"Down the Toilet" by Stephanie Milem

Ken paced back and forth across his living room floor aimlessly. He slid his hands into his now messy black hair and held his head still as he walked in a crazed path across his living room. His mind and heart had sped up during his run home and he hadn’t been able to calm them down since. He couldn’t think straight through the pounding in his head and the feeling of anxiety gripping his chest tightly . It sunk lower, gripping his stomach and churning until Ken had to lean against the living room wall to keep himself steady.

They were all familiar feelings, but it scared him every time.

He clamped a hand tightly over his mouth and held another to his stomach as he stood up straight. He stumbled from the living room to the hallway, and then a few more feet past his bedroom door to the bathroom. The light was already on, he had a habit of forgetting to flip it off when he was finished, so he dropped immediately to his knees and steadied himself by gripping the open toilet.

Kenichi took the week break from his job because he was cycling though a dark bought of depression that he was having trouble controlling. The medication seemed to do nothing but plague him with nasty side effects, and when anxiety set in it became more then he could handle. He turned on himself, mentally and physically, because he could no longer stand the disgusting thing he had become. Depression warped his self image, and in a desperate attempt to better himself and relieve the pain he turned to extreme measures. That week was particularly hard, and he wasn’t able to pull himself together enough to return to school.

Ken pushed his hair back from his face and held himself over the toilet by placing an elbow on each side. His fingers weren’t needed, he was already worked up enough to do it without them. He closed his eyes tightly, lowered his head, and the rest came as easily as the tears that slid down his cheeks. Ken gagged and heaved until his stomach was empty and then he fell back onto the bathroom floor and gasped for air.

It wasn’t enough, it never was. The empty feeling remained and his warped image of his scrawny body never changed. Ken reached up and undid his tie and then the buttons on his oversized suit and pulled his shirt and coat open. He laid a hand across his bonier chest and pressed his fingers against the prominent rib and collar bones. They were disgusting, no matter what he did he was disgusting. No matter how skinny he was nothing ever changed, but he continued because it had become a twisted addiction. Ken passed out there, stretched out on his back on the cold linoleum floor, his suit pulled open to reveal his emaciated shame.