Prompt Post: ROUND SEVEN

[oakenshields13]

ROUND SEVEN IS CLOSED

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2nd Fill- 1/?

[copycatgirl]

Charles starts off slowly, as though in an attempt to fool himself that he isn't doing it again. Sitting alone in the darkened kitchen, he lays out first two slices of bread, then four, spreading them thickly with peanut butter, cutting them diagonally into four triangular sandwiches. He takes a slow first bite, chewing steadily and having to work to swallow, a lump rising in his throat. His pace quickens, tearing off more of the bread and gnashing his teeth almost urgently. The peanut butter glues itself to the roof of his mouth and makes it harder to eat. He reaches for the glass bottle of milk on the counter and drinks straight from it, clearing his mouth and throat, some of the liquid dribbling from between his tight lips. He swallows with a gasp and attacks the sandwich again. With the last bite a feeling of guilt begins to rise, but he quashes it, reaching for the bag of potato chips. He rips it open with a crackle of foil, dipping his hand into the salty, crisp chips and bringing up slightly more than a mouthful. The bag empties much sooner than he would like, but the hollowness still makes itself known within him, somewhere unreachable, a scream that he thinks he could silence if he only keeps on eating.

He soon finds strewn all around him every manner of food debris: humus contaminated with the remains of breadsticks, an empty jar that had held pickles, the tin foil wrapper of a chocolate bar, two apple cores and a banana skin. He sinks down onto a dining chair with a groan, cupping his head in his hands. The horrible emptiness is still there, but certainly not in his stomach. The food feels heavy and intrusive in his belly, the shame of his binge mingling with the nausea. He rubs his swollen tummy, trying to soothe the pain, panicking. He is well aware that his body is academic, not athletic. He thinks himself too pale and soft and out of shape, and he scolds himself, furious.