1. Prelude

Two months into senior year, I hurl baby carrots and celery sticks at my ugly dorm room wall. Wet stains linger where they hit, and a streak of liquid dribbles down. Limp crudité litter my carpet, garish little corpses in the dull gray pile.

I fling the vegetables to stop myself from eating them with the onion dip I’m drowning them in. Throwing them out might seem more logical, but I’ve learned that tossing food into the garbage isn’t enough of a deterrent. Covered in carpet lint and the gray film of my rain-soaked shoes, I’m more likely to deem them unsalvageable.

I wasn’t even hungry when I bought them. Not that I know what hunger feels like. Not the kind that starts in the belly, climbing its way to the brain, politely tapping for attention. I pretend to be familiar with the sensation, but the truth is, while that hunger and I may have met a long time ago, we haven’t spoken in years.

Now my craving’s turned into something else. A monster with sharp teeth, growing inside me, something I’m too scared to face. I shovel food to quiet the beast, but the more I feed it, the more it howls.

I should’ve known better. The moment I brought back my haul, I felt the creature stir. Baby carrots, barely the size of my pinky finger, submerged in thick cream before disappearing into my maw.

Those weren’t the only purchases I made at the store.

Inside that bodega, temptation hushed reason and drowned it beneath the flood of want. Now that other item sits two feet away, awaiting my next move.

A pause.

A moment so small it might be mistaken for control. A sliver inside a millisecond of a future I want to call mine.

Her.

A woman materializes in the dim light, hovering between real and my imagination. Perhaps we met in a dream once. She stands before me, shapeless. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Her eyes grip mine, steady, holding back the next moment. 

“What are you feeding?” she asks.

Her words land in the deep, pressing into a tender spot hiding behind my defenses. I want to answer, but something snarls between me and the truth, as if guarding a cavernous wound, a rabid presence I can’t see around, one that’s fierce and unpredictable and cruel.

The woman doesn’t move. She  waits. Like she would stay as long as I needed, without having to ask. Like I could trust her.

But she isn’t real. She doesn’t exist. Only the want of her.

So I lunge.

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2. Frenzy

A 21-year-old girl sits at her dorm room desk, staring at her computer screen, getting really good at Minesweeper. Thinking about how she needs to stop fixating on food, anything to fill the idle space swallowing her inside this empty room. But no matter what she does, she can’t quiet the gnawing, wild thing inside her.

Tonight her hunger is for something crunchy, something cheesy, something that will leave a waste of orange soot smudging her fingertips. Around other people she might wipe them clean, but alone, she’ll suck them dry until all that’s left are ochre blots, amber saliva dregs staining her nails.

She loves fake cheese.

She bought the biggest bag she could find. Bulk size because the mega party is hers alone. She wants fresh, unopened, nothing to rob her of the sound—the split of plastic at the bag’s pleasure-pain cry of its tear. She wants to feel its weight in her palm, heavy and full. She wants to ogle its contents, doodle crag kings atop a Cheetos mountain, built of crisps and magic dust, crowding orange twig-shaped puffs, piled finger over finger.

Greed rips the bag open, the pressurized seal gasping in surrender. She listens for the release. Ahhhhhhhhh. Breathes in the smell. Can’t stop her own sigh.

Her body fills with need. She wants to bathe in that scent like an animal in mud, rolling round and round, caking her skin until there’s no difference between herself and the grime.

Before she knows it, half the bag is gone, shredded into pieces. She’s barely chewing. Her jaw snaps, ravaging Cheetos like a hunter overwhelming its prey. The ridges cut at her tongue. Sharp edges scrape the roof of her mouth raw. No matter. This frenzy isn’t about savoring, it’s about feeding, about stuffing the ravenous beast before it takes her. Her fingers, covered in orange grit, move fast. In moments the bag lies empty, a barren desert, powdered cheese sand scooped away by a swift-moving spoon.

It’s not over. Her body moves before her mind can catch up.

She’s at the bodega again, standing in line, arms full. A man buying scratch tickets and a pack of Marlboro Reds chats with the cashier, and he’s in her way. She’s got a box of Entenmann’s Fudge Iced Golden cake, a tube of Pringles Originals, and two pickles in a bag. The men act like she’s not there, and for a second she thinks: Maybe I’ve already disappeared.

She waits until the man steps aside, forces herself not to slam a twenty on the counter and keeps from screaming the words, “Keep the change, ya filthy animal!” locked tight in her chest. Quiet payment, quick exit. Around the corner, up the steps, back to her room. She’s already picturing the first frantic mouthful.

But she stumbles at the threshold. The bag’s contents spill to the floor. Belly against worn carpet, a predator brought down mid-kill.

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3. Aftermath

That pause again.

The woman from my dream returns, her voice calm as she says, “You don’t have to do this.”

She doesn’t plead. Her presence fades.

I stand up and look around at the mangled remains of my uneaten feast. The Entenmann's box is upside down, and when I turn it over, I see crushed cake smeared against the clear cellophane window. The pickle bag has been punctured, perhaps by the corner of the Entenmann’s box. Sour juice runs slowly towards a crack near the door frame, trickling inside like the seep of October rain outside my window.

I gather my purchases and carry them to the big trash can down the hall. Opening the cake container, I take one last sniff and then let the cake drop, so it lands upside down. The frosting sticks to someone else’s discards.

The Pringles are next. I open the seal and pour out a handful of chips, smashing them in my palm. I bring them towards my mouth, opened wide, and throw them back before my arm ejects like a trebuchet, whipping the remaining crumbs into the bin. I chew once, twice, before spitting them out and pouring the rest of the container on top, covering my shame.

The pickles are last. I spill them and what’s left of their juice over the mess I’ve created, the garbage now littered with my debris, and slam the lid shut.

Cheetos dust coats my tongue with a sickening residue. The artificial flavor feels heavy and wrong. 

Back in my room, I turn on my stereo and fast-forward to my favorite song to be sad to: “Mary Jane.” Alanis’ voice fills the space, cracked and direct. She pours out her verses, and I sink onto my bed. The tension loosening, I imagine what it would feel like for someone to say these words to me. I curl up, hugging my favorite stuffed animal, a terrier mutt I’ve had since birth. One ear has yellowed, and his nose is barely hanging on. I rub his belly, the only soft patch left of his fur, after so many years.

Near the end, the song swells. Alanis’ voice crescendos, her urgency peaking: “Keep warm, my dear, keep dry.”

These are the words I need. Not a command to fix what I can’t but a fervent reminder to take care. A match struck in the fog, a flicker against the pull to let myself slip away.

A flash of the woman’s face returns in my mind. She’s just a dream, a faceless figure I’ve conjured, someone who asks the questions no one else has. Someone who waits patiently for my answers.

Maybe one day I’ll meet her.

Maybe she does exist.

Maybe one day.