Here is a short story I wrote in 2018. TW/CW: Eating disorder.
Siren's Song
I hear the siren’s call as I pat my bloated stomach, full to bursting with all of the salty bites and chocolate-crammed morsels I could down in one evening. As full as I was, I knew I could eat more. Each taste granted me one more moment of solace, one more moment without dark thoughts, one more moment of peace. But as soon as I finished, I was left with the same sinking feelings, redoubled along with the size of my belly.
And yet, I hear her.
She calls to me, her voice is soothing, telling me it will all be all right, I don’t have to live with what I’ve done. If I come to see her, she will take it all away, will heal my gluttonous mistakes. But even in her soft voice, I know there is an edge. It can be hard for my saddened mind, wanting to see only the brightest bits of her call, to make it out, but I know she asks for a price to be paid.
If I go to her, if I pay her price, I fear others will know and if others know, they would worry and I am nothing if not a people-pleaser. They wouldn’t want me to answer her call, they’d say her price is too high, that I can find another way.
But they are not here.
And I do not tell them of her.
And I hear her.
Her crooning beckons me to the small pool of water. I kneel before it as I would for absolution. She tells me she alone can relieve me of my burden. I will still have received all of the pleasures from my sin, but be free of the consequences, if only I yield to her. I stare at my reflection in the water. The water should look dirtier, considering where it lays.
Yet perhaps it makes some lick of sense. The basin itself is such a contrast. It is of bright white porcelain, gleaming even in a dim room and yet it carries refuse from comforting homes into a sewery abyss. Perhaps this is her proper temple, a seemingly beautiful exterior with a foul, wretched interior. Perhaps this is where she truly belongs.
And yet, I kneel.
And I hear her.
Still, I consider giving her an offering in exchange for her lilting promises of beauty and release. I feel my stomach swell in folds over my soft trousers. I had switched to them upon my return home. The soft fabric was kinder to my ever-growing thighs than the stiffly sewn denim of those I wore in public. It was easier to pull these cushiony ones all the way up to my waist, or let them rest below my bulging venter. My stiff ones would mark the distinct rolls with how they clung to my lumpy frame and would leave imprints, showing how poorly they fit. Yet I refused to get larger ones, the size of the ones I already wore abhorred me. If I gave in, surely I would visit her too often. I would become her most devoted acolyte.
The ritual is simple, I tell myself. All she asks for is the meal I wish to rid myself of.
Isn’t it?
And I hear her.
It won’t take long and then I will feel released. I will have undone my ills of the evening. Won’t I?
And I hear her.
Is what she asks such a high price to pay?
It is if you ask too often for her blessing, my tilted mind whispers, then she demands more than an evening’s meal. She will first demand my bright smile. Then she will demand my soft skin. And then my steady heart. Eventually, she will ask for my first born.
But just once or twice or thrice might do the trick, I tell myself.
Perhaps even the wretched feeling that accompanies her ritual would do me some good. It would remind me that I should not sin as I had, that I should be stricter, that I should eat less, be less.
And I hear her.
I’m so close, she tells me. Just give in, she sings so sweetly.
I stare into my own face in the water, plumper than I’d like and sadder than I’d admit. And I am able to make a choice.
I push myself away from this siren’s song and shut out the watery mirror.
Sirens only seek to lead mortals to their doom, I tell myself, not their salvation.
(Prompt by me but encouraged by Emily Kleeman)
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