This novel has been slammed shut, covers pressed together around an anatomy of pages. Yet, the story is not finished. Between the sheets of aged paper stems a sound, a low, distant, whisper of speech, calling 'let me out'.

I don't want to stay here forever. I don't want to be trapped in this blank existance, walking back and forth over the same gravel, muttering the same promises and lies. But this is all i know.

What do i have to show for myself? Swollen glands and bleary eyes. Sitting on my bed, between four walls in this empty house, i searched for anything of importance, of achievement, meaning. It is pointless. It is all such a mess. Piles of clothes both washed and unwashed, a carpet hardly visible through the swamp of discarded litter and posessions. There is a Tesco carrier-bag in the corner that should have been thrown away ages ago, evidence of my dirty secret. The walls are white, bleak and stained, It must have been nearly two years now, since Matthew and i swapped bed-rooms, and it still isn't painted. I originally wanted it to be decorated pink and purple, with sweeping curtains and doll, fairy-tail style furniture. But it makes sence now. I am not worthy of that.

My weight remains unchanged. Hovering around a bmi mark of 13.9. It is failure, too much, not sharp enough to flicker like ash into the air. I thought i was heading lower yesterday, but by night the binging had left me stale, at the same plateau. I crawled up in a ball, and punched my stomach till it was red. Today holds another hope, all i want is less, for the numbers to drop like a rock through the ocean.

As long as i am eating it will be all-right. As long as i have a plate in front of me or food in my mouth, i won't be sad or angry, just numb. Blocked in, behind a barrier, that appears sturdy from the onset, but in reality it is weak and unreliable, bricks crumbling by the second. I won't want to cry, tears will only stream over free space. I don't need to worry about whether they know or not, the cost, or my thumping heart. Just concentrate on the ketchup bottle, reducing with each dollop, the mayonnaise jar, the clink of cutlery and where the next bite of cardboard will be coming from. After every purge i am left with the same question; what now? Spilling my soul down the toilet in an abundance of waste, trying to forget it ever happened.

I'm scared that the thoughts are going to catch up with me. If i stop, they will creep from the back of my mind, closer, persistant, through shrill screams that protect me. I might not have time to prepare myself, it's too hard not to listen, just too hard. Why are you still here?