Monosyllabic

I sat at the tomb. My dad was dead. His life just ash. All was lost. Mom, not mine, stood at the site. She told me to call her Mom now. I hate her more than my dead dad, her dumb kid, or her dog. All was lost.

Quarter 3rd Person

He bows to the porcelain thrown. The rest of his lunch is finding it's way up his esophagus, burning away the lining. He doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he seems to be preoccupied. His shorts slip, almost completely removed from his backside. He doesn't even bother to grab them, this had become his daily routine.

He looks at a lonely quarter, hidden behind the toilet. When he was five it would have bought him something cool from a vending machine, like a super bouncy ball that the dog or his little sister could choke on. His little sister was naturally a size zero, he envied her, even though she was only twelve.

At the thought of being thin he throws himself forward again, lurching as he purges. He regrets lots of things, like not being his younger sister, but right now he regrets eating. This is how he fixes his slip-ups. If he was the perfect weight, then no one would make fun of him at school, like they do now. He's just some big gay joke for his university. He still weighs too much to be perfect. 95 pounds was like a obese walrus to him, he just wanted to be 90 pounds. 90
pounds was perfect.

Perfect like the models he saw at age 8 when he went to the mall with his mother, and then baby sister. He let the quarter remind him that he was almost 25 and was losing his hair. But he will destroy everything until he's thin, thin as a model. Those models were so thin. If he was 8 again that quarter would have bought him a ball of chewing gum, but he no longer chews gum. Gum is calories he has no way to purge. Where do they go? It's not like he was ingesting anything, as such he didn't believe the myth about celery either, that it was negative calories. No thing is negative calories, there is only water which is no calories at all.

At the thought of no calories he bends forward again, only bending too much and collapsing. He's down to the bottom of his stomach, all that is coming forward is stomach acid, but he figures that has calories too. After he's sure he's rid his stomach of everything he pulls himself up and makes his way to the sink.

As he washes his mouth out with mouthwash, he wonders about the calorie count for it. He's extra careful not to swallow even a milligram. He spits into the sink, turning the water on to wash the green away. He looks at the quarter once again, thinking about how at 15 he would have tried to win a free taco at Taco Bell, but now he was a vegetarian, less calories, less fat. Just the thought of Taco Bell made him feel like a mammoth.

He picks up the quarter, figuring he'll use it for laundry, turn the water on as hot as it will go, and try to shrink his clothes a size.

Quarter 1st Person

I bow to the porcelain thrown, the remnants of my lunch sliding out of my stomach. It was sickly, feeling everything come back up at me, but the feeling was not new. I made a habit of this after every meal. Lately it had become a chore to hold down liquids. The weight loss was nice but the acid stung. Little bits of undigested food were becoming stuck in my teeth. I'll deal, I think, as my tiny shorts slip down my backside. Damn it, I'll be buying clothes from the children's section, again.

I see a quarter out of the corner of my eye, left in the area behind the toilet. Lint has began to cover it, reminding me of a simpler time, specifically, when I was five, and I beg my mother for a quarter to get a Power Puff Girl action figure from a vending machine at a chinese restaurant. I could have opted in for a temporary tattoo, but instead I wanted the cheap plastic.

At the thought of cheap plastic I purge again. I always wanted to be a plastic in high school, but I was always too big. If they could see me now, they'd let me into their clique right away. I regret eating, not just this time, but every time. Eating means I must cleanse myself, rid myself of it's impurities. I'm 95 pounds impure, and all I want is to be 90. I'd be thin as a model then.

I look at the quarter again. 25. Almost my age, and my hair was already falling out in little patches of my pillow, but I will be thin. It was my mantra, through good times and bad. I will be thin. If I was eight I would have used the quarter for a ball of gum, but now at 21 I can't even chew gum, the calories being to high of a price to pay.

I collapse, the hunger pains tearing me apart. I'm down to the pit of my stomach and all
that remains is stomach acid and a few chewed up bits of tofu chicken nuggets. Soon all I taste is acid, so I pick myself off the floor and make my way for the mouth wash.

I wonder if mouthwash has calories, because if it does I don't want to swallow. That's what I always tell my boyfriend anyway, his sperm is 37 calories I can't afford. I rinse and swish rapidly, then spit in a spray into the sink. I clean my mouth again with a gargle of water. Water is pure. Water has no calories. Water is safe.

I glance at the quarter again, it must have been left by someone, forgotten. If I was fifteen I would have use that quarter to try to win a free taco from Taco Bell. Now I'm a vegetarian, less calories, less fat, and less me. I wouldn't dream of eating Taco Bell, just the thought makes me feel huge. I wash my face with warm water, then splash cold into my eyes to lower the redness.

I pick up the quarter and walk out of the bathroom. Maybe I'll use it to do my laundry, turn the water on hot, and try to shrink these shorts.

Quarter 2nd Person

You bow to the porcelain thrown, letting the remnants of your lunch find their way up your throat. It stings, but you don't mind. You've always cared more about being thin anyway. The acid on you teeth no longer feels uncomfortable, it's something you've grown to live with. Your size zero shorts slip a bit, a signal that soon you'll be buying clothes from the children's section of Macy's, again.

Out of the corner of your eye you spy a quarter, resting on the area behind the toilet. If you were five it could have bought you something neat from a vending machine, but now it's just another bit closer to a laxative.

With this thought, you purge again, letting your body throw itself forward as you vomit.
You never should have ate those fake chicken nuggets. You realize you should never eat as the vomit splashes back into your face. This is the only way you know to rid yourself of the shame, the calories, the pounds. You still weigh too much, even at a measly 95 pounds. You'll know when you've hit 90, when you'll finally be skinny enough to be happy, truly happy.

You look at the quarter again, let it remind you that your almost twenty-five and your hair
is already falling out, but you won't stop until your thin. Thin like the models you saw at the mall at age eight, when you would have used that quarter to buy a ball of gum. Now you can't even chew gum, too many calories.

You collapse, kneeling this time. You're down to the bottom of your stomach, all that is coming forward is stomach acid. It burns, but it doesn't matter. You pick yourself off the floor after a few more dry heaves, and make your way to the sink for some mouthwash.

You wonder if mouthwash has calories, that if you swallowed even the tiniest bit, would you'd gain weight? You spit into the sink, glancing over at the quarter again. It must have been dropped by someone, forgotten. If you were fifteen you would have used it to try to win a free taco from Taco Bell, but since then you've become a vegetarian, less calories, less fat. You wouldn't dream of eating there now. Just the thought makes you feel huge. You clean the puke off your brow, and throw cold water into your red eyes.

You pick up the quarter and place it in your pocket. You'll use it for laundry, put the water on hot, maybe try shrink some of your clothes.