I woke up with my face stuck to a glossy page of my cookbook. The kitchen smelled of peanut butter cookies and chicken and potato stew. I had called Chris on his way home to pick me up ingredients such as potatoes and chicken. He never questioned my cooking habits, probably because he benefited greatly from them.
I sat down while the stew simmered in the crockpot. That had been around three-thirty in the morning. The clock on the microwave proudly declared it to be eight-fifteen. I normally slept at this time. My body felt like it waded through sludge. My limbs were heavy and my mind drowsy. Everything in my brain muddled together. I needed to move.
“Sasha!” I rasped. My throat had dried out completely, like someone sandpapered it. I got up to get some water. I tried again. “Sasha!”
I heard Sasha's dog tags jingling as she trotted from my room to the kitchen. “Time for our run.” I changed quickly and grabbed her leash off the kitchen table.
The day was humid. It was a brisk humidity that made the air thick. These days sucked. On colder days like today the air coated my lungs and limbs, making it hard to breathe as I ran. On hot days it made every movement feel like trying to run through hot pudding. The sky was gray, trapping the moisture between clouds and ground.
I felt cold in just shorts and a tank top, but I powered on. I tried to run the exhaustion from my body. It was daytime. No Jessica around to bother me. Sean and I would talk to Carl. Explain what had happened. Request a background check; request a new BSB office to keep track of her. The BSB protected their own. They paid hospital bills for mauled employees. They paid for counseling. Safety was a top priority. It'd all be settled. The incident would be a bad dream.
I ran, with intervals of walking, for longer than I planned. It was ten fifteen when I came back home. My legs were jelly. Sasha panted at my feet. I gave myself a headache from lack of water before such a long workout. There was a stitch in my side and I was hungry.
I added fresh water to Sasha's bowl and filled her food dish with kibble. I grabbed a cookie and nibbled on it. The moderate hunger I acquired on the run gave way to a ravenous feeling. I tore open the cabinets, grabbing bags of chips, crackers, bread, and cereal. The stew wasn't ready yet, but when it was I'd dive into it without abandon. I ate until I felt sick.
I returned the untouched food to the pantry. My stomach revolted at the overload. The knot from the night before had never settled. I picked up the kitchen garbage can. The contents of my extremely hefty breakfast landed in the bag. My throat burned, my nose stung from the smell of bile. The food flowed out of me in a constant stream. The browns and yellows of my crackers and chips mixed with the rainbow of my Fruit Loops. All of it settled on top of our normal garbage of eggshells and used paper towels.
The purge lasted a full minute. I fell to my knees, hugging the can, panting. Sasha ceased eating her breakfast to lick my bare legs. Tears formed in my eyes. I wiped them away and sniffed back some snot. I scratched Sasha behind the ears, comforted by her presence.
I sat on the floor for a few more minutes. My stomach finally settled enough that I felt okay standing up. I walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped down, and got in. I let the warm water wash over me. I opened my mouth to rinse it out. I sat down, bringing my knees to my chest.
When I was seven my mom signed me up for a park district softball league. My half-brother, Matthew, played football. My oldest sister, Cassie, took dance. My next oldest sister, Melanie, played violin. My mom thought it would be good for me to join an activity too. I was a chunky kid at seven. I liked dolls and playing pretend with some of the neighborhood kids. I didn't have any interest in sports, but I went because it was demanded of me.
The coach's daughter, Rachel, would beat the crap out of me. She'd tackle me, pin me down, and make me eat dirt when the coach wasn't looking. After a few weeks of the abuse I finally ran to my mom, crying. I refused to go back to softball or any team activity. My mom called the coach and screamed at her. I never had to join a sport again. I never lived down the shame of running from the bully. She continued to harass me verbally all the way through high school. I didn't want to let another bully win.
I intended to do to Jessica what I did to Rachel on graduation day. She was right in front of me in line for our diplomas. When they called her name I stuck my foot out and watched her fall face first on the stage. By that time I had shot up, lost the baby fat, and worked with a punching bag to make sure bitches didn't make me eat dirt anymore. Jessica could push me down, but I'd drive a stake through her heart if she tried to pin me.
The water stopped being warm after I sat in the shower for twenty minutes. I shampooed, conditioned, and shaved quickly. I jumped out before the water got too cold. Too bad for Chris if he needed to get in.
I wrapped a towel around my hair and body and scurried from bathroom to bedroom. I disrobed and caught myself in the mirror. The spot where Jessica had hit me was now a blackish-purple bruise about the size of a fist. I gritted my teeth.
I dressed in a pair of pinstripe pants, a teal undershirt, and a white blouse. I braided my hair down my back. I wanted to look like a competent professional when I faced the general manager. I slipped my feet into black ballet flats and went back to the living room. I had hours to kill before Sean came to get me. I powered up my laptop.