her she might not object to ending up at this particular spot again.

-/-

Saint Patrick’s Day was something she’d never been able to comprehend. Of course, it made sense to celebrate if you were Irish and wanted to celebrate your heritage. But most of the people she knew were Americans who used the occasion as an excuse to get drunk without judgment.

Emma couldn’t really talk badly about them considering she was on her second drink of the night. (But for all she knew, she could easily be from some kind of Irish descent via her birth-parents.) She’d chosen the same bar she’d come to on Valentine’s Day, which, again, was void of any kind of tribute to the supposed holiday. The place was crowded in comparison to her last visit, but still retained a laid-back atmosphere she knew would be difficult to find anywhere else in the city tonight.

As she sipped at her drink, she nonchalantly observed the others around her. There was another group of guys playing pool again tonight, something she assumed was a regular occurrence here. A few couples sat together at various tables around the room; she’d had fun for awhile trying to determine the status of their relationship from body language alone.

Two men sat both within speaking range with her at the bar, but thankfully, neither made any attempt at conversation. She’d spoken to no one but the bartender, a tall, curly-haired man whose accent resembled the guy who’d been working the first time she came by. He was nice enough, but she couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed to not see a somewhat familiar face.

After finishing her drink, she’d decided it was probably time to leave- she had work the next morning and knew she’d regret it if she stayed out late- when a familiar voice spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here, lass. Are you leaving?”

The bartender she’d just been thinking of now stood on the other side of the bar, arms crossed atop the wooden surface.

“Oh, um, hi,” she stammered, surprised at his sudden appearance. “Yeah, I’m working tomorrow morning. Can’t successfully catch the guy if I’m hungover.”

This piqued his interest. “Are you a cop?”

“No, bailbonds. I still try to weed out the bad guys, though.”

“What’s this about bad guys?” the other bartender walked over and interrupted them. “Is my little brother bothering you?” he asked Emma.

“Younger.” The other man- apparently his brother- rolled his eyes. “I’m Killian Jones,” he told her, “and this is Liam. We own this place, hence the name.” She glanced to her right and for the first time, noticed the sign that read “The Rusty Knot.” It was odd that she’d failed to noticed before now, but the bar did indeed have a subtle nautical theme: a decent sized model ship hung on the main wall, rope lined the edges of the tables, and the light fixture above them was even made to look like an anchor.

“Yes, we do own the bar,” the oldest one, Liam, continued. “Which is why I wanted to ensure our customers aren’t being bothered.” He glared at Killian, who just rolled his eyes. Emma couldn’t help but laugh at their interaction; they acted like kids rather than two grown men.

“No, he wasn’t bothering me,” she intervened on Killian’s behalf. “I was actually just about to leave.” She dug out enough cash for her bill and pushed it across the bar to them. “It was nice meeting both of you though.”

Both men smiled and told her goodbye, but the way Killian’s eyes caught hers as she walked out the door stuck with her for longer than was comfortable on the way home.

-/-

“I’ve gotta admit, this was not how I planned to spend my Saturday afternoon.”

Emma stood in David and Mary Margaret’s back yard, carrying a basket of eggs that she’d been instructed to hide for their son and his friend’s Easter egg hunt.

“C’mon, Em.” David took an egg from his own basket and placed it in the sandbox under one of Leo’s toys. “Besides, we get to have fun, too.” The main incentive her friends had used in order to persuade her to come early and help was they’d be having burgers and beers after the kids’ egg hunt. She liked David’s grilling too much to say no. That, and he had a cute kid.

“Am I gonna be the only one here sans child?” she asked. “Because, no offense, but that’s always awkward.” Since they’d had Leo two years ago, she’d lost count of how many times she’d come to events at David and Mary Margaret’s and been the only adult who didn’t have any input on cloth diapers or organic milk.

“No, actually. Mary Margaret’s invited some of her co-workers, and I asked some guys I met a few weeks ago at the charity soccer match to come.”

Emma let out a sigh of relief, then paused and narrowed her eyes at him. “I hope your wife knows better than to try to set me up; you never invite single guys to these things unless there’s an ulterior motive.”

“Hey, I never said they were single.”

“They aren’t?”

“Okay, they are,” David admitted. “But no worries. I’d like for you to meet them since I know all the kid stuff can be overwhelming, but I’ve made Mary Margaret promise to stop meddling in your love life.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Half an hour later, parents arrived with their kids who immediately began tearing the yard apart to find Easter eggs. Emma stood back and watched the chaos unfold with Elsa, one of Mary Margaret’s co-workers she’d been introduced to earlier. The woman was more than friendly, and clearly understood Emma’s relief at being the only one to show up without a child or partner. They couldn’t help but laugh when little Leo had filled his basket to capacity and dumped a pile of Easter eggs in his mother’s lap so he could collect more.

The egg hunt was wrapping up when David tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Emma, these are the guys I was telling you about earlier. This is-”

“Killian?” She cut him off, recognizing the man behind him.

“Hello, love. Quite a small world, isn’t it?”

David was obviously confused. “Wait, you know each other?” “I’ve been to their bar a few times,” she answered. “I met him and Liam the last time I was there.” She hadn’t paid a visit to The Rusty Knot since St. Patrick’s Day, but Killian left an impression that was hard to forget.

The oldest of the two brothers was with Killian, but had stopped paying attention to them just then as he noticed Elsa standing beside her. The part of Emma that had been influenced by Mary Margaret over the years already had an idea as to where this may be going based on the look Elsa gave him in return. She couldn’t bring herself to feel disappointed.

“So,” she turned to Killian after David had left to tend to his son, “you two are friends?”

He nodded. “Aye, you could say that. I’m guessing he and his wife are friends of yours as well?”

“More like family,” she admitted. “What’s this I hear about a soccer team?” She was eager to change the subject once she realized what she’d potentially opened the door to discussing.

“Football. But yes, we have a local team that plays every other weekend.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, but laughed instead. “Is calling it soccer that much of an offense?”

“It just doesn’t make sense when you think about it: you do kick the ball with your foot, after all.”

“Touché.” There wasn’t much of an argument she could make against that. They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing American sports (which she didn’t even like but still enjoyed the conversation all the same) and making bets on his brother’s relationship with Elsa.

“They’ll be engaged by Valentine’s Day,” she predicted.

“Are you kidding? I give him until Christmas.”

-/-

Thanks to her liking for The Rusty Knot and David and Mary Margaret’s liking to the Jones brothers, Emma quickly became used to seeing them on a somewhat regular basis. The three of them were all at the Nolan’s Memorial Day barbeque a few weeks later- Liam and Elsa attached at the hip, to no one’s surprise- and Emma ended up at the bar after another violent ordeal with a skip on the Fourth of July.

(It was getting difficult to associate Killian Jones with something besides holidays and special occasions.)

Their friendship grew quickly after they’d exchanged numbers while planning David’s surprise birthday party with Mary Margaret. (Both of them were surprised she’d managed to keep the secret from her husband.) At first, it was just casual conversation filled with his corny dad jokes and her stories about whatever scumbag she’d been tracking. But over time, it shifted to more serious topics, like abandonment, past heartbreak, and trust issues. Emma would never be able to thank him enough for the night he and Liam waived her tab at the bar- and it was a significant one- after she’d dealt with a skip who’d abandoned his family and felt little remorse. She (faintly) remembered Killian all but carrying her out of the bar and hailing a cab, refusing to leave her alone until he saw she was home safely. She couldn’t help but feel indebted to him for that one.

Emma cursed under her breath as the zipper on her costume became tangled in her hair. Tonight was Halloween; she was going with David and Mary Margaret to take Leo trick or treating before going to The Rusty Knot for the costume party she and Elsa had talked the boys into throwing. It was the first time they’d done anything remotely festive at the bar, and were both hopeful the event would draw in more business before the holidays. She’d opted for Princess Leia circa Empire Strikes Back, wearing a white shirt, vest, and pants, grey boots, her hair in a crown braid she’d finally accomplished after watching two hours worth of YouTube tutorials. Her costume idea had sparked a bit of a trend- Liam and Elsa were going as Poe and Rey, and Killian had relented to Han Solo after a bit (a lot) of convincing on her part.

Leo was adorable in his Luigi costume, resulting in dozens of oohs and ahhs from his neighbors as they went from door to door collecting candy. His parents were dressed similarly as Mario and Princess Peach, although David spent the better part of the night complaining about the fake mustache Mary Margaret forbid him to take off. (Emma had a feeling he would insist on choosing the family costume next year.)

The bar was crowded when she walked in just after nine. People were dressed as everything from Disney princesses to Freddy Krueger, who was engaged in conversation with Gandalf when she squeezed by them to find Killian. She eventually spotted him working behind the bar.

His costume suited him so well it was almost uncanny. He wore a tan shirt with a dark vest and matching pants, a leather belt and holster hanging loose around his waist. His hair was messier than usual- and- “Are you wearing eyeliner?” she asked when she finally found an empty seat at the bar.

She thought she saw him blush as he laughed and started on a drink for the person beside her. “It was Elsa’s idea,” he explained. “She says Solo is a ‘space pirate,’ and pirates wear eyeliner, so it was only fitting.”

Emma smiled. “It suits you.” She wasn’t lying. His eyes somehow looked even more blue than usual.

She ordered a beer and sat with Elsa, casually observing the costumes of others in the bar while the boys worked for the next few hours.

“What do you think the chances are they’ll do something like this again?” the blonde asked her later as the crowd began to think out.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t, especially if it helps with business. People who had fun tonight seem likely to come again.”

“That’s true. Although I hope they won’t be upset at the lack of eyeliner on the bartender.”

It was just after midnight when she decided to leave; the way she’d felt after the last time staying at the bar until the wee hours of the morning had been enough to keep her from wanting to do it again. She said goodbye to Elsa and Liam, and walked to the other end of the bar to find Killian- only to find him engaged in conversation with Harley Quinn. The girl, who didn’t look old enough to have the drink she held, laughed shrilly at something Killian had said and leaned forward across the bar to emphasize the ample amount of cleavage visible thanks to the low neckline of her shirt.

An unexpected wave of anger hit Emma in a way she wasn’t expecting. Her hands fisted at her sides as she watched the girl run a hand down Killian’s shoulder and whisper something to him she couldn’t make out.

He looked over and noticed Emma just as she turned to leave. “Swan?” He ran out the door after her and grabbed her wrist before she could bolt. “Emma, is something wrong?”

“No,” she lied. “I’m just...not feeling well.”

Killian looked unconvinced. “Are you sure? Is there something I can do?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine; just wanna go home and get some rest. I’ll see you later.” She broke away from him and took off before he could respond.

Emma spent the rest of the night mentally kicking herself for her reaction to the whole thing. First of all, she hadn’t wanted Killian to see her upset. And second of all, she had no reason to be upset in the first place. He was her friend. And you weren’t supposed to feel jealous after seeing someone flirt with said friend.

Because she had been jealous.

If she were honest, she’d been attracted to Killian since they first met. It was hard not to be with his eyes, hair, smile, and the accent that made her stomach flip every time he called her “love.” But attraction and becoming furious after seeing him interact with another woman were two entirely different things.

It was all confusing, but Emma was sure of at least one thing: she was in trouble.

She ignored his texts and calls for the next two days, not knowing what to say to him that wouldn’t make things awkward. It would’ve gone on longer if Elsa hadn’t sent her a text instead. I’m not sure what’s going on with you and Killian, but you need to talk to him. He thinks he’s done something to upset you.

Elsa was right; she couldn’t avoid him forever, and it’s not as if she actually wanted to. She picked up her phone with intentions of calling him, then opted for a text at the last minute. Sorry for being MIA the past few days. I haven’t been feeling great. It wasn’t a complete lie.

He responded within seconds. I hope you’re alright. Anything I can do?

(Of course he would try to be helpful.)

“Sure, just make yourself mean and ugly so I’m not attracted to you anymore,” she muttered. No, I’m fine. See you at Leo’s birthday party next weekend?

Aye. I’ll be there.

Now to figure out how to function around him without making a mess of things.

-/-

Leo’s party went off without a hitch. Thankfully, she was too busy helping Mary Margaret decorate and supervise to spend much time with Killian. He tried to speak to her a few different times, but she kept finding things that needed to be done in order to avoid him.

To be fair, she didn’t actually want to avoid him, but there didn’t seem to be much of a choice in order to keep her newfound feelings for him at bay. The more time she spent with him, the more she’d be tempted to act on said feelings. And the last thing Emma wanted was to screw up the friendship that had quickly come to mean so much to her.

A Thanksgiving ordeal was easily avoided, as he and Liam were invited to eat with Elsa’s family. David and Mary Margaret had asked her to join them at her parents’ in Maine, but she opted to work instead, feeling as if she’d be infringing on a family that wasn’t actually hers.

Twice, she’d gone to The Rusty Knot out of a sense of obligation, but managed to pick nights when business was booming and Killian had stayed occupied at the bar. She knew he was fully aware of the distance growing between them; she’d been giving one word replies to most of his texts, even when he sent her no less than a dozen lame jokes in hopes of getting some kind of positive response out of her. Emma had laughed at loud as she sat in her living room and read them all, but only replied, funny.

She quickly found herself dreading Christmas. David and Mary Margaret were staying in town and hosting dinner at their house, meaning she would have no choice but to be in close quarters with Killian. All she could do was hope there would be enough commotion to keep him from finally confronting her for being so distant since Halloween.

He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her behavior, either. Liam, Elsa, David, and Mary Margaret had all mentioned it to her at least once over the past few weeks. All seemed to be displeased with her excuse of being busy with work, but she stuck to the argument criminals didn’t even take the holidays off. If she told them the truth, she’d never hear the end of it. (And Killian would likely hear all of it.)

Emma spent the majority of Christmas Day trying to come up with an excuse to get out of dinner before she admitted it was no use. If she told David and Mary Margaret she was sick, they’d show up at her apartment and insist on taking care of her. They wouldn’t believe that she had to work since she’d already told them weeks ago she’d taken the entire last week of the month off. She was still thinking of possible excuses even as she dressed in her favorite red dress and heels and left for her friends’ home.

Mary Margaret had told her to come at half past six, but she could tell she’d somehow still arrived late at six-fifteen. No less than a dozen cars were parked around the Nolan house; Emma regretted her decision to wear uncomfortable shoes as soon as she realized how far away she would have to park.

The front door swung open before she had the chance to knock. “Emma!” She all but fought for air as David hugged her tightly.

“I’m glad to see you too, but maybe let me breathe so it’s not the last time we see each other?”

He quickly released her. “Oh, sorry. Come on in; everyone is almost here now.”

David wasn’t kidding. She spent most of her time eating an unhealthy amount of Mary Margaret’s snickerdoodles while somewhat socializing with the other partygoers. (Emphasis on “somewhat.”) She had caught a glimpse of Killian when he and Liam arrived shortly after her, but kept towards the back of the crowd and hoped he wouldn’t spot her. This lasted almost an hour before she began to accept just how exhausting avoiding him for the last several weeks had actually been.

As if she’d read her mind, Elsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and cornered her in the Nolan’s den. “Elsa, what are you-”

“Cut the crap, Emma.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s been going on between you and Killian, but enough is enough. The poor guy is acting like he’s lost his best friend- which, I guess he has.” Elsa frowned. “At least do him the justice of explaining why you’ve chosen to avoid him like the plague.”

This proved just how much Elsa had come to care about both of the Jones brothers; Emma would have expected this confrontation from Liam rather than her. “You’re right, I’ve been horrible to him,” she admitted. “I’ll go talk to him now if it helps.” Leaving the party altogether seemed preferable to spilling her guts to him. In fact, Emma could easily think of quite a few things she’d rather do. But none of it seemed worth damaging her friendship with Killian any more than she already had.

At least Elsa seemed pleased with this turn of events. “Good. He was outside when I last saw him.” Probably moping about you she didn’t add.

Emma found him alone out on the Nolan’s back porch. He leaned against the railing, hands in his pockets, looking just as Elsa had said. The sad expression on his face was enough to make her heart sink. “Hey.” She smiled at him for what felt like the first time in months.

The smile he gave in return didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, Swan.”

“Can we talk?”

“Aye.” He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her request. “What’s on your mind, love?”

She walked over and leaned on the porch railing beside him. “A lot of things. I think I owe you an apology.”

“Why is that?”

“You know why. I’ve been avoiding you for weeks for no good reason other than my own pride.”

He didn’t respond, indicating for her to continue.

“You remember Halloween, right? The costume thing you guys had at the bar?” she asked before she lost her nerve. She told Killian about the girl she’d seen flirting with him and what it made her realize afterwards. It all came out in a stream of words that she hoped he’d be able to comprehend since there was little chance she’d be capable of repeating it all again. “I’m sorry if this makes things weird now. I’m sure I can just get over it, but I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

Emma watched him nervously out of the corner of her eye. She could see conflicting emotion on his face as he processed all she’d told him. Had she just ruined their friendship? Did Killian think she was ridiculous?

What he said was the last thing she expected to hear. “Swan, can I kiss you?”

“Wait, what?”

“Sorry for being presumptuous, but I just figured as you have feelings for me, and I have feelings for you-”

Emma just laughed as she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him forward to fuse his lips with hers. The rest could wait.

-/-

“What a year, huh?”

The Rusty Knot was packed, everyone crowded around the newly installed flat screen to watch the live broadcast from Times Square. They were all together: Emma, Killian, Liam, Elsa (who wore the ring Liam had proposed with on Christmas night, Killian continued to gloat about predicting that one.) Even David and Mary Margaret, who always worried about leaving Leo with a babysitter, had made arrangements to be there.

She smiled at Killian as he sat on the bar stool beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They still had yet to actually discuss just what was starting between them, but she wasn’t scared of it anymore. Whether or not he knew it, he’d shown her over the span of the year that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I’m kind of sad to see it end, though.”

“As am I. But,” he smiled, “I’ve a feeling this next one might be the best year yet.”

They looked over as everyone in the bar began to count down with the timer on the TV screen. “Ten, nine, eight.”

“You know something, Killian?”

“Seven, six, five.”

“What’s that, love?”

“Four, three two.”

“I think you’re right.”

And when he kissed her on “one,” she knew he was.

#jones-alice #cs ff #cs christmas #cs au #cs fluff #csss 2017 #my fic #my writing #captain swan #captain swan ff

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thedownhill · 6 years

Text

In Defense of the Swiss Army Knife

I carry a Swiss Army knife. Throughout my life, I've carried many Swiss Army knives. They are incredibly useful tools for the middle-aged man. I love their design, how they can get so many useful (and useless) tools into such a compact space. They’re a pocket-sized marvel of ingenious engineering.

My current knife is the Victorinox SwissChamp Swiss Army Knife. I got it for Father's Day in 2016 after my last SwissChamp was confiscated by an over-zealous security guard working the metal detectors at an Astros game.

"You can't bring that knife in here, sir. You need to leave it in your car."

"I can't. I Ubered here."

"Well you can't bring it in."

"What do you mean? The blade doesn't even lock. What am I going to do? Corkscrew someone to death." I thought this was a rock-solid point, but truthfully, the sarcasm is probably where I lost any chance I might have had for bringing the knife in the stadium.

"No weapons are allowed in the ballpark, sir."

"Goddammit. It's not a weapon."

"It can hurt someone, sir. I can't let you in with a weapon."

"You sell bats in the gift shop. Someone can do a lot more damage with those than you can with my Swiss Army knife."

"Are we going to continue to have a problem, sir?"

Reluctantly, I turned the knife over and let my buddies buy me beer to compensate for my loss. But the good news is that I got to buy a new Swiss Army knife. Yay!

As mentioned above, some of the tools in my Swiss Army Knife are useful and some aren't, so the following is a ranking of the tools, from least to most useful.

22. Straight Pin: For some unknown reason, this comes with a stainless steel pin. It's hidden in a tiny hole that can only be accessed by pulling up the corkscrew. I didn't even know that I had a straight pin until I accidentally stumbled on to it many months after I got the knife. While I like how cleverly it's hidden, it’s useless unless I want to give myself a stick and poke India ink tattoo.

21. Reamer/Punch/Sewing Eye: All my belts still fit my waist with their their original holes so the ability to poke holes in leather is lost on me.

20. Fish scaler/Hook disgorger/Ruler: I don't really fish. I've read that the scaler can be used to carve pumpkins. If that's true, this tool will officially move from completely useless to useful for approximately one hour once a year.

19. Wood chisel: What am I? Bob Vila? Also, this tool is difficult to access because the corkscrew is in the way.

18. Fine screwdriver: An odd-sized flat head screwdriver in case any of the other three flat head screwdrivers don't meet your needs.

17. Key ring: I don't keep my keys on my knife. But at least I can remove it, upping its practicality a bit.

16. Multipurpose hook: More like zero-purpose hook.

15. Wood saw: The saw is so small, any branch I might need to cut with it would be so thin that I can more easily just crack it across my knee. But it looks kind of cool, so there's that...

14. Toothpick: The first thing I do with a new Swiss Army knife is use the toothpick to contaminate it with my DNA so a cheek swab comparison can prove it's mine if it's ever stolen.

13. Tweezers: Great for plucking errant nose, eyebrow or ear hair before a date night with the Wife.

12. Can opener/Small screwdriver: I never actually used the can opener to open a can, but I like that it's there. At the tip of the can opener is another flat head screwdriver. I suppose I take comfort in knowing that when the apocalypse arrives, I can still enjoy some canned soup.

11.Corkscrew: The Wife enjoys wine. This is handy.

10. Mini screwdriver: Great for fixing glasses or unscrewing those tiny screws in toys after the Toddler Daughter jams raisins, plastic coins or cat food in them. I also love how the screwdriver is stored in the corkscrew.

9. Ball point pen: a pressurized pen. I use it when the waiter forgets to drop a pen with the check. I just wish it had black instead of blue ink.

8. Magnifying glass: My eyes are getting worse, so I use this on occasion. Really though, I like to imagine how useful it would be for focusing sunlight to start a fire if I ever get stranded on a desert island. In a desert island scenario, I think the magnifying glass would leap to the top spot on this list.

7. Phillips screwdriver: This is the only Phillips screwdriver.

6. Pliers/Wire cutters/Wire crimping tool: The thickest and biggest tool in the knife. The pliers are too small to actually grip anything. The crimper is pretty good for bending paper clips into interesting designs when I get bored at work.

5. Nail file/Metal file/Nail cleaner/Metal saw: I have a tendency to bite my fingernails while watching sports. It's gross, I know. But at least I can you use the nail file to shape up those nasty digits.

4. Bottle opener/Screw driver/Wire stripper: The bottle opener gets a lot of use. Great for beers and Mexican Cokes. This is also the most useful of the flat head screw drivers.

3. Large blade: It'll never scare off a mugger, Crocodile Dundee-style, but it's big enough and sharp enough to cut through cardboard boxes so that everything can fit in my recycle bin, nice and tidy.

2. Scissors: A great little tool! Perfect for snipping little errant strings off shirts and ties. Occasionally a world-class nose hair trimmer too.

1. Small blade: It gets more everyday use than the large blade. Terrific for opening Amazon boxes. It's also more conveniently positioned on the knife, right in front of the large blade.

You can get your own SwissChamp off Amazon for around $65.

#InDefenseOf #SwissArmyKnife

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minihappybaker-blog · 7 years

Text

A Short Story- Ice cream

The below story is fictional. The people in the story aren't real but it was very much inspired by my experience of life during my university years. If you can relate to any of this let me know.

I wake slowly from an uncomfortable, dehydrated sleep. Eyes slightly glued together with last night’s make up and yesterday’s contact lenses unremoved. Bladder full, I need to empty it. I try to lift my head but a sharp stab of fiery pain slices between my eyes and I crumple back onto my pillow, drained from the effort.

I blink and my dry eyes attempt to focus. I see that I brought a glass of water to bed with me (thank God I remembered this time) and reach for it cautiously with a shaking hand. I lift myself up again, slowly this time so as not to disturb the dragon in my head again and gulp back as much as I can. My stomach churns in protest. I lie still, hoping I can go back to sleep but the dragon is awake again and the my head pounds. I need 2 paracetamol. I scan the bedside table but they aren’t there, my heart sinks and I curse my own poor planning. I haven’t made things easy for myself.

I sit up, ignoring the blinding pain in my head. My mouth tastes familiarly sour and metallic. It tastes like the pain in my head. I grab the empty glass and somehow manage to coordinate my limbs to move to the bathroom. I’m wearing a t-shirt and last night’s knickers. I don’t have the energy to put on some pants or shorts, I just hope none of my housemates boyfriends are around, they’d be horrified if they saw me like this.

Safe in the bathroom I slump onto the toilet seat. The dragon momentarily stops breathing fire across my brain as I relive myself. The reprieve doesn’t last long. I rummage around in the bathroom cabinet and find the paracetamol. There are 3 left. I take them all, glugged down with more lukewarm tap water. 2 will never be enough today.

As soon as I have swallowed them, a wave of panic jolts through me like an electric shock. A hazy memory of taking some painkillers at some point tries to surface but I can’t remember when I took them. Was it before I went to bed last night? If so has it been more than 4 hours since the last dose? Did I take more than the recommended dose then as well? Can you even take them with alcohol? I’m not sure but my dehydrated brain whizzes through the worst case scenarios. I could accidentally overdose. My phone has no battery and I don’t know where I left my charger so I won’t be able to call for help. At what point would I call for help anyway? How would I know if something is wrong when I feel so horrendous anyway? I could see if my housemates are in and ask them to call an ambulance just in case, but then I’d just be having another one of my episodes, another overreaction, more drama from Clare again. This is the type of thing that happens to me. It will become a story they tell on nights out, “Remember when Clare woke us up at 7am to call an ambulance because she thought she’s taken an overdose of paracetamol but she actually just had a hangover?” They will laugh. I’ll laugh too but a part of me will feel like a fool. A part of them will think, “For fuck sake Clare!”.

My heartrate slows slightly, I tell myself I’m fine. I tell myself I won’t die from taking 1 extra paracetamol. If I start feeling worse I will call my housemates. I breathe deeply trying to get a full breath. My skin crawls and my head pounds again. I skulk down to the kitchen to make toast. The thought of warm carbs sitting in my stomach and then going back to bed to wait for the painkillers to work immediately soothes me. My mouth waters in anticipation despite my still churning stomach. I make 2 slices and eat a 3rd slice of bread with margarine while I’m waiting. The bread is slightly stale and I don’t enjoy it but it distracts me from my headache and my worries about the paracetamol.

Back in bed, the tension in my head starts to thaw. The metallic taste in my mouth is still there and the nausea is worse despite the toast. I look at the clock by my bed, 6.54am. I’m wide awake. My mind starts to race back to last night. A blur. Pub- wine and shots, club- wine then vodka, party back at my house, more wine, more vodka. Little white pills and bags of white powder. Money spent- I have no idea but it must have been over 200, a lot on my student budget. Deeper into my overdraught. I need to not think about that.

My head still throbs but it’s a duller now, the embers of the dragon’s fire instead of the blast itself. I try to piece things together. I’d felt uncomfortable at first. My size 10 dress felt too tight, my cheeks too chubby, eyes too small for my face. My calves and ankles packed into my tights and 6 inch heels gave the illusion of slimmer legs but my thighs rubbed together at the top reminding me I need to try harder, be smaller, suck everything in, don’t eat anything.

My anxiety increases, I can’t relax. I remember walking into the pub trying to look confident. Strutting my stuff in those heels, flicking my long hair over my shoulder and searching the room for cute guys. Trying to make eye contact, nothing. They seemed to be looking but not at me. Not surprising as my friend Liani was in front of me. They all saw her first, smiled, tried to catch her eye. Took in her long legs and tiny waste. Her simple tunic dress hanging loosely over her slim breasts and hips somehow seemed to enhance the ease with which she carried herself. She didn’t need to suck anything in, worry about tummy roles or rubbing thighs. She ate crisps and drank beer without worrying about weight watchers points. When guys came over to sit with us she thought about which one was cuter while I hoped that one of them would think I was OK. They would never chose me first, I was always the consolation prize. I drank.

As the night had gone on my confidence grew. The booze does that, the coke allows me to carry on drinking for longer. For a while I was carefree, attractive, not skinny but not taking up too much space either. I was funny, confident, sexy. We went to the bathroom, another pill, another line. I looked in the mirror as I stood next to Liani. I was still shorter and wider but the gulf that separated our looks had closed a bit. I felt lighter inside and out. We danced. All night, me still trying to catch someone’s eye and Liani trying to fend them off. The rest is fuzzy. The club was sweaty and hot. Liani was kissing a gorgeous guy on the dancefloor, the guy I’d been talking to looked disappointed. “Damn I was hoping to get your friends number, she’s gorgeous, but I guess she prefers him,”. My face had burned but it was dark so he’d never have known. He’d never have realised I had thought he was going to ask for my number. I went to the bar and bought a round of drinks.

My face burns again with shame as I remember. My legs twitch. I breathe deeply again trying to get enough air into my lungs. My head swims. I can feel every inch of my stomach and thighs and try to imagine if they were smaller, how much easier would life be. I look at the clock again, 7.15. I want to eat again. I’m not hungry but I want something nice, something to distract me. I want to be able to sleep and a full tummy will help me but I can’t use up any more calories yet. Eventually I must have fallen asleep again but I don’t rest. Yes that is possible to sleep without resting at all. I seem to do it a lot. When I come round again the clock says it’s 10.19 but my body is rigid, my neck stiff. I’m still trying to get enough air into my lungs.

I decide enough time has passed since the toast so I can allow myself to eat again. I have already had 385 calories from the toast and margarine. I don’t need to look at the back of the packets to know this. I’ve programmed myself to calculate calories automatically. People who don’t diet are amazed I can remember. I get dressed, brush my teeth and remove last night’s make up and contact lenses. I don’t shower. I don’t want to undress and have to see my body, feel the curves that are too big as I wash and see myself in the large bathroom mirror when I’m drying myself. My baggy tracksuit bottoms and hoody make me feel small by comparison.

On the way down to the kitchen I call out to my housemates. No one answers, they must all be at lectures. I should have been to two already today. I could make the third if I hurried up but then I’d have to have a shower, face my oversized body and try to find something to wear that looks reasonably OK on me. Easier said than done. Then I’d have to sit in my lecture while I try to breath normally and my stomach churns and I worry that people can hear it and I worry that I’m going to faint and that I might lose control of my body completely but I can’t leave because there’s no excuse to just walk out of the lecture and everyone will see me and know there’s something wrong with me because I can’t sit in class for an hour without having to dash for air. I wouldn’t take in much of the lecture anyway, I can never concentrate when I’m in this frame of mind, which is almost all the time.

Just thinking about being trapped in a lecture theatre makes my head start to thud again, the dragon stirring, I need to eat.

I make myself toasties with low fat cheese and ham. I use 4 slices of bread. 900 calories. After this I’ll only have 215 left for the rest of the day but that’s fine. I’ll sleep most of the day and then just have a cuppa-soup and another piece of toast in the evening. I east the toasties in front of the TV with a cup of milky sweet tea. I don’t count the calories in the milk and sugar. As I’m eating I feel calmer, my breathing slows. I stop worrying about missing my lectures and taking too many paracetamol and taking too many drugs and spending too much money and messing up my diet again and looking desperate and fat last night next to my slim and confident friend. I savour the delicious melted cheese and the crispy toasted bread and sip my tea and I focus on the smell, taste and textures and the feeling of swallowing the food and the warmth as it hits my stomach.

As I get towards the end of the last toasty my anxiety starts to return. I don’t want this to be over. What will I do next? What if I can’t sleep straight away? I’m going to crave something sweet. My brain anticipates the craving before I even start craving it. I’ve been here so many times before.

I return to the kitchen, I no longer feel small in my large hoody, I can feel the bread in my stomach and I think of the dress that was already too tight last night. I search my cupboard for something sweet. I don’t usually buy sweet treats because I can’t seem to stop at one. When I do buy them they rarely last longer than a day. The only sweet thing I have is a box of weightwatchers cereal bars. 88 calories. It says it on the box this time, not that my built in calorie counter didn’t already know. There are two left in the box. I take one back to the living room. I wanted to make another cup of tea to have with it but the thought of waiting for the kettle to boil before I can eat it feels impossible. I try to nibble the bar slowly but when I’m halfway down it I start to eat faster. I’ve already decided I’m going back for the other bar. It’s OK I reason with myself. I won’t need anything else all day after this and I can still have a cuppa-soup (55 cals) this evening and still be (almost) within my calories. It’s still not even 11am.

Second bar demolished, I then decide I might as well eat the rest of my calories for the day (39) now and really enjoy them. The day stretches out in front of me with nothing to break it up. No meals, no snacks to punctuate the hangover and comedown. I might as well just enjoy this now that I’ve started. I just need one more mouthful of something sweet and then I’ll feel satisfied and be able to sleep for a bit. After a search of the kitchen (my housemates cupboards as well as mine), I find a tub of Ben and Jerrys in the freezer. It’s not mine, it must be my Sarah or Lucy’s. “Please be open already” I hope inwardly. Jackpot, it is open and about a 5th of the tub has been eaten. This means I can easily sneak a couple of spoonfuls and no-one will notice. I check the door and call out again. No reply, the coast is clear. I spoon a thin layer of ice cream out of the tub and into a bowl. There is more than my 39 calories there but not much more. If I end up only going over by 100 calories for the day then it’s still OK. I can easily make that up tomorrow by having less then, and besides I must have burnt a lot of calories dancing last night.

I eat it in the kitchen standing over the sink so I can easily hide the evidence if anyone should come back. It’s delicious. The sweet, cold creaminess transports me to a world where there is nothing else but me and my taste buds. It’s heaven. I’m no longer just distracted from my worries, they are no longer significant. I know before I finish my serving I’m going back for more.

I take the tub up to my bedroom. I’ll replace the whole tub later today. As soon as I’m feeling better I’ll run to the shop and buy a new one, I’m sure they’ll have that flavour. They did the other day I think. I don’t plan to eat the whole tub. I know I can’t put it back in the freezer when too much is gone because they’ll know I ate some (There won’t be any doubt as to who it was, I’ve done this before although I always replace things). I think I’ll just eat down to the halfway mark and then throw the rest in the bin. I’ll have gone well over my calories for today but I can make up for that tomorrow.

At some point, I’m not sure exactly when, I lose any semblance of control I may have had. As soon as the rush of the first few mouthfuls wears off, each mouthful is accompanied by a bitter layer of guilt. I start to feel guilty about eating something that wasn’t mine, about missing my lectures, about being behind in nearly all of my classes, about ruining my diet, about doing drugs last night and shame about throwing myself at boys who prefer my friend. I try to put the tub down but the ice cream is making the guilt palatable, for all I hate myself for not stopping, to stop eating is worse.

By the time I finish the tub, the guilt is joined by disgust. I feel physically sick and even more dehydrated. I count the calories. I’ve eaten 2261 before 11.30am. 1876 calories within the space of just over an hour. I gulp back some water in an attempt to get rid of the sickly taste in my mouth. The ice cream that tasted like heaven before now tastes curdled and sour on my tongue. My teeth feel as though they are coated in a thick film of sugar. How could I do this? If I could just stop doing this I’d be thin like Liani and I’d be happy. Life must be so easy when you’re thin. What is so wrong with me? Why am I so greedy that I can’t stop eating even when I feel sick? If anyone could see me now they’d be disgusted too.

Making a snap decision I run to the bathroom and stick my fingers down my throat as far as I can. Nothing happens. I try to purge myself of the ice cream for the next 20 minutes. My throat is sore from ramming my fingers down to my tonsils and retching but I’m unable to get my stomach to return any of its contents. My entire body feels hard and round and crammed full. At last I admit defeat and return to my bedroom, tears of frustration running down my face. I can’t even do this properly! I’m fiercely jealous in this moment of people with bulimia. At least they are thin and people have sympathy for them. I’m just fat and greedy and have no self-control. No one would have any sympathy for a disgusting fat pig like me. It’s no wonder boys don’t look at me when we go out, I don’t deserve their attention. I lie in my bed, too hot in my hoody but unwilling to take it off because I need to feel covered. I need to be separated from the disgusting sight of my own body. And as I try to understand what just happened, after all this, still there is a little voice inside my head that tells me I could make all this go away, at least for a little while, if I eat something else. I know that while I’m actually eating I won’t be thinking and right now thinking is so painful I’ll do anything to stop.

So my day progresses in this way, sleeping but not really resting, worrying, eating and hating myself for eating. At some point I must have dozed off because I hear my housemates downstairs in the kitchen. I pray they don’t decide to have ice cream or any of the other goodies I’ve stolen today. I pray I didn’t leave any evidence of my binge for them to find. At 7pm at night I’m exhausted, disgusted, guilt ridden and ashamed. My built in calorie counter, no longer as precise as earlier on in the day, has logged over 4000 calories. I finally find a phone charger and plug my phone in. When it’s turned on I have two missed calls and four messages. My heart leaps, maybe the guy from last night did take my number after all? But the missed calls are from the Uni, one message is a voicemail telling me to call the faculty office as soon as possible regarding my attendance. My chest tightens and my stomach turns upside down with dread and excess lactose but my brain and body are too exhausted to provide any other response. The messages are all from Liani telling me the guy she kissed last night called her this morning and took her out to the beach for the day. She sends a picture of the 2 of them eating ice cream together and laughing, her tiny shorts showing off tanned legs.

I cry into my pillow until I fall into a deep sleep. As I’m drifting off I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll start again.

#binge eating #eating disroders #eating disorders recovery #anxiety #addiction #help #short story #fiction #food #self help #recovery #not alone #get through the day #tell me your opinion #no diet #happiness

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