All You Can Eat by Ingela Bohm

Author:Ingela Bohm
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: enemies to lovers, bulimia, mental illness, binge eating, eating disorders, depression, anorexia
Publisher: Ingela Bohm
Published: 2016-02-03T00:00:00+00:00

RANDOM GUY’S BLOG

December 2013

Autumn made way for a half-assed winter. The days turned chillier. Sometimes morning frost gleamed like tinsel in the grass. December shivered in a sad cowl of beige, too tired to even pretend. Silence reigned among the harvested fields. No whispering wind, no cawing of birds. Even the cars seemed quieter.

But it was Christmas: according to my area representative, the perfect opportunity to bond. Now the ham would shake hands with the turkey, candles be lit for world peace and solemn gifts change hands. It was my last chance: to change, to grow, to become the Good Exchange Student.

To pretend.

When I came downstairs on the big day, Madame gave me one look and then snapped, “Oh, there you are. I’m sweeping the floors, so if you go outside, make sure you take off your shoes afterwards.”

As if I didn’t always.

“Actually, you should shine those shoes. They’re an absolute disgrace.”

I looked at them where they stood by the door. There were a couple of mud spots on the leather. “Okay...”

“Here, take this.” She tossed me a can of shoe polish and a rag. I scrambled to catch it, and she stormed off into the kitchen. In seconds, I heard the tell-tale sounds of dinner preparations. Fanny the cat crept by on soundless paws, looking for a calm nook where she could take a nap. I watched her go, a numb frown not quite making it to my brows. There were no calm nooks for me. Wherever I went, I would hear the angry clatter of porcelain and Madame’s heavy feet.

Sighing, I went outside and sat on the front step. The air smelled faintly of winter, but there was no snow. A dog barked in the distance, and the air roiled with the smell of cow dung. My throat ached a little, but it was nothing, just a chronic cold: my immune system was long since shot to hell, and my guts had ground to a halt like an old cassette player with dying batteries.

I wasn’t really here. Both my body and my mind had ceased to exist.

I looked down into my lap. My shoes lay there like two dead dogs, black fading into grey, scuff marks on the toes. Well, there was nothing for it. I unscrewed the can, dipped the rag into the polish and rubbed some colour into the leather. A few strokes, and they looked as good as new. Like Dorian Gray, painting over the truth with theatre makeup.

The sound of crunching gravel made me look up. A car, pulling a caravan, swung up on the dirt road and stopped in front of the house. The door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped out. “Hi there. I guess you’re Guy?”

I squinted at her silhouette, too black against the bright grey sky. It hurt my eyes. “Yeah... uh, hello.”

“Sylvie,” the woman smiled and came forward to shake my hand. Her teeth were unbelievably white, and her tanned face was filled with freckles. Behind her, a little girl with a kitten in her arms wormed her way out of the backseat in a way that looked contrived.

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