Chapter 4: The Laxative Night
The cramps began an hour later, a low, warning twinge deep in her gut. Louise was curled on the sofa, trying to read, but the words swam on the page. She focused on the sensation, interpreting it not as pain but as efficacy. It was working. The thing he’d bought for her was working.
By midnight, it was no longer a twinge. It was a violent, internal clenching that drove her to the bathroom, where she knelt on the cold tile, forehead pressed against the side of the bathtub, as her body turned itself inside out. It was a brutal, emptying purge. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, cold and clammy. Her muscles trembled with the effort. Each wave left her hollowed, gasping, waiting for the next.
The door opened softly. She flinched, expecting light, but he’d only brought the dim glow from the hallway. Marcus filled the doorway, then knelt beside her. He didn’t wince at the smell or the sound. He placed a cool hand on the back of her neck, his fingers sliding into her damp hair.
“That’s it, little bird,” he murmured, his voice a rumble in the quiet dark. “Let it all go. All the junk, all the waste. You’re cleansing.” His hand moved in slow, firm circles on her back, feeling the knobs of her spine through her thin nightshirt. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you for sticking with it.”
His praise was a lifeline, thrown to her in the middle of the violent, shameful sea. She clung to it. The pain was proof. His pride was the reward. She choked back a sob that was part agony, part gratitude.
He stayed with her for what felt like hours, bringing her sips of water that felt like lead in her stomach, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth. His ministrations were tender, possessive. He was the sole witness to her suffering, the sole architect of her relief.
When the worst had passed and she lay spent on the bathmat, he scooped her up easily, as if lifting a sleeping child. He carried her back to bed, tucking the covers around her shivering body. “Sleep now,” he whispered, kissing her temple. “Tomorrow, you’ll be new.”
The morning light was a pale, accusing thing. Her body felt like a wrung-out rag, lightweight and brittle. The walk to the bathroom was a trek across a vast desert. The scale sat, a monolith in the fluorescent glow.
Marcus was already there, notebook in hand, pen poised. He gave her an encouraging nod. “For the record. So we can see the fresh start.”
She stepped on. The digital numbers spun, a dizzying blur, then settled.
A number lower than yesterday. Lower than the day before that. Two whole pounds gone. The phantom half-pound gain had been annihilated, and then some.
A weak, trembling breath escaped her. She looked from the scale to Marcus. His face broke into a wide, genuine smile. It transformed him, lighting up his eyes. It was the smile he’d had when they first met, full of warmth and approval.
“See?” he said, the word soft with triumph. He dropped the notebook and pen on the sink and crossed the small space in one stride. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her slightly off her feet. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I knew you could do it. I knew my girl had that discipline.”
His hands slid under her nightshirt, splaying across her abdomen. It was concave now, tender and empty. He pressed his palms flat against it, as if feeling for the absence. “Perfect,” he murmured into her skin. “Flat and perfect. Now we’re back on track.”
The praise was a warm bath after the cold night. It seeped into her bones, validating every cramp, every moment of shame. She went limp in his arms, letting him hold the entire weight of her.
The next few days passed in a haze of lemon water, broth that tasted of nothing, and the meticulous tracking in his notebook. The numbers descended, a slow, satisfying slide. He bought her a new dress for the Saturday dinner at the bistro—a tiny, slip-like thing the color of ashes. “Try it on,” he said, his eyes already hungry.
It hung on her in the bedroom mirror. The fabric skimmed her new angles, the sharp rise of her hip bones, the hollows above her collarbones so deep they could hold water. She turned, and the back gaped slightly between her shoulder blades.
“It’s a little loose in the back,” she said quietly.
Marcus came to stand behind her, his reflection enveloping hers. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs stroking the prominent bones. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice thick. “It shows your work. It shows your frame. Everyone will see how delicate you are.”
Saturday arrived. The process of getting ready was a ritual. He watched her apply a touch of mascara, blot her pale lips. He fastened the tiny clasp of a necklace, the cold pendant resting in the dip between her clavicles. “My ethereal girl,” he whispered.
The bistro was all warm wood and candlelight, buzzing with conversation. The smell of garlic butter and seared steak hit Louise like a wall. Her stomach, long since silent, gave a faint, phantom lurch. The waiter led them to a small table in the corner. Marcus held her chair, his hand lingering on the back of her neck as she sat.
He ordered for them both. A shared cheese plate to start, no bread. For her, the seared scallops with a lemon reduction, no sauce on the side, extra greens. “She’s got a tiny appetite,” he told the waiter with a fond, conspiratorial smile, squeezing her hand on the table. “We’re just celebrating a little.”
The cheese arrived. He placed a sliver of blue cheese on a single rocket leaf and fed it to her. The bold, salty funk of it was almost overwhelming. She chewed slowly, aware of his eyes on her jaw, her throat as she swallowed.
“You look incredible in this light,” he said, leaning in. His knee pressed against hers under the table. “I saw the guy at the bar do a double-take when we walked in. He couldn’t believe something so perfect was real.”
She felt a flush that wasn’t from the wine. It was a mix of pleasure and a strange, creeping exposure. Her dress felt thinner under the gaze he had imagined.
Her scallops arrived, three perfect, opalescent discs. They looked alien on the large, white plate. She picked up her fork, the weight of it unfamiliar in her hand. The first bite was tender, rich. It felt like a stone settling in her hollow core.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded, forcing a smile. “Delicious.”
“You deserve it,” he said, watching her take a second, meticulous bite. “After your discipline. This is your reward.” He cut into his own steak, a medium-rare piece of meat that bled gently onto the plate. He ate with gusto, his eyes frequently leaving his food to roam over her, checking her progress.
She finished one scallop, then pushed the greens around. The lettuce was crisp, bitter. Each crunch echoed in her head.
“You should try to finish at least two,” he said gently, not looking up from his steak. “You need the protein. We don’t want your metabolism shutting down, do we? That’s when the real trouble starts.”
The threat was veiled in concern. She speared the second scallop. It was harder to chew this time. The lemon reduction was acutely sour. She swallowed with effort.
A woman at the next table laughed, a full, unselfconscious sound. Louise glanced over. The woman was leaning towards her date, her face animated, a glass of red wine in her hand. She had soft, rounded shoulders and a smile that took up her whole face. She looked… warm. Present. Louise looked down at her own plate, at the single, remaining scallop sitting in a smear of yellow sauce.
She felt Marcus’s gaze again, heavy and expectant. She felt the cool pendant against her sternum, the loose fabric of the dress whispering against ribs that were starting to feel like the bars of a cage she was building for herself, one delicate bone at a time.
She picked up her fork. The steel felt cold. The last scallop gleamed under the candlelight, a tiny, edible moon. She took a breath, the air tasting of other people’s dinners and her own faint, metallic hunger. She cut it in half.