Ann sat at her desk during her lunch break. She was fasting. She sat
with a small carton of grapefruit juice, which she cautiously drank
through a straw with two red stripes running vertically on it. She
called her new eating habits a fast when people asked why she had
stopped eating once an hour. Ann is hypoglycemic and generally needs
to eat exactly that frequently. She has devised a new, discrete way to
commit suicide. She is never going to eat again.
It will take some time, but the wait is worth the effort, Ann often
thinks to herself. No one will know the better; no one will feel
responsible or hurt when she exhausts herself. Ann likes to think of
death as a needed and prolonged nap. That is how it must feel, she
While the office sits in the lunchroom, eating and talking and
laughing, Ann sits in her rolling chair, spinning around and around
over and over, inducing a continuation of lack of appetite. Ann has
always found extreme pride in her abilities of self-control. She
spins, eyes glossed, shaking ever so slightly. The laughter wafts down
the hall to her, reverberating in her hears, making her head buzz just
“Freak me out,” he said to her.
“What does that mean?”
“Give me head.”
Ann didn’t have any ambition to sleep with him. Her normal level of curiosity was not affecting her judgment. She felt as though she knew exactly how it would go. She knew she would run to the bathroom and weep afterwards, on the toilet, while taking a piss, with her head buried in her knees, which were wrapped with her abused, sex soiled panties. She wasn’t sure why she was going to do it anyways.
Just one more person, then I’m going to stop, Ann thought to herself.
Ann generally always went to bed an hour before she anticipated being tired enough for sleep. She liked to lie awake in the dark, and have varied fantasies about boys and self-destruction. Tonight, Ann thought about her last lover. She was fond of him. She lied on her back, with her hands on her breasts, imagining him grabbing her shoulders and shaking her violently, and slapping her small face viciously and repeatedly and saying to her while crying softly, “Stop this. Stop this. Stop this. I want you for me."
Ann’s stomach growled. She rolled over and fell asleep.
For the record:
After posting this yesterday I received a rash of emails expressing concern for my well-being. Although the concern was appreciated, I would like to clarify in an official way that these character sketches are only vaguely based on myself if even at all. Worry not little baby bumble bees, this is fiction.
On a lighter note, I'm glad it freaked you all out.
P.S. Sorry Dad. But I guess this is what happens when you give your five-year-old daughter Camus to read on the school bus, and use Kafka for bedtime stories.