Fading Out

C
opyright
© 2015 by Trisha Wolfe

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I
t's better
to burn out, than to fade away.

~Neil Young

T
en
. Nine. Eight. Seven
.
Six
…

“Earth to Ari.” Vanessa waves her hand in front of my face, the raffle tickets gripped between her fingers fanning a rush of cool air across my skin. The scents of crisp autumn leaves, spicy lattés, and freshly printed ink mingle together to create a wary but exciting mix of new school smell.

Blinking hard once, I refocus on my coping technique.
Five. Four. Three. Two… One
.

Release a deep breath. “I don’t even like football.” I half shrug, feeling more grounded, and hope she’ll drop the raffle topic. I’ve only been a Bobcat for about two weeks—and technically, most of that time was spent getting registered, transferred, moved, and settled into my dorm room. I’m not quite Braxton University material…yet. The exuberant school spirit one feels for their college football team is desperately missing within me.

Besides, large group events make my stomach hurt.

“So what? It’s not about the game; it’s about the hotties in football tights.”

When I give zero indication this registers with me, she groans. Then she slips the tickets into her side tote. “Girl, you have got to get out of this funk.” Vanessa links her arm through mine and begins guiding us toward the double doors of East Hall. Her long, ash blond hair whips at my cheeks as she jerks her head away from the wind. “Seriously. You’ve been a major downer lately.”

I force a clipped laugh. “As compared to what…before, Vee?” Vanessa, who requested I call her by her nickname upon our first meeting, is my roommate and the first person I met on campus. She took me under her wing easily. No questions asked. She’s just one of those people who’s very accepting. Like we were BFFs from the very first second. Like in middle school, when you only had to know the other girl’s name and that she also loved the color purple for a lifelong bond to be formed.

She shrugs. “You’re capable of having fun. I just know it. We’ll unearth that inner party girl eventually.”

I shake my head. “Watch out, Braxton,” I say, totally monotone, and she laughs.

I’m not being snarky, really. I’m thankful. If not for Vee’s openness, the only daily interaction I’d have would be the viciousness of my stepmother, Becca. The morning check-in calls, making sure I’ve eaten (appropriately), and the reminder to “not mess up this time.”

The embarrassment my parents suffered at my expulsion from my father’s alma mater will never be forgotten.

They will never
let
me forget.

I try to keep Mel’s words of wisdom tucked close to my heart during those calls: “Screw ‘em. It’s your life. You live it the best you can.
Your
way.”

With that encouragement, I pull the door open, and we step across the threshold of the small private college my father paid a hefty donation to in order to enroll me during the middle of the semester.

I’m deposited in front of my first class—Thematic Studies in Literature—as Vanessa releases my arm and says, “I better hear something good from you during lunch. I’m serious.” She lowers her chin, her green eyes giving me a severe glare.

With a twist of my lips, I give her a wry smile. I really do appreciate her attempts to “bring me out of my shell,” as she puts it. The disturbing truth is…my shell, most days,
is
the problem. When you’ve been conditioned to be at your best one hundred percent of the time, chances are, that may ignite an unhealthy self-image obsession.

Being a Wyndemere means perfection—socially, economically, and physically.

And as the inner push to rise to those expectations starts to swell, the anxiety quickly creeps in—the need to compulsively check my makeup and clothes, make sure everything is flawless, in order to quash the unease.

It’s a double-edged sword.

With a forced exhale, I unclench my fists and jaw, reminding myself to
relax
, then work to rearrange my strained facial muscles into a smile. “Long as I get my third cup of coffee in, I promise to give you every little juicy deet of English—” I draw a blank. Then hurriedly dig out my schedule. “English three-oh-four.”

Vanessa hikes her eyebrows and points at me as she starts to back down the hallway. “Just you wait. Today will be awesome, and then you’ll totally buy into my raffle idea.”

I offer her a lazy nod, and she shoots me a thumbs-up before she takes off down the corridor toward her first class of the morning.

As students file into the lecture hall, brushing past me one after another in quick succession, I feel the alarming pull at my stomach, the cold sweat blanketing my skin. Tucking my binder closer to my chest, I try one last time to count down the seconds, recalling every trick I learned—reluctantly—at Stony Creek Rehabilitation Center to calm my rapid heart palpitations.

That’s where I met Mel. And even though I tried to come across as cool and aloof, distant, she saw through the guise. She pushed through all my barriers and forced a friendship on me—the only thing to come out of my commitment that I’m grateful for. I have enough acquaintances, but no genuine friends. Until her. If the techniques don’t work, I do have her number saved. One text to her might be enough to get me over the first day hump.

Right. It’s just the first day. That’s all
. I’d be nervous as all get out no matter what.

But that tiny, annoying voice inside my head laughs, mocking my attempt at rationality.

Who am I kidding? Although I graduated the rehab program, my parents told that I made great progress acknowledging my condition—
illness
, though I was repeatedly reminded
not
to refer to it as such, so as not to get sucked into the “excuse” trap—I know the truth. The reality.

I fooled them.

My feet are taking me down the hallway as my eyes search for the nearest bathroom before I can even process my speedy retreat. As my head begins to spin, I berate myself for being so weak, my conscience pleads:
just today
. Just this once, until the hard part is over.

I’m pushing myself into the bathroom as the last of the late stragglers hustle out. One blessing, right there. I choose the last stall and set my books on the toilet back. Then I mentally curse, looking over my white blouse.

Off the shirt comes, bundled under one arm, as I hunker over and push the back of my tongue against my tonsils.

The splash of toilet water reverberates through the silent bathroom and my chest. With each gag, my face flames, tingles, knocking off layer after layer of anxiety. I haven’t needed to use the old finger down the throat method in years. Not since high school. My gag reflexes are piqued easily now, which makes for a terrible time trying to swallow certain foods. Like okra.

Just the thought of its slimy, filmy texture wretches another stream of bile from my mouth.

When the fit is over, I wipe my hand across my lips. My body trembles, but that’s more from the adrenaline easing off than losing my stomach. The calming effect slowly begins to encase me in a warm buzz, my thoughts clearing, the chaos and constant hum drowned out to silence.

It’s like being swept away by a current. Alone. Tranquil. In the middle of the ocean. Peaceful. And that calming sound of crashing waves breaks over me. I can breathe.

Now collected, I slip my blouse back over my head. As I unlock the stall door and ease it open, there’s a small worry that someone heard. I glance around. Still alone. I move to the sink and pull out my disposable toothbrush pack. I swear, the person who thought of these is a genius. I used to go through so many toothbrushes in high school. Just tossing them out at random places; on dates, between classes, church.

No one questions carrying disposables around. It’s just good hygiene, not considered OCD. Like my high school guidance counselor once deemed before the ultimate truth was uncovered—

Bulimia. Anorexia. Social Anxiety Disorder. Take your pick.

They threw so many labels at me my medical file overfloweth. None of those disorders encapsulates me, though. They’re like an extension of the bigger issue—just a way for me to
deal
. Being the perfect weight means less pressure I have to endure from my stepmother. Looking pristine means I don’t stand out amid esteemed society. Following my father’s direction means I’m valued.

And losing his approval isn’t an option. I’ve already suffered four months of emotional isolation…a lifetime of being a blacklisted Wyndemere infuses me with fear.

Who am I, if not a Wyndemere? Who am I?
Who am I
?

My reflection in the mirror blurs around the edges, the image fading out of focus.

My thoughts are starting to drift again, becoming muddled. I use what focus I have left after the initial purge mutates, transforming into guilt, to brush my teeth and collect myself into perfected, have-it-all-together Arian.

I’m not stupid. The counselors and nurses at Stoney Creek didn’t have to explain how this is a vicious cycle; I understood that long before my four-month commitment. Still, understanding something doesn’t make it any easier. It just brings on the guilt quicker, the shame deeper. Like a notched razorblade slicing jaggedly through my awareness.

I rinse my mouth and spit into the sink, then toss the used plastic brush into the trash. Looking into the mirror, I note the red puffiness around my lips. The newly bloodshot vessels of my eyes.

I actually did try, or at least
trust
that I would give it my best shot this time. That I would use the tools given to me by the faculty at Stoney. That I’d reinvent myself, having been given a new, redeeming chance—because I know more than anyone that this obsession will eventually be the death of me.

It’s just…how do you defend yourself against an attacker when the attacker is
you
?

L
unchtime
: Only the second most dreaded part of my day.

But at least here at Braxton—with its small student body—almost everyone ventures off campus for lunch, absorbed in their own lives. Friends. Studying. Food that is not cafeteria food. Which leaves the actual cafeteria practically vacant.

I find Vanessa easily, seated at an oblong table near the back wall. She has a book propped against the table and her knee, absentmindedly feeding herself from a tray, her eyes never leaving the page she’s reading.

Hiking my tote higher on my shoulder, I wander into the short line and nod to random food items: small house salad; dry celery and watery ranch dressing; turkey croissant. None of which looks appealing, but I know—from past experience—that if I don’t get something on my stomach soon, the afternoon drop will hit hard.

I plan to take full advantage of the campus gym later this evening.

Besides, I think, as my gaze longingly sweeps over a lone piece of carrot cake, with my steady-climbing adrenaline pumping my heart rate super fast, my nerves will work off the sugar in no time.

“Thumb wrestle you for it.”

The deep voice makes me jump, and I’m quickly pulled out of my rapid-cycling thoughts. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to see the guy behind me in line. “You can have…it…” My words trail off slowly as my gaze lands on his chest and I’m forced to angle my head back to find his face.

He’s built like a freaking brick house. His wide-set shoulders squared, muscular arms easily defined beneath a white-ribbed thermal. He holds a red tray before his tautly muscled stomach. I can tell, because the fitted thermal showcases each indent and bulge, outlining his clearly defined abs.

When I reach his eyes—clear, glacier blue—they’re squinted, crinkling at the edges, matching his ear-to-ear grin. He’s so massive; I suddenly fear he’ll plow right through me on his mission to get the last piece of carrot cake; that he doesn’t even see me. But then I recall, with a stupid shake of my head, that he just spoke to me.

What did he say again
?

“Oh, I know I can have it. The kitchen makes the cake specially for me, but I was giving you a fighting chance.” He smiles, revealing straight, white teeth. “I think you could take me,” he adds, craning one deep brown eyebrow. “Don’t give in so easily, shorty.”

Shaking my head again, I focus on what I said before I lost my train of thought while checking him out. Right, carrot cake. The last piece. As I’m still standing here, dumbfounded, the person directly behind us huffs and moves around to jump ahead in line.

Now the guy raises both eyebrows, trying to prompt some response from me. And this is what happens when I skip meals. All loss of brainpower. But then his cocky smile collides with his conceited words, pulling me out of my stupor.
Did he really just call me shorty
?

“Wait. The kitchen makes it for you?” I’m not even a fan of carrot cake, really. I just have a sugar craving to sate—but this guy’s superior attitude makes me determined he’s not getting that last piece. I turn and nod toward the display glass. “The carrot cake, please.” Then I begin to push my tray along the metal bars, trying to focus my gaze on anything but him, completely—and annoyingly—aware of his proximity as he follows too close behind.

“Sorry, hun,” the lady behind the glass says. “There’s no more cake. How about a brownie?”

Indignant, I stare openly at her. “I’m looking right at the cake.”

She shrugs. “Last piece is always reserved, sweetie.” She winks at the guy beside me.

He clears his throat and says, “Hi, Gina. The carrot cake, please.” She smiles, a hint of rosy red tinting her cheeks, and places the slice of cake on a paper plate before handing it to him over the glass.

Unbelievable. My inner snob balks at the lady as I slide my tray toward the cashier. I pull out my credit card from my crochet change purse (which I learned how to do at Stoney; idle hands and all that, even though I technically don’t have a drug problem) and then pay. I turn to go. Before I’m free of this awkward situation, the guy snags the cuff of my blouse, pulling me to a stop.

“Hold up,” he says. He nods his head toward the first clear table off from the register.

Confused but curious, I furrow my brow and follow him to the table.