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The rental house in California was tiny. It was a budget saver, I supposed, because everyone knew we were blowing through the record company money at an incredible rate. At some point, like during our last tour, we would probably have to take over the funding entirely. So Ashley found us a good deal, through a friend of a friend or something, and we ended up in this dinky little place where we had to set up an extra bed in the living room just so I’d have somewhere to sleep that wasn’t a couch.

At least we didn’t have the entire family with us; given that two of us were legal now, we were practically on our own, with Dad checking in occasionally. I think sometimes our parents forgot that I was still a teenager, but I wasn’t going to remind them. The little bit more freedom I’d been afforded this time seemed like a good thing. For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe, at least until everyone started parading through the room that functioned as living room, my bedroom and sometimes even recording studio.

Even though it was just the three of us and Ashley, it started to feel crowded. There was a constant stream of other people there—record label people when they could be bothered to remember we were in the same state, engineers and other musicians and all the new California friends Taylor had made.

I kept finding excuses to leave the house, not that anyone even asked where I was going. The house was in a residential area not too far from the beach and really close to one of the approximately four billion In-N-Out Burger places on the west coast. I had developed a taste for their burgers on our first trip to California, which felt like decades ago, and it was a running joke now that I hadn’t eaten anything else for a month. Maybe I hadn’t. I couldn’t remember. Had we been here for a month already? It felt like only a few days and at the same time like a few years.

Sometimes I thought I really was cracking up. It was easier to get weed out here, but even when I wasn’t smoking, I was in a haze, my connection to reality growing fainter and fainter by the second.

I tried to remember when I had eaten something other than a double-double. I had a poptart that morning, I thought. Or the morning before. There were late night 7-11 slushies on the way to a recording session, but I couldn’t remember when or where. That might have been a week ago or even two.

Without giving it much thought, I walked off the sidewalk and veered down toward the beach. I slipped off my shoes and let my toes sink into the sand. At least I could still feel that. It was fairly late, and this section of the beach was never crowded. I was all alone. My feet moved of their own accord until I was running, the damp, tightly packed sand propelling me along easily.

I ran until I wasn’t sure where I was anymore, then turned around and ran back. My lungs ached and my legs felt like rubber bands that had been stretched too far. At least I might have worked off the most recent burger, I decided, but I’d been gone so long that Taylor and Isaac were probably sending out the search parties.

They hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

The living room was full of recording and video equipment, with my brothers in the middle of it. From what I could tell, it was the same argument all over again—Isaac on the verge of falling apart and giving up while Taylor tried desperately to hold him together.

They kept talking, even as I walked by, trying carefully not to step on or trip over any important cords. They were talking about getting into the studio and just recording the damn thing already, and I wondered why I wasn’t part of that conversation. Sometimes I was just along for the ride. Whatever they decided, I would go with it. I wouldn’t have a choice.

Someone had left a plate with half a sandwich sitting on the floor, and I nearly put my sandy foot right in it. It wasn’t anything really gross, just bologna on wheat. But something about it made my stomach turn. I thought I’d digested or burned off my earlier meal, but there it was again, threatening to come back up.

I hurried to the bathroom, still totally unnoticed by my brothers, and threw myself onto the floor in front of the toilet. A few weak coughs later and nothing had come up. I was so desperate to rid myself of that feeling that I considered shoving a finger down my throat. That would work, wouldn’t it? That was how bulimics did it, so why couldn’t I?

But I couldn’t. As always, I was too weak.

I stood up and stared at myself in the mirror. There were dark circles under my eyes and my hair lung limply, falling out of its ponytail. It was longer than it had ever been and greasy. When was the last time I’d cut it or even washed it? I had no clue. I was smelly and dirty and I didn’t even have the energy to get into the shower just a few feet away.

I had sweated through my t-shirt, and that surprised me. Had I run that far and that hard? It wasn’t all that warm out. I had no concept of time anymore. All I knew was that I was exhausted, but it wasn’t enough. Whatever I had sweated out, it didn’t solve anything. There was still something so wrong inside of me and I didn’t know how to get rid of it.

The guy standing in front of me was a mess. There was no other way to describe him. He wasn’t a rockstar or a sex symbol. The guys in the living room were, with their guitars and leather jackets. But me, I was just some guy. Some guy I didn’t even recognize anymore.

I fell back to the floor, and this time I wasn’t a coward. It made me cough and gag, and it burned like nothing I’d ever felt. There was a moment when I regretted it, but it was too late. The deed was done. I flushed down the proof and pulled myself, shakily, back to my feet, my hands grasping for purchase along the edge of the sink. I rinsed my mouth out with a small bathroom cup of water, and even that burned my raw throat.

What had I started?

“Hey, Zac?” Came Taylor’s soft voice, his knuckles rapping gently along the door. “You in there?”

I buried my face into a towel and groaned. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be out soon.”

Taylor nudged the door open, his reflection appearing in the mirror next to me. “I didn’t even hear you come in. Umm, but anyway, I was just getting ready to head out with uh, with the guys, and I think Ike’s going to order Chinese or something, if you wanna get your order in.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, my stomach turning even though there couldn’t possibly be anything left in it. “I mean, I ate earlier. While I was out.”

Taylor looked me up and down, I was sure he was going to call me out—on what, I wasn’t sure. What could he know or even suspect about what I had done? After a moment, he shrugged. “Alright. Well, I’ll see you later. I think we’re gonna take another pass on Penny and Me tomorrow and polish that demo up as much as possible.”

“Okay. Later.” I put my hand on the bathroom door, as if to close it, hoping he would take the hint and leave me alone.

“Later,” Taylor said softly.

He padded away and I closed the door softly behind him. Slamming it would only draw more attention, and that was the last thing I wanted. Maybe feeling ignored wasn’t such a bad thing. I couldn’t get away with what I’d done if everyone were watching me as closely as it sometimes felt they were.

What had I done…?

I stripped off my sweaty clothes and turned on the shower, feeling a sudden urge to cleanse myself. I couldn’t wash away all my sins, but at least symbolically it might make me feel better to scrub myself clean.

The water was practically scalding, but I didn’t care. I liked the way it felt. Anything that hurt, anything that got under my skin, literally or figuratively, was a good thing. Nothing else seemed to get my attention if it didn’t cause me pain in some way. I stood under the spray and just let it burn, let it wash over me like a million scalding hot needles.

What I had done was bad; I knew that. I wasn’t stupid. You weren’t supposed to make yourself throw up. The pain that it caused was proof enough of how bad it was for you. But the feeling of emptiness that it left wasn’t so bad. It was different from the emptiness I felt the rest of the time. Like the water rushing over me, it made me feel clean. It made me feel okay for once.

I couldn’t make a habit of it. I knew that. With the constant parade of people through the house and all the jokes about my strange and massive appetite, I’d never get away with throwing up everything I ate. Someone would notice. And if I didn’t eat at all, they’d notice even faster.

No, I couldn’t make it a habit. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t do it again.

If I could slip away so easily like I had that day, then my choices weren’t so limited. No one would know if I’d gone for a run along the beach instead of a fast food run. Who would have reason to watch me that closely and question what I said I’d done?

I would have to be careful, yes, but I knew I could get away with a lot.

I shivered even though the water was still scalding. What was I doing? What was I considering doing? It was madness, I knew, but it was something I could feel. Something I could take into my own hands and not feel like I was just going along with the flow or being dragged along kicking and screaming.

It was mine, and mine alone, and for that reason I loved it.

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