Chapter Text
All of this turbulence wasn't forecasted
Apologies from the intercom
And I am relieved that I'd left my room tidy
They'll think of me kindly
When they come for my things
- Mitski
I stirred awake, my head aching. I sat up on my elbows, looking over at my clock and read '1:18 pm'. I looked over at Peridot's bed, which was empty and messy; two of her blankets hanging over the edge and her sheets clutching onto each corner of the mattress wearily. I stood up, stretching slightly. I looked around my room; my side had very little things—a book shelf in the middle of room contained very little books from me, and too many from Peridot— while Peridot's side had multiple posters and weird machinery (wires everywhere, for her projects I assume). No sign of her, though.
I opened the door, walking down the hall, downstairs, and into the kitchen. It's foolish how you think you still deserve food a voice rang out in my head. It was my own thoughts, the ones I always told myself whenever I stepped into the kitchen. I scoffed, shaking my head. Peridot wasn't home, and Steven hadn't stopped by in a while, so it wouldn't matter if I purged. I opened the fridge, but nothing appeared to my liking. Don't even think about it, you idiot. I hesitantly turned, walking a few steps to the microwave. It opened with a loud click. It was last night's Chinese food that Peridot bought. I told her I didn't want any, but now, it was all I wanted. I hesitantly grabbed the box, closing the microwave. I walked to the kitchen counter, setting it down softly. I opened the box, revealing chow mein and dumplings. I swallowed hard. You're really going to eat that? Yes. I am. I didn't even head to sit down; I immediately reached for the plastic fork, taking a bite of the noodles. It tasted deliciously sweet and crispy. I took another bite quickly, before I even swallowed the first. I chewed and swallowed quickly. It was so good. I grabbed a dumpling, tossing it into my mouth. The chopped vegetables and chicken inside tasted just as sweet as the chow mein; it was amazing.
I ate and ate until there was only a few strings of noodles left, only half a dumpling. I felt full. Full. Sick. I stared down at the remaining crumbs, the guilt dawning on me. The sickness. I closed the box with clenching fingers, my nails digging into the styrofoam box. I turned slowly, hesitance in my stance. I took a few steps until I was in front of the trash can, and threw in the box. I immediately turned, walking quickly out of the kitchen and down the hall, into the restroom. I grabbed the cup I always left on the sink counter (I named it the 'Throw-Up-Cup', ha ha). I put it under the sink tap, pouring in cold water until the cup was halfway full. I brought it up to my lips, chugging as much as I could in one breath. I put the cup down, coughing a bit. I turned to the toilet, bending over. I held my hair back with one hand, even though it's short. I immediately stuck two fingers from my free hand down my throat. I shoved them in good, letting them rest in my throat until I felt the food coming back up. It came back up sloppily, a small, messy amount of chow mein landing on my fingers. My vision blurred with tears as I shook it off and into the toilet. I shoved my fingers back in, more larger, chewed up amounts of food came up, making me recoil. I shoved my fingers in one last time—snot and tears running down my face— nothing came up. I sniffled, standing up straight. I reached for toilet paper, my saliva wetting it as I ripped a few pieces, wiping at my face and the toilet seat where some vomit had landed on.
Peridot would be dissapointed. I know.