A chapter.

The battlefield I'm in does not smell of smoke and blood, but of pastry and chocolate. The sizzle and crackle of bubbling cheese echoes like cannon blasts and gunshots. The hum of the refrigerator motor drones on, the clacking rumble  of a tank. 
Around me, the house breathes is daily song, the shrill beeping of the microwave blends with the annoying music of my brother's video game. 
The crinkle of cellophane becomes the rapid fire shots of a revolver. 
I blink. 
My sister, oblivious to the chaos, dumps the tray of cheddar cheese fries onto the plate. To me, they are crinkly bullets. The ketchup is blood. 

She pops one into her mouth, careless. 
I sip my diet soda.  
"You cooking tonight?" she asks with her mouth full. 
I sigh, stretch my arms. "If you like." 

The voice in my head whispers: "eat something"

"What are you making?" Blythe says, biting another French fry. 

"I dunno. Maybe pasta? Casserole?" 

"Definitely casserole," Blythe decides. "C'mon Kenzie, I'm starving." 

"You're eating now," I point out, but I'm already on my feet.  

"300 calories," my brain whispers. A dark voice in the back of my mind hisses: "fatty". 

"So?" she says, flicking on the tv. Adding to the chorus of noise in the house. 

I am eight days empty. Ten fewer pounds of Kenzie walking around. I cannot give in, not now that I'm so close. 
But, despite these reminders, I know there are brownies just seven feet away. Chocolate chips, chocolate drizzle, thick, chewy cake. 
It takes me a minute to realize I'm standing motionless in front of the open refrigerator. I shake my head.
No. The brownies are not for me. 
I pull out the cheese, broccoli, cauliflower, and potatoes. 
I peel, chop, shred, and stir. 
Bread is crumbled and it is all blended, a medley of calories and fat and things I don't deserve. 
Not at 115. Not ever. 
I put the whole mess in the oven, where I can't pour it down my throat. 

"you need to eat," the small voice whispers. 

I am convinced, and control slips from my grasp. 
I reach for the handle of the refrigerator. 
"NO," another voice shouts.  And then- 
The glasses and windows in the room shatter and fly,  daggers stuck in my arms and legs. Fragments coat the floor. 
I drain out onto the tile, blood pouring from my body-
No. 
The room is not covered in blood, but cranberry juice. I dropped the pitcher. The windows have not shattered, but my glass is cracked. 

Blythe steps in, notes the mess on the floor.
"What the hell did you DO?" she asks, surprised. 

"Shut up," I snap, dazed. 

These are the sorts of things that happen when you lose your mind. 

Time slows down as I clean the floor, slowly wiping, back and forth. The image flashes from blood to juice, back to blood. 

"This is why we don't eat. You mess things up. Keep the peace, and just stay here with me," the voice whispers in my brain, soothing. 

Unconsciously, I sway into a nod. 

Another blink. 

"How am I ever gonna get up off this floor?" I wonder. It seems monumental. Sky high. 
The joints and muscles inside me are rusted and creaking. I could stay a little longer. 
Take a nap, even. 
Curl into a ball and soak up the cranberry juice like a sponge. 
The counter, miles away, looks down on me. 

But I know I can't stay here. The strings on the marionette twitch, and I claw my way to my feet. 
I can smell the cheese. 
It is disgusting-itiswonderful-. 
I refuse to eat it. 
Globs of fat. Fat that will attach to my thighs and stomach and face.
Fat that will jiggle and squish out of my pores. 
Greasy, thick, slow, stupid.

But it smells so good. Thick and creamy. I know how gently it will give way under my teeth. One bite, surely I deserve one bite- 
"NO!" 
The voice shouts again. 
And suddenly the food becomes numbers. 300+120+500+90=failure. 
=death. 

The battle in my mind is enough to make me cry and scream. 
The fight between insanity and instinct. 

I race upstairs, ignoring the wave of dizziness that hits from moving too fast.
Compulsively, I walk into the bathroom, shut the door, rip my clothes off. 
And climb on the scale. 
114. One pound less than yesterday.
But not enough. 
I glance at my body in the mirror, beholding the evidence of my past sins. 
The bulges of my enormous thighs, the huge slab of fat on my stomach.
I'm smothering under all the weight. 
Cresting over my hipbone is a puckered purple scar, lumpy and still partially scabbed over. I run my finger down the harsh patch of skin. 
Compared to this, the others are stokes from a paintbrush.
 Dashes, lines, and slants cover the expanse of flesh. 
Some are worse than others. 
But the one that cannot be explained away is the brand on my upper thigh. carved in with hate is the dreaded word. 
FAT. 
Nomatter how many times I've tried to bleach it away or cut it apart, it remains. 

I twist and turn in front of the mirror, examining every line and flaw. 
The ghosts of my chest bones and ribcage.
The hipbones that barely stick out. 

My hands become savage claws with orange nail polish as I viciously grasp a fistful of flesh and tears spring to my eyes. 
I'm huge. 
Impulsively, I grab a pair of scissors from the cabinet, and slam the pointed tip of  them into my stomach.  If I cannot starve out the demons, I will stab them out. 
In my mind I imagine it, I find the right spot and hit it, and all the evil flutters out like a mass of hornets from a nest. 
And finally I will be free.
But ten minutes later reality washes back over me, and the only thing my efforts have produced is a mass of bloody welts. 
It is the ultimate paradox. 
How do you kill what is inside you, without killing yourself? 

I wash the scissors off in the sink. I hear the front door downstairs creak open. My mother is home. 
And the battle is won.
For the rest of the night I can hide away in my room, away from the food. 
The demon in my mind curls around me and hugs me tight as I go to sleep.