3 Best Years Of My Life

Warning: If you struggle with disordered eating, you should not read this book.

Twelve Years Old

I listen to my mother lecture me about why I'm Wasting My Younger Years.

"You need to go outside more," she chastises me in the foyer. I glare at her, unfeeling, unblinking, uncaring. She needed something to complain about, now that I avoid her on a daily basis.

You never let me hang out with anyone. How can I go outside?

I imagine a little monkey with cymbals playing, his little red hat, and cute suit with yellow shiny pins and tassels as she talks. I saw the funny image on TV months ago and knew he was perfect.

I think of him whenever my mother tells me something that doesn't matter.

"Are you listening to me, Dead Name," she shrills.

"Yes," I mumble.

"What did I say then?"

I say nothing and am trapped in a lie.

She finds something else to complain about and when it's clear I'm not listening she leaves to find something to do in the kitchen.

I waste the rest of the Best Day Of My Life watching bad television.

I lie in my bed, the door slightly open, as it always is.

I am too old to be afraid of the dark, but the Horror Of Daylight is somehow relaxing during Night. I fidget in my bed, because it's too small, or I am too big, or both.

I listen to my mom on the phone, and she is quite loud. She's talking to her friend about something or other, and it's been a long time since they've talked. I try to tune them out and roll over on my side.

My trusty friend, Christian is there. His name used to be Christina, but now he is Christian, because we will always be the same.

Always Best Friends.

I was too embarrassed to sleep with Christina when I was younger, but now I don't care. I need all the help I can get to keep the Many Horrible Things In The Dark at bay.

Christian tries his hardest, but it isn't enough.

So the Many Horrible Things In The Dark visit me again that night.

I am standing at the bottom of the stairwell at the entrance to my house. I hear the faint sounds of an infant at the top of the stairwell. This time I didn't know it was a nightmare, so I foolishly went up the stairs, worried about the baby.

The baby is not there.

Instead I see a package of Hot Dogs.

My Drug Of Choice.

Before I have a chance to open the package and slide them down my throat, my brother opens the door. I'm not really surprised, as he is always sleep walking, and I figure that I have to lead him back to his bed again.

Strangely, he is awake in the middle of the night.

"Why do you eat so much," he asks me.

His voice is hollow and it rings in my ears, bangs against the walls, and the entire small townhouse shakes and heaves against the weight of his words.

I say nothing to my brother, knowing again that I have been Caught In The Act.

"Stop it," he whispers.

His entire body shakes against the weight of his own voice. He is a small boy for his age, and he cannot handle his heavy words.

They ruin him before my very eyes.

His skin now has a dimpled texture and it becomes pale and pink. His clothes slough off his body like dead skin as he shrinks before me. His cute face disappears, and his head entirely in the blink of an eye.

I tremble as I watch him die in front of me.

All that is left in the pile of clothes is a small bump.

Warily I move the clothes aside, hoping that he just got smaller. That he was Perfectly Fine, and that I could put him back to bed.

We could forget the entire event entirely.

My entire body tenses up as I see an uncooked turkey inside the shirt.

I picked it up, my brother's body now slimy and needing to be washed before cooking. I worry deeply if he is okay.

What will I tell Mom?

I sit at the top of the stairwell, wondering what to do with my brother, The Uncooked Bird, and then a sudden realization comes to me.

No one can see me now. No one will know what I do.

I drop my brother onto the carpet, no longer concerned about his well being.

I need my Drug Of Choice.

Greedily I open the hot dog package. It is my current favorite brand, the Oscar Meyer brand. The good stuff. I mumble the commercial song to myself as I open the package, the gelatinous slime slipping down my fingers.

I pay it no mind.

The hotdogs slide down my throat, uncooked, and I shiver in ecstasy as I Get High. My brother is silent, and he is still aware of what is going on as I Get High.

I don't really chew my Drug Of Choice. I mush it up, but only a few times, enough so that I don't choke, but can still feel the Hurt as it slides down my throat.

It shouldn't feel good anyway.

My brother, The Uncooked Bird, cries.

The slime comes down his small body. Even as a turkey he is still smaller than he should be. He never eats anything other than Cheetos, chocolate milk, and peanut butter sandwiches. His cries continue, silent, and the tears spill off his cold and wet body onto the already stained carpet.

I pay him no mind as I Get High.

The wet sounds of my Drug Of Choice feel nice in my ears and comforting. The texture of it is enthralling, and I continue, preferring it raw instead of cooked.

I do not notice as my punishment occurs.

I do notice that I have eaten it all.

I want more.

I don't like it when I can no longer Get High. What else could I do? Nothing else matters. I'm angry that my Drug Of Choice is gone, and it was all my fault.

Unlike the other times the shame doesn't set in, and I am too preoccupied with finding more of my Drug Of Choice than to notice that I am drowning until it is too late.

Now that I am No Longer High, I notice the slime on the walls. It is translucent with a red tint. The same color as the slime that came out of my package of Oscar Meyer.

How strange. Just ignore it. That doesn't matter right now.

What mattered right now was finding the next best thing since I had used up my Drug Of Choice. I look at my brother, The Uncooked Bird, and know what I must do.

I quote my favorite movie, The Prince of Egypt.

"....Sacrifices Must Be Made."

My heart beats faster as I look at him. He is not my favorite but he will have to do. I feel no remorse as I peer down at the Uncooked Bird.

I never liked him anyway.

I know that Everything Is Fine, Stop Asking Me If I'm Okay, as I pick up the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother. He is silent, knowing that I will consume his flesh, sacrifice him entirely before I ever give up my Drug Of Choice.

I moan as I bite into him, his blood pouring down my mouth, and I tear off a large chunk, cold and uncooked. I don't care that it's not cooked. I don't care about the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother.

I want to Get High.

And I Do.

This is harder for me to chew than the others. Not because of the lack of morals in my soul for eating the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother, but because I don't like turkey that much.

The outside of it's flesh is like rubber, and I chew harder, more focused on Getting High, than the dangerous liquid seeping out of the walls. I spit out the blood, happy that the Uncooked Bird, No Longer My Brother, wasn't frozen, or else it would be impossible to Get High.

It doesn't matter that it's uncooked. People always cook them too dry anyway.

I am having difficulty eating as I have hit the rib cage, and now I stop, because I am full, and this isn't the good stuff. I drop the trash to the ground and groan at the carpet, upset that I had something new to clean in the morning.

I look down the stairwell, ready to go to the kitchen and throw out the trash.

I see the slime coming for me.

It is rising quite fast now. I had ignored it for too long.

I am not ready to die. There are so many things I want to do.

Mother was right. I should go out more.

I wipe the blood off my face, but it is futile, because there is blood on my hands. I panic in the hallway and wonder where I should go. The only exit out of the house is downstairs, with the slime, and I will not make it.

The blood of Oh No, I Have Eaten My Brother, What Have I Done, is smeared against his door as I try to open it. It's locked. I try every door in the small hallway, but they are all locked.

I can jump out the window, but I can't get through the doors.

I wonder to myself why someone would design a hallway without windows.

The slime is now at my feet, and I am salivating, seeing the remnants of my Drug Of Choice. The cold sludge coagulates around my ankles and I am confused yet excited.

My Drug Of Choice is here to greet me.

I stand still, waiting to be consumed by it. I cry tears of joy knowing that I can never ever Get This High ever again. The feeling is overwhelming, just the anticipation of it all is a High In Of Itself.

It is now at my neck and the sudden thought comes to me if I will drown.

It is too late.

The opaque fluid fills the hallway and I struggle to breathe inside it.

The corpse of Oh No, I Have Eaten My Brother, What Have I Done, floats on by, watching me suffocate. I try to swim to the top but the slime is too thick.

Yet I want more.

I want to Get High.

I die.