Luna
I stand in front of my full size mirror, naked. Examining my body. Tattoos scattered all over it. On the most painful parts. A rose flower with a stem that starts just below my neck that goes all the way to my stomach. An ornamental mandala ankle bracelet tattoo. Fine line flowers and butterflies on my inner thigh. A rose compass tattoo on my ribcage. All of them hidden under clothes. I didn't get them all at the same time. I gradually got them every single time I wanted to attempt self harm.
A wave of disgust washes over me when I look at my curves. Breakfast was just a piece of toast and half a cup of sugarless tea. Lunch was nothing. And I still manage to look fat. My breasts still look big. My butt is even worse. The words from Calvin come flooding to my mind, " nobody wants a fat girl friend. You need to lose all that weight…. You should start thinking about getting breast reduction surgery….. your thighs are too thick…. You need to lose all that fat in your face. Normal girls have a 26 inch waist."
I refused to go for therapy convincing myself that I would be okay, but it has been five years. Five years of lying to myself.
I step into the shower, hot water washing down my body. The water is scalding, just how I like it. I try to stand under the shower to wash away self hate. Well we both know it doesn't work that way. I try to push bad thoughts away which works but not the way I expected.
Amani comes crashing into my mind yet again.
I start thinking about just how fine that man is. Okay let's be honest here. Alaric Amani De Luca is not an average looking man. Face sculpted with good genes and divine intervention, all sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass. And the hair, those long dark curls pulled back into a ponytail with just one rebellious strand always falling across his forehead. That fucking tattoo that has always peeked on his neck even when he's wearing a shirt and tie. Oh the fucking earrings. The broad shoulders, his height and the way he moves with grace like a black panther, beautiful but dangerous. His whole existence is threatening my sanity, which is not good for an ovulating woman. I might need to masturb…. No meditate. Meditating sounds like a better idea.
Get it together Luna.
He's not just a former professor but someone who is trained to kill. Someone who has killed. I've seen how he scans rooms, checks exits. Positioning himself between me and other people. It's instinctive. Protective. I know he's just my body guard but my traitorous brain keeps replaying moments from today. How he noticed that I barely ate this morning. The way he said 'good morning Miss Nia' with that thick Italian accent that makes me want to do things I shouldn't even be thinking about.
I dry off, moisturize, oil my body and reach for my dera. A soft, silky and flowy dress that is modest and comfortable. The fabric is light against my skin, the hem brushing against my ankle. I should feel covered. Safe. But I hate it. It falls against my breasts, accentuates my butt and hips. Seeing that makes my skin crawl. I start feeling like I don't wanna eat but I have to. Dinner is a house rule. Everyone eats together. Aunt Mary has been working with my family since I was little, and she takes personal offence when someone skips meals. So I'll go down, move my food around my plate, perform the role of a healthy and well-adjusted professor and pretend I'm fine.
I just need to get through dinner.
The dining room is warm with soft lighting, the long table already set with enough food that could feed a school. This is what happens when Aunt Mary is in charge. She probably bullied the chef into adding more dishes because of the guest.
Everyone is standing, waiting. The household staff, all ten of them, Aunt Mary, Grace, Rose, June, Anne, Essie, Dan, Jos, Paul, Pete and Iris, all positioned respectfully. And Alaric, standing at the far end of the table in dark jeans and a simple black polo shirt that fits too well for my sanity. His eyes find me immediately.
I watch something flash across his face. Admiration? Appreciation? Hunger? Whatever it is, it makes my breath catch. He's looking at me the way he looked at me in the car when I removed the mask. Like I'm beautiful. I feel naked. And me not having a bra and any panties is not helping.
'Liar,' my brain supplies, ' he's just being polite.'
But his gaze tracks down the length of my dress and back to my face. Eyes lingering too long on my curves and breasts which feels like physical touch. Thank goodness I put some nipple covers on, otherwise they would already be embarrassing me.
"Miss Luna ," Aunt Mary says warmly, pulling my chair out at the head of the table. " You look lovely dear."
" Thank you," I murmur, sitting quickly and tugging at the dress hem under the table.
Amani sits to my right. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woody, leatherish and expensive. Close enough that when he shifts a bit in his seat, his knee brushes against my thigh. Close enough that when he murmurs something in Italian under his breath, probably a prayer, before eating I hear him. I close my legs tightly under the table.
"Girl, you need to get a grip," I murmur in Spanish.
" Let's eat." Aunt Mary announces and everyone starts serving themselves.
I take small portions. A spoonful of rice, one chicken wing, and some vegetables. Enough to look normal but not enough to cause problems later.
But Amani is watching. Not obviously. He's having a conversation with Pete about something security related. But it feels like his attention is on me every time I pretend to put my fork in my mouth while I talk with Iris. Every time I move my wing from one corner of the plate to the other. Every time I put my utensils down while talking.
" The chicken is really good," he says casually, as she places a whole drum stick on my plate. " You should try some more."
It's not a command. Not even a suggestion. Just an observation. But it makes me pick my fork again.
I eat another bite. Then more. Under his subtle observation, under Aunt Mary's pleased smile, I keep eating. More than planned. More than I wanted. The food sits heavy in my stomach. I can feel every calorie, every bite, every moment of weakness. My body feels bigger. The voice in my head starts screaming at me.
' Too much. You ate too much. You are disgusting. How hard can it be to restrain yourself.'
I make it through fifteen minutes of conversation. I answer questions Amani asks; about my schedule and household routines. Aunt Mary tells embarrassing stories about when I was young. Amani contributes a lot about my driving skills. I smile pleasantly but my inner voice is screaming at me.
" Excuse me." I finally say. Standing up and placing my napkin on the table. " I need to grab something from my room. Please continue without me."
Amani's eyes scan my face.
" Are you all right?" He asks quietly , and even his concerned voice sounds sexy in that accent.
" Fine. I just need to get my cellphone." Which is technically not a lie because I left it in my room.
I walk and try my best not to take three stairs at a time. I lock my bedroom door behind me. I go to my bathroom and turn on the shower to mask the sound. I kneel in front of the toilet bowl and do what I've been doing for 3years. Three whole years since I started purging.
I take a toothbrush and put the other side of it in my mouth. Food comes up so easily. A whole therapist who helps people, yet she's all broken. I've gotten good at this. Too good. I rinse my mouth, spray some breath spray and take a mint. When I look in the mirror, my eyes are red rimmed and watery. I wash my face with soap and water, wipe off and do my night face. By the time I'm done, I look normal again.
I place my tongue ring between my teeth. It's something I do when I feel anxious. I take my cellphone, go back down and find Amani still at the table and the dining table clear of any food and everyone else is gone. He's scrolling on his cell phone but his head comes up when I take the last stair step.
" Found your phone?" he asks.
There's something in his voice that says that he knows I'm lying but won't call me out on it yet. But how long can I hide it from him?
" Yeah," I say as I show him my phone.
I sit in the living room area but I can feel his eyes burning a hole on me. I force myself to ignore his eyes and take the TV remote to watch something. A bl drama maybe. Or k drama, anything to distract me from the man who is sitting two feet away and smells like my next mistake and speaks like sex. I settle for something with subtitles I won't read, and try to pretend that my heart isn't still racing from dinner. I place my legs on the sofa and cover myself with a throw blanket. At the side of my eyes I see him go back to his phone, which makes me feel relieved.