A Volitional Act

TW: self harm, cannibalism, bad therapist, blood, smoking, mentions of drugs. 

Anna: I didn’t mean to. It just happened.

I glanced at the time, aware of the night ticking away slowly. My job should be over, I should be glued to the couch, letting the lovely jingle of some brain-dead television knock the stress from my bones. I should be away from this desk, but I had a duty, I went to school for this, I got licensed for this. My laptop pinged again; the darkening screen lit back up– my pupils dilated. 

Anna: It's habitual now, I think. I don’t even realize I'm eating it until the fork is at my lips.

Anna: I know it's late. Sorry.

I sighed. My stress climbed, but the empathy followed, and I twiddled my fingers over the keyboard. I rolled a few answers through my brain, scratching at the thousands of books I had read over my college career. I had thought back then–naively, that my therapist license could be used for more than an online app. But offices were expensive, and my day job did not pay enough. 

Reassure. I thought, Reassure. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): No need to apologize, Anna. I am here to help. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): May I ask what did you ingest this time?

Anna was my newest client, a young woman with a desire to feast on random items. When she first got in touch with me it was after a hospital visit where she had sheetrock surgically removed from her intestines. A shy woman with a problem. However, in recent weeks, she had refused to tell me her newest addiction. 

The gray bubble lingered for a few seconds, and I already knew what the answer was. 

Anna: I don’t want to say. Sorry. 

I sighed. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): That's alright. If you need medical assistance, Anna, please tell me.

Anna: No. It's edible. I promise. 

A hint. I quirked my lip into a half-smile. It was highly unprofessional and borderline awful to be playing this as a game, but I had turned it into one, unknowingly. Somewhere along the way I’d begun tallying hints and seeing if I could guess Anna’s newest addition to her plate. So far, I've pictured bedding, and toy-blocks. But edible? I’d have to get creative now. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): That is good, I suppose. Perhaps steering clear of triggers would make it easier to avoid eating what it is you're eating. Would that be possible?

Anna: Everything triggers it. 

Anna: I was thinking…

Anna: Should I tell people in my life about this? Even if it would freak them out? 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): That is entirely up to you, Anna. If it would ease your mind, perhaps. 

Anna: It may. 

Anna: It's nice being able to talk to you. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): It is nice being able to help you. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): Do you think there is someone in your life who would be understanding? Your mother, your sister? 

Anna: Not them. But someone. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): If you wish to tell someone, maybe start with them. 

When she didn't respond, I thought I had scared her off. I clicked a few words on the keyboard trying to stretch the conversation. 

Molly Scarlett (LCP): How was your day? Is this the first time you’ve ingested this today?

Anna didn’t respond. 

She did this occasionally when I broached a topic she didn’t like. The curse of online therapy, you can’t wait an answer out of them. 

My waiting this time was broken by a sharp groan. I shot up from my desk, peering a head into the hallway of the apartment. The view from my bedroom led straight to the kitchen, where for the past half-hour, I could hear my roommate stumbling around. She stood now- back to me, a hand paused in motion over a boiling pot. 

“You alright?” I called.

Anastasia turned; I caught sight of the blood slipping down her pale arm. It dropped once into the pot, overcome by the bubbles. 

“Jesus, An, what happened?”

She just shook her head, a lip-sided smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes fell over her face. 

“The knife slipped is all, damn carrots.” 

But the knife was halfway across the kitchen, stationed precariously on the edge of the sink. Anastasia stood still letting the blood drip, when she noticed she hurried over to the sink, wrapping her stinging palm in a towel.

“You bled into your soup,” I joked. The wound didn’t seem too bad. Unlike some others, she still had a bandage from last week, where she had apparently missed her plate when going for a large stab of meat from dinner. She had bled onto the carpet, something she still hadn’t offered to replace. 

Anastasia shrugged absentmindedly, “I’ll make another.” 

I winced at the clank of the knife as she finally pushed it into the sink. A part of me wondered if these little wounds she kept showing up with were more than accidents, but I knew better than to approach the topic without proper planning. She had her own therapist after all, I’ve seen her typing away on the little green app. We had the same notification sound. 

“Alright,” I said. “I’ve got pizza coming if you're interested.” 

Most nights we didn’t share food. Though I offered, she complained about our differing tastes. 

“No thanks,” she said, predictably. And moved to stir the pot again, I hoped she was only easing the bubbles before pouring it down the sink. 

Back in my room, Anna still hadn’t responded. Her icon indicated she was offline. Tomorrow, most likely, she would log back in to respond about another episode of eating. 

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I wanted to help her, but her trust in me was lacking. 

Bedding, toy blocks…. edible, edible, edible. Drugs? No, she had mentioned her disdain for the realm of intoxication. But an addiction was an addiction, regardless of your dislike for it. Maybe once she’d moved on from this one, she’d tell me. I'd laugh at how far off I was. 

I shivered, maybe she was eating her pet. Gross. 

I collapsed onto my bed, closing one tab and opening another. Eager to hear the smooth music of another theme song as I awaited my dinner. 

I thought back to the slick drop of blood as it ran into the fiery river of soup. Anastasia's happy and indifferent smile. Perhaps I should have chosen nursing, physical injuries were so much easier to tend to. 

————–—-

Stocking baby clothes didn’t need more than five people apparently. At least, according to my manager. Inside, the battle between the need for more hours and the enjoyment of free time raged. The joy was winning. I shrugged off my badge, dropped it into my purse, and began the walk home. The city was busier in the afternoon, and though I loved the night walks where it seemed as if all but me were asleep. It was nicer to see the neighborhood alight. 

The apartment was dark when I entered. The alley didn’t provide much daylight, just enough to see the place just as unmoved as it had been when I left in the morning. Anastasia was still at work. She usually returned before I did, so I took advantage of the emptiness and stretched out along the couch, utilizing the television without fear of loudness. 

It was still afternoon when I moved to the balcony. A Friday afternoon, an early end to work, and still an hour or so left before I was called to be a therapist. I could use a smoke. 

I took a puff of the cart, waiting for the ease of stress. The air was cool, the brick view just as appetizing as the floor beneath. Still, as the clouds filled my head, I found myself smiling. The joy was broken soon after when the front door opened. 

I peered through the glass doors of the balcony, Anastasia bustled in, walking straight through the living room into her bedroom. She hadn’t seen me, my hoodie blended in with the plastic chairs. Her door opened yet again, she waltzed out, determined. Dressed now only in a baggy tee-shirt. A sharp blade clenched in her left-hand. 

I sat up, suddenly afraid. The sun faded behind the buildings, Anastasia turned on a light, further drowning me in the dark of the balcony. All my years of schooling didn’t aid me now, I had learned time and time again what to do in this exact situation. 

Don’t frighten her. Don’t attack. Reassure. Reassure. 

Even as the ideas rolled through my mind, my body was stuck. Half-sitting, half-standing. Brain muddled by smoke, fear coiling. 

Anastasia sat down in the kitchen chair. In the light she looked like she was being interrogated, but the calmness of her face gave proof to no fear. 

She took the knife, and in a sudden movement began carving into the flesh of her thigh. Popping out a small bit of her flesh, she rose and walked to the stove. She gathered a small pan, olive oil, salt and pepper. The blood rolled down her thigh, falling onto the tile like raindrops. She didn’t appear bothered, rather hungry, ready for a meal.

I gaped, my jaw falling open. She was eating herself. Her own flesh and blood. 

I stood then, slowly. Psychological terms flooded my mind- none stuck. 

My chair scrapped against the metal of the balcony; Anastasia whipped her head my way. She squinted, battling against the reflection, but she caught my eyes and, finally, fear colored them. 

“Molly,” she said, surprised. Her jaw moved, stumbling over various words. “Don’t tell anyone.” 

“Anastasia…” my voice was weak. “What are you doing?”

She shook her head, on the stove the meat started to hiss. 

“I don’t want to say.” 

My lip trembled. Our conversation was muffled by the balcony doors, but with a lot of courage I slipped through, standing just inside the threshold. 

Anastasia glanced back at the stove, seemingly torn about whether she should turn the meat or let it burn. She grabbed the spatula. 

With her back turned I notice the slight tremor in her body. 

“Molly,” she said. “You told me it would ease my mind to tell someone. But I really didn’t want you to find out like this. It makes it seem worse than it is.” 

“I told you?” I questioned. She looked over her shoulder, eyes pleading. 

And then it hit me. Anna was Anastasia. I was her therapist. Somewhere inside the less frightened version of me grumbled about my guesses being wrong. 

“You're Anna.” I stated. She nodded. 

“It’s not that bad! I mean women eat their own placentas and that's part of them just as much as my skin.” 

I shook my head, the shock eating up any intelligent thoughts. 

She started again, “really. It's not bad.” 

“Have I…”

“Eaten any? No.” Anastasia blinked. “I’m sorry, It’s a compulsion. I can’t stop until something else comes along. 

I thought of how to get out of this. How to calm her enough to believe I was okay with it. That I wouldn’t tell anyone. 

Reassure. Reassure. 

“Alright,” I said. “I get it.” I swallowed thickly, the meat was cooking fast due to how small it was. The smell wasn’t pleasant when I knew what it was. 

I nodded, “How does it taste?”