3 a.m.

Just another sleepless night filled with disappointment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Fidget with the frayed edges of the blanket as you check the clock for the twenty sixth time.

Twenty seventh. Twenty eighth.

Why isn't it moving as fast as your chest is rising?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

F**k it, you think, and grab a f*g off the nightstand.

Where's the lighter? 

Does it matter?

Can't you just set it alight with the flames licking around behind your sternum?

No. 

No, that's impossible.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Clock check.

Fast forward one hundred and thirty two seconds exactly.

F*g lit, idly hanging from your fingertips as you keep it distanced from your neglected lips.

You've never smoked a day in your life.

Bad habit.

Nature versus nurture, eh, Freud?

You stare at your phone as it vibrates, apathetic.

Breathe in.

Breathe in.

Out.

Remember, you think, remember the out.

Remember the pattern and stop casting sideways glances at their text messages.

Words filled to the brim with concern and misdirected kindness.

Strangers, the lot of them.

Family? Friends? Coworkers?

No.

Does not compute.

There's no one in this enclosure you've created for yourself.

Not even yourself.

You haven't been present for years.

Eating away at yourself in a cannibalistic compulsion that no one can see, which suits you just fine.

You've never been one for exhibitionism.

Clock check sixty four.

Sixty five.

Suppress your anxiety with another, another, another tablet.

Too many, you note.

Perfect.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You've got this down to a science, an art.

Functionally dysfunctional, that's you.

Mother would be proud.

Oh.

Mother.

Quick, to the bathroom!

You shouldn't have eaten that slice of toast yesterday!

Surely that's why you're suffocating, ribs cracking, bending under the pressure of an invisible enemy.

You sink not just to your knees, but also to your lowest point.

Breathe in.

Expel out.

Not air, but blood. 

Because that's all that's left in you now.

No personality, no energy, no bile, no control... no toast.

Just blood.

Reach your fingers to your eyes, only to have them come back parched.

Thirsty for liquid shame you can no longer release.

Flush, wash, breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

Shuffle on autopilot back to your nest of blankets positioned just so in front of the clock.

And, just like you have countless times before, check the time.

And, as per usual, you don't question it.

Question what, one may ask?

You wriggle further down into your hoard of fabrics, half unraveled from the numerous times you've had these episodes.

You smile.

"Why is it always 3 am?"

Author's Note

Trigger Warning: Mental Illness, Eating Disorder, Mania