Tuesday 16th May 2023
Jess
‘Come on, Jess. At least eat the mash.’ Lou’s voice whines. Pleads. Frustration hovering underneath.
Jess doesn’t want to cause another argument, and she’s not keen on seeing Lou cry again either, so she dips her fork into the grey-white stodge and scoops up the smallest bit she can. Three little peaks of mashed potato on the fork’s prongs goad her. What are you going to do now, bitch? She jams her eyes closed – a perverse attempt to shut out the voices – and forces the gunk into her mouth. She almost gags, but somehow manages to control her reflex and it mercifully slides down her throat.
Lou looks relieved. Justin hardly looks at her at all anymore. Not for the last six months at least. She’s heard them arguing about it, hissed whispers through the thin bedroom wall when she’s supposed to be asleep. Justin admitting that he doesn’t understand it. She’s already skinny, he says. So if that’s why she’s doing it, congratulations, Jess, you’ve got what you want. And then Lou explains – always crossly – that it’s nowhere near that simple. That Jess has a serious mental health condition with physical symptoms. And that the effort it takes to put one morsel of food in her mouth is like swimming a mile against the strongest current. Jess doesn’t understand why Lou gets it. But it’s probably got something to do with her trawling eating disorder websites and reading a load of books.
Except she doesn’t always get it. Like now. Lou’s expression has already changed; the relief gone. She’s not thinking about the hellish current Jess is swimming against; she just wants Jess to eat more, and more, until she finishes the whole fucking plateful. A burst of anger fills Jess’s chest – why does everyone always want stuff from her? Things she’s not capable of giving them? She pushes back her chair, flips open the bin, and deposits the food in one motion.
‘Jess!’ Lou cries out. ‘Why did you do that?!’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she mutters.
‘You can’t live on thin air, for God’s sake!’
‘She ate loads of biscuits after school,’ Amber pipes up. ‘That’s why she can’t finish her dinner; that’s right, isn’t it, Jess?’
‘Did you?’ Lou asks, and her voice is so dripping in hope that Jess wants to laugh, cry and scream all at the same time. Except she’s too tired to do any of them.
‘Yeah,’ she manages. ‘Sorry.’
‘Okay, well, I guess biscuits are better than nothing.’
‘Can I go now?’
Lou nods, looks away, dejected. Jess closes the kitchen door behind her – she’s doesn’t even feel like hanging out with Amber right now – and tackles the stairs. She’s exhausted, weighed down by fear, and every step takes effort. But eventually she reaches her bedroom and flops down onto her bed.
Justin is wrong, she thinks as she strokes her jawline with two fingers, feeling for the soft hair that she discovered there a couple of days ago (something else that doesn’t make sense – the feel of it both comforting and gross). She doesn’t give two fucks about being skinny. It’s more that she’s too full to eat. A supersize serving of dread that’s been growing in her gut for more than a year, waiting to explode.
Which it will do in exactly seven days’ time.
She’s been thinking about nothing but the upcoming trial since last February and yet getting that envelope through the post – and the cold, formal letter inside – sparked a whole new level of terror.
And it wasn’t even about the actual trial. The letter says she’s got to have a meeting with the Crown Prosecution Service and their advocate – whatever that means – who’s going to argue the case in court. The letter called it an opportunity for Jess to familiarise herself with what will happen on the day. A valuable experience to help put her at ease. What the fuck is valuable about talking to a bunch of strangers who use words she doesn’t understand? People who’ve got the power to put her in jail? She’s never been inside a court, didn’t even know about them when Tyler got done for her mum’s murder. But she’s seen enough movies since to know how scary they are.
God, she’s going to be sick. She rolls onto her side, closes her eyes. Bile collects underneath her tongue, but she waits, and the moment passes. There’s a knock at the door, followed immediately by it swinging open. Without looking, Jess knows it’s Amber. Lou and Justin would never walk inside until she gave them permission.
‘What’s going on?’ Amber demands, dropping onto the end of Jess’s bed. ‘Why the fuck have you stopped eating?’
‘I haven’t,’ Jess whispers lamely.
‘It will kill you; you do realise that?’ Amber throws back. ‘And then it will just be me on my own. Dead mum, no dad, dead sister. It’s easy to cover for you – Lou is so gullible, it’s embarrassing – but that’s not a good thing. Not with this anyway.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jess whispers, heavy tears now rolling onto the pillow. ‘I want to eat,’ she tries to explain. ‘But when I look at the food, I don’t know … It looks disgusting. Like a pile of maggots.’
‘That’s bullshit talk!’ Amber spits back, her eyes ablaze. ‘You need to snap out of this crap, all right?’ She’s so angry she’s almost snarling. But Jess knows Amber. And how much meaner she is when real feelings threaten.
‘I will, I promise.’
‘And soon, yeah? You’re a fucking skeleton, Jess. You can’t keep doing this.’
‘I said I’d eat, okay?’
Amber doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move either. She hovers at the end of Jess’s bed, staring – her expression both furious and upset. Jess needs her to leave; needs some space outside the glare of her sister’s eyes.
‘I’m really tired now though,’ she says. ‘I’ll get some sleep and then have some toast when I wake up.’
Amber’s face softens very slightly. ‘You promise?’
‘On my life.’ The words hang between them for a moment, then Amber shakes her head, lets out a resigned sigh, and leaves the room.
Jess rolls onto her back. Amber is right. She is slowly killing herself. And she doesn’t want to die – at least not always. Sometimes it feels like the easiest way out, in the middle of the night when the house is deathly silent and she can’t sleep, but those thoughts never last. She wants to escape her life, her future, not destroy it.
And there is another way.
It’s the cowardly thing to do, so she doesn’t understand why it’s so fucking scary. With just one phone call, the dread would vanish. And hopefully, with it, the tightness in her throat; her chest; her gut. Lou would stop crying; Justin might look at her again. And most importantly, Amber wouldn’t have to worry about losing her sister.
She can hardly move she’s so tired. But she forces herself to roll over, then sit up. Her phone is still in her school bag. She’s even lost interest in that over the last few months. The funny memes that mock her. The inspirational quotes that shame her. But this is her way out. She finds her social worker’s contact details with shaking fingers and presses on her number.
‘Hello, Gail Thompson.’
‘Um, it’s Jess,’ she starts. Her head is swimming now. She lies back down but keeps the phone by her ear.
‘Hi, Jess,’ Gail says, her voice slowing. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I can’t do it,’ she whispers. Tears bubble in the corners of her eyes.
