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Declyn: A Boy Anorexic

Declyn came down to breakfast wearing blue boxers and a white t-shirt. The scent of bacon wafted to his nose as he sauntered into the kitchen in a half-awake half-asleep phase. On a typical day Declyn was required to eat 3200 calories to help him maintain his weight. Happy was the furthest thing that could describe how he felt about increasing his intake from 2800 to 3200 calories. The 19-year-old, muscular boy with bleached blonde hair and bright green eyes felt nervous. His breathing quickened as he sat down at the table. His mom placed a small plate containing three pieces of bacon and a medium sized bowl of Raisin Bran with skim milk in front of him. She then brought over a glass of cranberry juice, a plate of grapes, orange slices, and apple slices.

She was supposed to sit and make sure he ate everything, instead she messed his hair and walked away smiling. She trusted him to eat on his own making the situation less stressful for him. He made an honest attempt at the cereal. Three spoonfuls into the bowl and his hands began to twitch. It was too much food. He dropped the spoon and it clanked against the table. Balling his hands into fists he slammed them on the table causing the dishes to jump into the air. He’d become more prone to outbursts and they were happening more often.

He needed more time to adjust. He grabbed the plastic bowl and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a thud and cereal began to drip down the eggshell white painted drywall as the bowl rolled on the wood floor. He held his head in his hands and cried, then pushed the chair back, bolting up the stairs. He slammed the bathroom door and collapsed to his shins facing the toilet. Sliding two fingers down his throat he heaved until he threw up. This was his way of getting rid of the food he had eaten. It was how he made himself feel more comfortable again.

Half an hour later he sat on the floor perched against the wall and the edge of the tub. He sniffled and rubbed his eyes, trying to pull himself together. You can move past this, he told himself. Fuck, he wasn’t really living but merely existing as his life passed him by. The disorder that was destined to consume him started to win.

Note from the author: I wrote this in July of 2008 for Columbia College's Fiction Workshop in the High School Summer Institute program.