Fill Me

"He who makes a beast ouft of himself

Gets rid of the pain of being a man."-Hunter S. Thompson

Hangovers.

Shaking.

Fear. Blinding. Intense. Fucking crippling.

Heat, so much August heat. Cicadas, I hate them, I want to fucking kill every cicada in the Southernmost region.

I close my eyes to block out the sight of the contents of my stomach falling into the toilet. It seems like I spend most of my life staring at the bottom of a fucking toilet, but hey, I can't bitch. I do it to myself.

I am starting to see the signs of the cirrhosis. Eating is something I might do once every other day, because once I eat, the results aren't pretty. It's not just puke anymore-it's blood and bile and chunks of my stomach. It's hard to catch my breath, especially when I sit up too fast. I'm constantly exhausted, though I can never sleep. All I do is shake and hallucinate and sweat.

You may ask me how I manage to hide these symptoms from Chris. It is almost impossible and I think he is starting to notice, but thankfully Nigels11 has him very occupied, so I'm able to hide my hands in my pockets, hold back the bile, smile when I'm terrified. When Chris is at the studio or doing radio interviews, I'm in my room at Alan's, hugging the toilet. Alan tries to talk to me, but I cannot let him know. Nobody must know.

I know you are getting frustrated with me, reader. I know I keep saying I'll stop drinking and then pick it right back up again. But alcoholism isn't this heroic road that people conquer in most stories. Having a drinking problem is like roaring down an icy highway, equipped with tires that have little to no traction. You fuck up constantly.

I hadn't had a drink in a week. Since the party at Chris's, and the night following it, I had told myself that I had to stop. I was almost 97% sure that Chris had said THE WORDS to me while we were drunk, and I can't remember if I answered or not, but I do know that when I woke up, I was facing a breaking point. It was either kill this demon liquor or be killed by it, and I wasn't interested in it anymore.

I just lied to you.

Of course I'm fucking interested in it. I would give anything to be rid of these shakes, these nightmares, this uneasy stomach. I would have sold my soul to the devil for a bottle of anything, wine, a weak Smirnoff, fuck, wine coolers. But every time I would drag myself to my feet to go to the kitchen, my stomach would revolt, and my knees would give out. Constant war.

But look, I can't bitch.

I do it to myself.

___________________________________________________

The second Dr. Triche entered the tiny examination room, Nyx flew at him.

"You have to give me something. I'm losing my goddamn mind."

Dr. Triche had been disturbed many times as a doctor, but he had never been as unsettled as he was now as he stared at Nyx Dufrene.

The bags under her eyes were enormous and her skin looked like dull paper. What used to be determination had morphed into helplessness, and Dr. Triche was alarmed by how wild her eyes were. He could see the bones in her face. Nyx Dufrene had once been a striking, ferocious woman, but now she was nothing.

"Sit down, Nyx." Dr. Triche tried to move her towards a chair, but she shook her head in frustration.

"I don't want to sit. I want you to give me something. My God, I'm losing my fucking mind."

Her hands went to her hair and yanked and she spun away from him, her small, thin body racking with nerves.

Dr. Triche hurriedly closed the door. "Tell me what's going on, Nyx."

She turned and faced him and took a deep breath, leaning against the counter for support. The doctor could see her veins from across the room.

"I haven't had a drink for a week now. I can't eat. I can't think. All I do is puke. I can't sleep. I know it's all my fault, but goddammit, give me something. Amitryptiline. Diazepam. Librium. Anything! Rat poison. Shit!" Nyx tugged at her hair in frustration.

Dr. Triche sighed and looked down at her file. "I can't give you those things, Nyx. You have an addiction to prescription pills."

She made a snarling sound. "None of which were found in my bloodwork. Trust me, out of everything I do, prescription pills are the least of my worries."

Dr. Triche shook his head. "I cannot give them to you, Nyx."

Nyx clenched her fists and she started to tremble so badly that Dr. Triche tensed in his chair, ready to call for help, should she explode on him.

She did something worse-she begged.

"Please, Dr. Triche. Please. Amitryptiline can't possibly do anything for me except get me to sleep. That's all I fucking want at this point. I just want some goddamn rest." She buried her face in her hands and began to sob, and Dr. Triche winced. He hadn't known Nyx for very long, but he was smart enough to realize that this was a woman who did not cry unless she was at her wit's end. And Dr. Triche wasn't sure he wanted to see the outcome of that.

He felt himself waver. She WAS right. Amitryptiline was an antidepressant and though you COULD overdose on it, it was not commonly used for getting high, and he could plainly see that Nyx was in dire need of sleep. But Dr. Triche knew how addictive personalities worked-whatever he gave her, she'd use and abuse, even if it got her high or not. He didn't want to take the risk.

"Nyx, I want to help you, but I don't know if I could just give you a prescription and let you walk out of here." The doctor said cautiously, expecting another outburst, but Nyx just shook her head and slumped on the ground, burying her face in her hands.

"Nyx, you need to go to a hospital." Dr. Triche said quietly, after a few moments of tension-filled silence. He heard a sound that resembled muffled laughing, and Nyx raised her eyes to meet his. They were wet and bitter and Dr. Triche couldn't believe how miserable she looked. For someone twenty four years old, she looked closer to mid-thirties.

"Yeah, that would look great. What do you think I should tell everybody? That I'm suffering from ‘exhaustion', that I'm dehydrated? Which unbelievable excuse should I feed to them? Keep in mind, I'm dating someone famous. He knows what those words mean." Nyx wiped her eyes and pulled her knees to her chest. Dr. Triche hesitated, hating to admit that she was right.

"I could give you a mild sedative." He suggested, and Nyx looked sideways at him. "How long will it take to work?"

He shrugged. "An hour or two."

She smirked. "And then I'll be back wanting another."

Dr. Triche just looked evenly at her. "It's a start, Nyx."

She leaned her head back and smacked it gently against the cabinets, her eyes wide and open and dead looking.

"Do what you have to do."

Dr. Triche rose to his feet. "I'll get a nurse."

Before he could leave the room, though, Nyx's entire body propelled forward and she grabbed blindly for the small trash can next to her. Dr. Triche watched in mixed pity and revulsion as she grasped it close to her chest and vomited into it. Blood. Chunks of stomach. Bile. Her fingernails were grating into the side of the cheap plastic trashcan and she was trembling uncontrollably. The doctor slowly resumed his seat on the stool, unable to tear his gaze away.

Not in his 36 years of practicing medicine had he EVER seen a detox like this. Nyx didn't even look like a person anymore-she looked possessed, her eyes glassy, her face drained of all color, the flow still coming and coming. Dr. Triche knew he should call an ambulance, but he was pinned down from horror, from disgust, from sympathy.

Nyx exhaled sharply, as if she had been held down underwater, a desperate bid for freedom. She retched once more, but nothing came out except spit, and she shakily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Dr. Triche slowly let out a deep breath that he didn't know he had been holding until now.

"It's like the fucking Poltergeist." Nyx muttered, pushing the trash can away from her. From where he was sitting, the doctor could see beads of sweat along her hairline.

"Is it like that all the time?" Dr. Triche questioned, and Nyx smiled a little, her eyes closed, face pointed to the ceiling.

"Mostly. You got a special performance, though. Those were new colors."

His shaking hands opened her medical file and groped uselessly in his pocket for his pen. "I'm just going to ask you a few questions." He said, swallowing, his throat dry.

Nyx waved a shaking hand at him. "Nothing but time."

He slipped on his glasses and squinted down at his notes.

"Last time you ate and kept down food?"

"Two days ago. Wait, kept down? Four days." Nyx made a face and nudged the trash further away with her foot.

The doctor marked it down.

"Last menstrual cycle?"

"Two months ago."

"Last date of substance abuse?"

Nyx fixed her eyes on him, and they were deep and dark and determined.

"A week since alcohol. A month without cocaine."

Dr. Triche paused. "You stopped using cocaine?"

Nyx shrugged. "For the moment, I'm sure."

Dr. Triche bit his tongue and marked down her reply.

"Last date you had sexual intercourse?"

Something passed across Nyx's face, so quickly that the doctor wasn't sure he had seen it at first. It had looked like sadness. Tenderness. Strange to see that on her face.

"A week ago." She said softly, and looked down into her lap. Dr. Triche pretended not to notice.

"Are you on birth control?"

Nyx nodded. "Deprovera. Doubt I"ll get pregnant at this point-knock on wood, but I'm still protecting myself."

"Always smart. Are you feeling well enough to stand up? I want to take some blood and urine samples." Dr. Triche pocketed his pen, and Nyx laughed dryly.

"Don't believe me, doc?"

"Standard procedure." He lied, and Nyx just snickered. "Nothing about this is standard procedure."

Dr. Triche couldn't agree with her more.

It was almost twilight as Chris pulled alongside the curb at the Crane residence.

One quick check of the driveway assured him that Alan and the detestable Christobel were not around, or so he hoped. He was way too tired to deal with Christobel, who always looked at him with this smug little smirk every time he stopped at the house. She always looked like she knew something he didn't and was enjoying his ignorance thoroughly.  He tried not to come to the house if he could help it, something that Nyx understood, hence why she was always over at his.

But Nyx hadn't been answering her phone all day, and Chris was worried. Ever since that night they had gotten drunk and messed around, she had been getting more quiet, more withdrawn, paler. When asked about her behavior, she'd only shake her head and offer up a small smile. "Stop worrying, Chris," Nyx would admonish, "you're starting to get gray hair."

Really, he had all the reason to worry, and if he got gray hairs from it, so be it, but Chris knew what had happened that night. He had been wrecked, sure, but he knew he wouldn't forget the way her eyes had locked in on his, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. They had floated in the air between their lips and hung there, and Chris had wanted to take them back and bury them deep inside himself.

But she had not answered. Chris wasn't even sure she had heard him, which was somehow both reassuring and disappointing. He remembered not wanting to sleep, even though the alcohol was impossible to resist-he had been terrified that she would run.

He had woken up alone and gone downstairs to find a state of incredible disarray in his living room. Chris's heart had been in his throat.

But he had entered the kitchen and there she was-leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, staring at the refrigerator as if it held all the answers to life. She had looked incredibly vulnerable and lost and tiny and Chris had felt something in his heart disengage, start whirring, and warmth had flooded him from head to toe.

Nyx had looked over at Chris, disheveled, wide eyed, relieved beyond belief, and without showing a hint of surprise of seeing him, sighed.

"We're out of fucking bacon."

Chris hadn't even responded-he had just gone forward and pulled her into a hug. He tried to put a lot of unsaid feelings into the hug and Nyx evidently got the message, because she blushed when he finally set her down.

"What was that for?" She had asked, ruffling his hair.

Chris just shook his head. "For being here."

Nyx just blinked at him, confused.  "Where else would I want to be?"

He smirked. "A house where the fridge is stocked with bacon."

Nyx shrugged and nodded. "I don't ask for much."

No, Chris had thought, as he led her upstairs, but you're going to get it anyway.

He shook his head free of these thoughts and pulled off his helmet. It was hot and muggy and Chris suddenly had the incredible urge to find the nearest bed and crash for the next week or two. He had forgotten how exhausting it was to get a record out, and Chris wondered how he had ever made it through the days back when he was with *NSYNC. Lots of pixie sticks, he thought wryly, and faster metabolism.

He approached the door, which had ceased to be as forbidding (unless Christobel lurked behind it) and rang the doorbell, hoping Nyx would answer the door, but it was one of the maids and Chris smiled tiredly at her, not needing to say anything. The maids knew him by now and said no more then ‘hello' or ‘goodbye' as he passed, but he always tried to be polite to them.

The maid that answered the door (Benita? Burrito?) stepped aside and allowed Chris to move past her, and he nodded in thanks, waving off her gestures to take his jacket.

The house was dark and still and the only sound he heard was the soft Spanish music coming below from the kitchen. Usually when Chris arrived, he could hear Nyx pumping out the radio at top volume from downstairs, mostly just trying to piss Christobel off, or she would run down the steps to greet him, or in most cases, intercept him from whatever reception Christobel might offer.  But Chris heard nothing from above, which was unusual.

He quickened his steps, the thought of encountering an empty room and a "Dear John Doe" letter making him slightly sick to his stomach. In fact, his paranoia was so great that by the time Chris reached her bedroom door, he was positive that she was gone.

He knocked softly, but nobody answered, so Chris turned the knob and the door swung open.

The room was dark and quiet but when he saw Nyx sprawled on the bed, Chris slumped against the doorframe in immeasurable relief.

Am I ever going to stop thinking this way? He wondered, drinking the sight of her in. Why can't I just relax and believe that she'll be there when I wake up, when I turn a corner, when I call her phone?

The answer was supposed to come naturally, but it never did.

Nyx was laying across her bed on her side, shoes kicked off, her red hair covering most of her face. Chris could hear her breathing, soft and ragged and familiar, and he moved forward into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

He was never really aware of how much he missed her until he saw her again, and though he called her on his breaks from the studio, hearing her voice was a shitty substitute for this. Nyx was constantly in motion-laughing, teasing, jumping around, and like him, didn't get much in the way of sleep. To see her still and so unguarded was strange, but Chris reveled in the opportunity. He put his helmet on an armchair and drew closer to her, but a flash of silver from the bedside table caught his attention, and Chris's fingers trailed over a blue prescription box.

"Amitryptiline." He read, his eyes furrowing in confusion as he studied the small letters on the label. It gave no indication of what function the pills served, so Chris pulled out the foil package to find two of the little white pills gone. He looked down at his sleeping girlfriend, biting his lip. Nyx made no movement, she didn't twitch or squirm or sniffle or cough. Chris set down the pill box and bent to her level.

"Nyx?" He whispered, pushing her hair off of her face. No reaction. Chris felt a faint stirring of worry. He placed his hand on her back and waited until he was reassured by the steady rise and fall of her body, but she was freezing cold.

Chris gently shook her, but nothing happened. Okay, now, this was bad.

"Nyx. Babe. Wake up." He whispered loudly, patting her on the side. Nothing. She didn't even stir.

Chris looked around frantically to see if there were other pill bottles that he had missed, but the room was immaculate. He debated on whether or not to call 911, but she WAS breathing, right? She wasn't bleeding or choking. It looked like she had just passed out or gone into a coma.

Chris snatched the blue box off of the side table and quickly scanned the label again, which advised the user to take one pill a day. ONE. Two were gone.

"Dammit." He ground out from between his teeth, and dropped the box again. This time, he rolled Nyx to her back, fully prepared to shake her or slap her or whatever drastic measure it would take to revive her, even though Chris suspected she'd kill him afterwards.

But as soon as he rolled her over, Nyx's eyes dragged open and she blearily focused on him for a split second before emitting a shocked squawk and yanking away.

"Chris, what the hell are you doing?!" She gasped, pushing her hair off of her forehead. Chris glared at her, although he wanted to go limp with relief.

"Waking you up from this coma-like sleep you were in. I shook you and called you and it was like you were dead."

Nyx groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Scared the living shit out of me."

Chris bent down and scooped up the blue box and tapped her on the arm with it. Nyx's face rose. Her eyes were bleary and she looked drawn and pale and absolutely exhausted, but she raised an eyebrow at his expression, which was beyond stern.

"What the hell are these?" Chris demanded, and Nyx rolled her eyes and sighed, taking the pills out of his hand.

"Stuff to help me sleep."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Sleep, or go into a coma? The damn thing says to take one, Nyx. You took two. What the hell?'

Nyx rubbed her eyes and set the box next to her. "I've taken these before. One doesn't work. I'm sorry if I freaked you out."

Chris softened-it was almost impossible to be upset with her when she looked so worn out. He reached forward and tugged gently on her hair.

"What time did you take them?"

Nyx yawned and shrugged. "What time is it?"

Chris pulled out his phone and checked the display. "It's seven o'clock."

Nyx's eyes grew wide. "Goddamn. I've been out since eleven in the morning. Must have needed more sleep then I thought I did." She stretched out her arms and cracked her neck, and Chris, watching her, was alarmed at how pale and washed out she looked. Her actions were sluggish and her eyes were dull and he doubted very much that the pills were taking that much out of her. He bit his lip, knowing he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself.

"Babe, are you doing alright? You look sick."

He expected an eye roll and a trademark Nyx Dufrene admonition to stop fussing, goddammit, but she just gazed back at him, her shoulders heaving in a big sigh.

"I do feel blah, but it's just all this crap about finding an apartment and searching for a new job. And you of all people should know how insomnia can get to you." She smiled a little and reached over to trace one of his tattoos with her fingernail.

Chris shook his head. "I've felt pretty dead on my feet before, but babe, no offense-you look like you've got swine flu."

She chuckled. "No offense taken. That's how I feel. It'll go away, though. I just need some goddamn sleep."

"I agree with you there. I'm worn the hell out. Remind me why I'm producing an album again?" Chris groaned, falling back to lie on the bed, throwing his arm over his eyes.

She snickered. "To reclaim the wet dreams of little girls everywhere."

He made a face. "Christ, Nyx. That's gross."

"Yeah, I know." She huffed and fell back to join him, but they did not touch. Silence blanketed the room and Chris felt himself begin to drop off-this bed was incredibly comfortable. He assumed that Nyx was doing the same, but he felt her shift next to him, and he looked over at her and smiled. "What?"

Nyx was gazing at him as if it was the last time she'd ever lay eyes on him again.

Chris's smile dissolved and he watched her watch him, biting her lip, her eyes full of sadness and regret and...fear? He had never remembered seeing this kind of emotion in her before. It looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Chris immediately straightened up.

"What's the matter?" He whispered, anxious to fix it, fearing that she would start bawling, which he had never seen her do before. Nyx shook her head and her mouth opened, but before she could get out a word, her body jolted and before Chris could even blink, her hand was over her mouth and she was barging through the bathroom door, slamming it behind her.

He was almost on her heels, but the bathroom door was locked and he could hear the faucet running and the faint sounds of retching.

"Nyx! Open up!" Chris yelled, yanking at the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. He pressed his ear to the door and strained to hear something, anything, but all he heard was little gasps. It sounded like a child whimpering.

"Nyx, goddammit, this isn't funny. Open the fucking door." Chris growled, throwing his shoulder against it, which produced no results whatsoever.

"I'm fine, Chris!" He heard her choke out, and he stared at the door in exasperated amazement.

"You sure as hell don't sound fine!" He retorted, and the toilet flushed in answer, and right before he was about to knock down the door, it flew open and Nyx stood there, her face wet and white as a sheet; she had to lean against the door for support.

"What the hell was that?" Chris demanded, and Nyx tiredly waved him away.

"I must have a bug. Don't get close. You don't need to be getting all sick right now, with the album."

He gave a snort of epic proportions. "I think I'll survive. Come on, bed."

Chris expected her to resist, but she took the hand he offered and let him lead her to the bed again. By the time he had yanked off his shirt and shoes and slid into bed next to her, Nyx was asleep.

Though he was exhausted himself, Chris forced himself to stay up and watch her, at least for a few minutes more. He settled himself closer to her so she could pick up his body heat (the woman was like a walking AC unit) and contemplated her without touching her. He loved this woman, and a part of him didn't want to, but a part of him needed to. The part that didn't want to love her was the part that resented her closemouthed status on almost everything, her secrets, the lies she told him (oh, Chris knew she lied) the almost constant refrain of wondering whether or not she'd be there the next morning. He hated himself for getting carried away by the liquor and the emotions and telling her the three words that had never really left his mouth before. Chris hated not knowing, he hated the limbo, the restraint.

But Chris loved her, and that dimmed everything else-the frustration, the anger, the fear. He had gone through extremes in his life-from being dirt poor to being filthy rich, to being a nobody to being a worldwide sensation, from a hardcore bachelor to a man on his knees in front of this woman. He wanted Nyx to know that he loved her, he wanted to be able to say it, get it out of his system before it devoured him, but something in her eyes always begged, pleaded, warned-don't say it. I'll run.

So Chris bit it back. Every time she smiled at him, every time they said goodbye on the phone, when they were together in bed or out paintballing or hanging with his friends-he felt the words dangling precariously at the edge of his tongue. It was only until their eyes met would they climb back down his throat.

His eyes felt heavy. His mouth was dry. He wanted a beer, but he was too tired.

She had been about to say it, Chris thought drowsily, he was positive.

But her sickness kept her back.

Two weeks, no liquor.

I am losing it.

Every day is a test, and I barely pass.

I  grew immune to the Amitryptiline in a matter of days. I had expected that, but I was angry. I needed something. Anything. Fill me, goddammit. Fill me.

Pills, liquor, drugs, fucking give me something. Food, dick, anything. I want to stop feeling so empty.

I am more terrified without liquor then with it. Without it, I don't know how I'm going to lie about the new job opportunity coming my way. Without it, the hand and the smell and the cicadas swarm over me. Without it, Chris's love is achingly real, so close I can touch it and feel it and it's terrifying and every conversation we have is becoming strained because I cannot reciprocate it verbally. Without it, I don't know who I am.

Noon on a Thursday. Chris is at the studio and will probably be there until eleven or midnight, so I came back to Alan's after work had finished. I'm in a fucking mood, man. I feel like Sparta-kicking everybody I fucking see. My stomach is aching and a headache is raging behind my forehead and I know I need food. The most I can keep down for more then an hour is saltines with no butter, and sometimes bread, but I want some fucking food. I want Popeyes fried chicken, crispy and hot and steaming Cajun mashed potatoes, I want a juicy burger with cheese and bacon and ranch and goddamn French fries. Anything, goddammit. Fill me with something. And just let somebody try to stop me.

I stalk into the kitchen and the second Amparo sees me, she averts her eyes and hurries out of the room. The two younger maids take her cue and follow her. Nobody looks directly at me. I don't give a shit. Fuck sober people. I hate them all. I go straight to the industrial refrigerator and throw it open. I'm immediately disgusted by what I see-Christobel's yogurts and Slimfasts and Lean Cuisines and Alan's fucking vegetarian bullshit. I want some goddamn meat, for Christ sakes. Fill me.

There's no liquor, and I know it, but I still search every inch of the fridge and every cabinet on the walls. This takes me awhile because the kitchen is as big as a goddamn hotel lobby, and by the time I'm finished, I'm practically insane with hunger. I stand in the middle of the kitchen and my mind whirs relentlessly. Can't drive in this state of mind for food. Nothing to cook, and even if there was, I was in no state to be around a stove or an oven. Fill me, goddammit.

I wrench my Itouch out of my pocket and connect to the Internet. A few impatient clicks gets me the number to the nearest pizza delivery joint and I look at their menu. Everything. I want everything.

I stalk over to the phone mounted on the wall and I punch in the number and I order two large pizzas. Supremes. Breadsticks. Fucking brownie bites-I've forgotten the taste of chocolate.

The phone call is over and I slam it back onto the wall and I screech for one of the maids. Benita appears instantly, but she is terrified of me and stays at the other end of the kitchen. I throw money at her and tell her that food is coming, to bring it straight to me, and if she doesn't, I'll report her to the fucking INS or something. The money is gone and Benita with it before I can threaten her further. My legs are shaking and my stomach is trying to revolt at the very thought of food, but I fight it and I pace the kitchen. I curse. I yank at my hair. I punch things. I cry.

My phone rings, and it's Chris, but I don't answer. I can't. I can't let him hear me cry. I'm Nyx Dufrene, for Christ sakes. I don't cry-I kick ass. Chris doesn't need a woman that falls to pieces, and right now, that's what I'm doing.

Voicemail. I ignore it. Doorbell rings, I hear hushed voices from the foyer, the door opens and closes. I smell the pizza before it gets to me and when the maid appears I tear it out of her hands and she throws the change at me and runs away. Run, bitch, or I'll eat you too.

I throw open the lid to the pizza and I inhale it. Cheesy, meaty, REAL fucking food. My stomach recoils in horror but I just smile to myself-get ready, motherfucker. Sending some shit your way. I pick up a slice and I shove it in my mouth, manners be damned. I chow down on it and it travels down my throat and it feels hot and burns my mouth but I don't care. Something, anything. My stomach immediately tries to send it back up, but I resist. No, I need to eat. Go fuck yourself. Seconds. Thirds. Fourths. By this point I've passed my normal threshold for food intake, but I don't care. I start in on the cheesesticks, and my god, they're so good. Cinnamon sticks, god, they're good too. Brownie bites. The chocolate mixes with the cheese and it doesn't taste great and my stomach tries to use that as an excuse, but I shake my head and continue to force down the food. Fuck you. It's my turn.

I'm covered in cheese and chocolate and cinnamon. My shirt is stained with it and so are my jeans and I don't care. That was the best fucking meal I've ever eaten, goddammit. Best, ever. I try to stuff another brownie bite in my mouth, but I can't take anymore. I cough it back up and my phone rings again and I ignore it again. I'm full. For the first time in a week, I'm full.

I rest my hot forehead on the cool ceramic tile of the island and breathe deeply through my nose. The anger is still there but it's not as blinding. There's just the old familiar weariness. It's bone deep and it makes me start sobbing again. Look at me. I'm a pig.  I'm just a scared pig in a person's body.

Fear. Shame. It's all coming up. Along with my food.

Fuck.

I push the chair out of my way and I stumble to the closest bathroom, but I barely make it, and I don't even close the door. I just grab the bowl and hold on tight and do what I do best-get rid of the good stuff.

Fill me.

___________________________________________________

Christobel slid quietly into the bathroom and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. She glared at Nyx's back, heaving over the toilet bowl. The sounds that were coming out of Nyx's throat were disgusting, but Christobel wasn't a stranger to binging, so she could deal. Plus, she had seen this from Nyx many times.

"Why don't you just move in here?" Christobel asked disgustedly, and Nyx barely turned her head.

"Fuck off Christobel." She groaned, but immediately began retching again, and Christobel made a face.

"Yuck. If only Mr. Boyband could see you now. Should I get the digital camera? Be a great one for the newspapers." The younger woman grinned with malice and Nyx's body froze. Her eyes locked on her cousin and they were like chips of granite.

"The fuck you would."

Even on her knees, yakking up her insides, Nyx was incredibly formidable, and Christobel had to force herself not to flinch.

"Not yet. But soon, if you don't get the fuck out of here."

Nyx growled. "I'm looking for a place to go, asshole."

"Here's a novel idea, dear cousin. Go back to fucking Louisiana. We don't want you here." Christobel snarled, but Nyx just shook her head, sighing.

"YOU don't want me here, Christobel."

"No. I don't. You're the fucking savior of Earth back home. Why the fuck do you have to come here and screw with me? This is MY fucking home, Nyx, I'm the queen, I'm the goddamn savior of Earth here. Me, not you." Christobel took a step closer to Nyx, her finger almost in the other girl's face.

Nyx's eyes narrowed and before Christobel could blink, her cousin's fingers were wrapping painfully around her wrist and dragging her closer until their faces were inches apart.

"You're the queen of nothing, you cunt. All you are is a fat girl in a thin girl's body, whining for the breaks you think you deserve. You want to be in my position? Go ahead, take it. Have it." Nyx's teeth were clenched and she smelled like sour pizza and chemicals. Christobel almost peed on herself. Nyx's fingers were like stone and though Christobel tried to squirm out of the grip, she wasn't letting go. The bones felt like they were giving in.

 "Try to live up to their standard and be used against everybody else as a sliding scale on how perfect they are. Look at me, you fucking bitch-do I LOOK perfect? Do you WANT to be their pet, their goddamn savior? Do you want all the pressure? Fucking take it!" Nyx roared, flinging Christobel away from her and turning once again to the toilet.

Christobel's back hit the wall and she stood there, grasping her wrist, staring in open-mouthed terror at her cousin, who wasn't paying attention to her anymore, just vomiting into the toilet as if she wanted to empty out her organs. Blood was falling rapidly into it, and Nyx's fingernails were scratching wildly in the porcelain. Christobel looked down at her wrist-it was black and purple already and an imprint of fingers could be seen clearly against her tan, but that wasn't even painful compared to what she was looking at.

Before Christobel could open her mouth to retort or scream or call for help, Nyx did something that she hadn't done in years, at least in front of her own cousin.

She started to sob.

The last time Christobel had seen her cousin cry was when they were seventeen years old and Nyx had broken her arm. That hadn't even been crying, really-more like an anguished howl, but this wasn't like that. This was a desperate, ragged, broken keening that seemed to come from another person, hidden in the angry body that had become Nyx's over the years.

Christobel felt the apron strings tugging at her-family only after God; but she could do nothing but stare in wide eyed terror at this display. She knew she should do something, comfort Nyx, call the hospital, call Alan, call Chris, but Nyx seemed beyond consoling or medical attention or anything that Christobel had to offer. The end was here and it was going to break her and Nyx had burnt her bridges too well.

Christobel took a step out of the bathroom, holding her wrist, unable to pull her eyes away from the scene. And when she spoke, she intended for it to hurt, but all she could manage was a whisper.

"If this is the price, then I don't want to pay it."

Nyx let out a gasping, bitter laugh. "About time you fucking got it."

Christobel bit her lip, and without knowing why, without wanting to and yet being unable to stop, she gave her cousin the only gift she had left.

"You don't need to pay it either."

Nyx's eyes met hers and for the first time in years, Christobel saw the face behind the face behind the face.

It was begging for help, but Christobel turned and walked away, leaving Nyx to her toilet, her decisions, and her pride.

Family only after God, she thought, but God can have my family, I don't want them anymore.

 Caught here in a fiery blaze, won't lose my will to stay. 

I tried to drive all through the night

 the heat stroke ridden weather, the barren empty sights

 No oasis here to see, the sand is singing deathless words to me. 
Can't you help me as I'm startin' to burn (all alone)

 Too many doses and I'm starting to get an attraction

 My confidence is leaving me on my own (all alone)

No one can save me and you know I don't want the attention.
As I adjust to my new sights

The rarely tired lights will take me to new heights

My hand is on the trigger I'm ready to ignite

Tomorrow might not make it but everything's all right

 Mental fiction, follow me;

 show me what it's like to be set free.