Page 22 of Skin and Bones

Iwasn’t thinking clearly, and when I did allow myself to think, the chaos in my brain was nothing but an overwhelming cloud of noise. I hadn’t spent years in therapy dissecting my mental health for nothing. I knew that eating disorders were about having something we can control, and…well, clearly, I had none. Zero. Poof! Gone. All of it in an instant.

In my defence, I’d never had any control, hence I’d tried to rein myself in and get my stupid head in the programme.Myprogramme.

Which was broken. Always had been.

All I’d wanted was a normal life where I lived somewhere nice with a nice boyfriend and had a nice job. I’d ticked all those boxes, happily thinking I’d cracked it, but the boxes must have been made of bloody Italian meringue or something.

Sickeningly sweet and easy to crumble.

I’d stolen that phrase from the pile of coffee-table books next to the sofa where I’d collapsed when my feet couldn’t carry my weight anymore, in a strange flat with a strange man, the bin liner with my stuff on the seat next to me.

I grasped my arm as another flash of sharp pain shot through my body.

I had no idea where I was. No clue. My head was such a mess that I’d fallen asleep in the Uber, or I would have done if this Benjamin Desjardins hadn’t constantly tapped my face and told me to stay awake. I think he was afraid of me dying.

I wasn’t afraid of dying. Anything was better than this massive ache in my arm and my head throbbing. Everything seemed to shake. The room was spinning, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a drink, and I didn’t mean an alcoholic one.

Sometime in another life, I’d liked to drink. Lewis had sometimes taken me out for cocktails. I couldn’t afford to pay for tap water in some of the bars he liked to go to. Then he’d started going to clubs, and I’d hated those. So I’d stopped going and been grateful when Lewis had gone on his own.

I’d pushed him away.

Or maybe he’d pushed me away. I couldn’t make sense of anything anymore, and the last person I wanted in my head was Lewis.

Nothing would end well here. He would find me and drag me back home and apologise and fill my head with lies, and I would just go along with it because I had nowhere else to go but his flat or back to my parents’, where he would turn up on the doorstep and all of this would start again. I was weak and stupid. Story of my life.

“Can I help you take your clothes off?”

I glared at him as his face turned purple.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

I knew he hadn’t, but my coat was a disgrace, and I was splayed on his sofa, still wearing trainers.

“I almost fainted getting my arm into this hoodie. I don’t think I can get it off.”

Truths. Again. I really needed to shut my mouth.

“Your clothes are filthy. And I kind of like my sofa clean.”

I tried to kick my trainers off, but I clearly wasn’t doing a good job of it, as I could feel his hands on my feet, gently tugging. He neatly paired my trainers and placed them on the floor.

“You sure about this not-going-to-hospital thing?”

“Yeah,” I said, shuffling out of my coat and giving an embarrassing yelp. My arm was fucked, and I had no idea how that had happened. Everything bloody hurt.

“Then will you let me look at it?”

“No.”

I wanted to say something else, but I was too tired, and now he was lifting my head up and stuffing a pillow under me, breathing heavily too close to my face.

Benjamin Desjardins was as filthy as I was, still wearing his chef’s whites, and his hair had seen better days, and he needed a shower and a shave and…

I had no idea why I was even thinking that. And now he was dragging some blanket across the room and lifting my coat off me.

Sticking his hand in my pocket and pulling out my phone, he set it gently on the table.

“Is your location on? Does he know where you are?”

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