He knows he doesn't fit the stereotype for these types of people. No one really expects him to be this messed up. Sure, they all pity him. He's the awkward, large, dough boy with the girlfriends who constantly cheat on him. While not the brightest tool in the shed, he's happy, right? There can't be anything wrong with him.

His parents are quiet and subdued over dinner. They've been fighting again, he can tell. His mother has already downed at least three shorts of vodka since her return from work an hour ago. His father is stressed, frustrated and doesn't say anything to anyone, instead picking angrily at his plate of food. His two younger siblings are the only ones who don't seem effected by it. They chat amongst themselves.

Meanwhile he's staring at his food, feeling disgusted and revolted just by the sight of it. When he was with his first girlfriend she was always obsessed about her weight, constantly telling him to stop eating because she wouldn't date a fat boy. He wonders where he went wrong with her, what he did (or didn't do) that drove her into the arms of another.

His parents are fighting again. He barely hears them as the pounding in his heart increases and he feels his stomach churn. It's squeezing, squeezing and it hurts, but the pain is bearable because without it, he's nothing but dirt. He leaves the spinach on his plate and pushes his chair back abruptly. His younger sister looks up.

"Dane, where're you going?"

He avoids looking at them and mumbles an excuse as he scrambles out of the room. He rushes upstairs and locks himself in the bathroom. Lightheaded and completely empty, he feels like throwing up. He knew that eating all that food at lunch was bad idea. It would make him fat, ugly and undesirable again. He remembers not wanting to stop and just giving into his temptation as he devoured everything he could. It was wrong and sick. Sick, sick, sick, sick. But he was so hungry.

His stomach churns again and without a second thought, he's on his knees. The girls on the TV make it seem so much easier when they stick their fingers down their throat. It takes him a few tries and uncomfortable, painful gagging before he manages to do it. His fingers feel foreign tickling up places they aren't supposed to go, but then he's rewarded by the sight of yellow sick floating in the toilet bowl.

He lies there for a while, spent and sweating. He's calm for a while, then he gets up to brush his teeth, flush the toilet and erase any evidence. His mouth tastes sick again, even though it's really minty fresh, and for the rest of the night he remembers the feeling of his stomach emptying himself.

He curls up on his side and touches his cheek, glad when he's met with hollowed cheeks. He hasn't been getting much sleep lately, instead just sitting there. Life has been getting tiring for him. He tries to remember everything he's eaten in the past few days, and the amount. While he can't really remember maths numbers, he knows calories off by heart.

He passes out instead of falling asleep.