He'd broken me, but he'd been so strangely gentle about it that somehow I was still me inside.
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I have problems of my own as well, of course; we all have our crosses to bear, as they say. I am very old, and something inside me is burning out and fading away, to the point of disappearing entirely.
Like the fat was something apart from me, a temporary encumbrance around my inner, thinner self. The “true me” was somewhere inside, buried under all that flab. To this day I’m still trying to dig him out.
Sure, I felt weak and nauseous pretty much all the time; my skin was cracked and washed out; and even resting, my heart fluttered in uneven bursts, like a stray pigeon trapped inside my chest. But I was dropping weight so fast I didn’t care, each successful weigh-in encouraging me to keep going, push harder, embrace the hunger. Feel the burn. Those words became my mantra, and I lived by them.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"Yes, and chilled, and miserable, I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch-too tight-and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm.
"You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go, I'll leave you and let you rest."
"Yes," she replied.
