of the glass, my body brushing up against hard the bed as I lean over. But there is nothing there, nothing left in the glass to quench this ugly feeling. Angry and irate, I stomp away from the bed, extract from myself from the room that contains the mattress that gave me no sleep, no dreams. I bump my naked body against the door frame as I enter into the white hallway. If I can’t drink my hangover away, then I’ll at least binge and purge the sour feeling out of my stomach. I travel the length of the swishing hallway to the kitchen, and realize I binged and purged everything last night. With no food and no alcohol, I resort to the last thing I know that helps to steady my shaking hands. I am suddenly standing in a bathroom. For now, this bathroom, that bed, are not places or things I own, but simply occupy. I was kicked out of my last roommate’s apartment for binging on all of her food. The loaf of bread, the two boxes of noodles, her stash of cookies, everything I could ingest when I was drunk and out of my mind, again. She came home to an empty kitchen, her roommate passed out down the hall. So she kicked me out and I found myself lost, broke, and with nowhere to go. Luckily, there are people in my life who love me more than I love myself. One of my bosses at work offered me this apartment. She owns a three bedroom, but is living at her girlfriend’s house. Without asking for rent, without even asking if I want to move in, but more of demanding me to do it, she gave me her keys, expected me stay in her extra bed. The bright white walls of the bathroom, the sun stinging my skin as it strikes the mirror through the window all pierce my bloodshot eyes as I grab my razor that sits expectantly on the sink. I cut. I cut and something finally slashes into my brain. Finally, the cut changes something inside of me. Not just a feeling of pain or shame or something like momentarily relief, but a cut that screams this has to stop. I look up at myself in the mirror. My yellow and puffy skin stares back at me, waxy and bloated; my eyes are wobbly and full of red streaks, broken blood vessels. I am repulsed by myself. I look down at the cut, look away from the evidence of a depressing and terrified life, and become even more disgusted. On my arm, I get a full view of the evidence of my shameful life. The red seeps out, stares at me as I try not to gape at the gaping wound. I cannot look any more, cannot continue to bear witness to this life. With blood dripping down my arm, I go into the bedroom, the white bed staring at me, pushing me to get out of here and do something about this urge to do something horrible, again, before it goes away. I grab my phone. I call a friend, one of the three I have left in my life, one who did not retreat from me when I started to get scary. One who is not afraid to face my
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Clammer