Hunger (13 page)

Terrific.
Lisa tried to keep the annoyance off her face. "I thought you were home early."

"Change of schedule."

"Ah." As if that explained anything. Not that Lisa cared; she'd been all but invisible to her mother for years now.

"So," Mrs. Lewis said, "where were you coming from?"

She wanted to tell her mother it was none of her business, that she should stop pretending she gave a damn about Lisa. But she couldn't stomach saying any of that. Sullen, Lisa replied, "Am I in trouble?"

"Lisabeth, I just want to know where you were out and about." She sounded annoyed, as if Lisa's question had offended her. "Don't I deserve to know that much about you, at least?"

Of course. It was always what her mother deserved. Lisa sighed. "I was at Tammy's."

"Oh." Impossible for one word to hold any more scorn. "I wish you wouldn't spend so much time with that girl."

Lisa grimaced. Her mom had never liked Tammy, probably because once she'd heard Tammy go on and on about how amazing Lisa's dad was. What did it say about her mother, Lisa wondered as she took another sip of tea, that she was insecure over a seventeen-year-old girl thinking her husband was terrific?

"I don't think I'll be hanging out with her anymore," Lisa said, muttering into her cup.

Her words must have caught Mrs. Lewis off-guard: her mother blinked in surprise, mascaraed lashes fluttering against her face like caffeinated spiders. "Well. What happened?"

Hunched over her mug of tea, Lisa gazed up at her mom. "She's phony."

The words hung in the air, Lisa's accusation all too clear.

Mrs. Lewis cleared her throat. "How's James?"

Lisa's chest tightened. Her voice flat, she said, "We got into a fight."

"Well. That's no surprise. You seem to be fighting quite a bit lately." Her mother spoke with a clinical detachment, as if discussing the flight pattern of Canadian geese. Lately, the only times Lisa heard her mother get passionate was when she was rehearsing her speeches for her various charity events. The other times, Lisa assumed her mother practiced meaningful smiles in front of the mirror; she certainly didn't waste them on her child.

"Whatever." Lisa just didn't care—about anything.

"You kids," Mrs. Lewis said with a verbal eye roll. "You always think everything is so important. So much drama."

That sparked a feeling: annoyance. Of course her mother was dismissive; Lisa's life wasn't large-scale enough for her mother to actually care about. "It was a
fight
."

"A fight," her mother repeated, then clucked her tongue. "Honestly, even if it is a real fight, which it probably isn't, that doesn't make it a war to win, Lisabeth."

War.

"It's not about
winning
,," Mrs. Lewis continued. "It's about
communication.
About pulling yourself out of your own worldview and into someone else's perception. There are other people here besides you, you know."

"
You've got no backbone to you," War says to Lisa, the knight's face hidden within the confines of her helmet. "Look at you: you're just a child. Practically a mouse.
"

Mrs. Lewis sniffed. "My goodness, Lisabeth. You don't have to look so stricken. No matter how badly your feelings got hurt, I'm sure you and James will kiss and make up. You always do."

Her mother prattled on, but Lisa had stopped listening. She was too busy thinking about the Red Rider on her warhorse, armor immaculate, the huge sword shining darkly, and her voice booming, promising to cut Lisa down.

And Lisa believed it.

Shivering, she took another sip of tea. No doubt about it: War was über-scary, and most likely insane. Probably all the battle lust, Lisa decided. That got her thinking about War as Death's handmaiden . . as well as other things to (and with) Death. And
that
made Lisa feel completely squicked out. Yuck.

It was another minute before she realized her mother wasn't speaking any longer. She glanced up from her tea to see Mrs. Lewis staring at her, almost squinting, her lipsticked mouth pulled down into a pensive frown.

God, she hated it when people looked at her as if she had a booger hanging from her nose. She snapped, "What?"

"You don't look good."

The Thin voice trilled,
You'd look so much better if you just lost ten pounds.

Lisa gnashed her teeth, thinking,
Shut up, shut up, shut up!

You're weak. A mouse
, the Thin voice lamented.
Vermin.

Her eyes closed, she imagined a field of rats, undulating and thick, their whiskers like sticks of grain.

"Lisa."

That pulled Lisa out of her feverish thoughts. Her mother never called her
Lisa
, not since she was a little girl. Once Lisa had developed breasts, her name had forever been
Lisabeth
to Sandy Lewis.

"You look sick," her mother said softly, as if she were actually concerned.

Lisa opened her eyes and regarded her mother. Her brow had—oh, shock and horror—
wrinkled
as her brows arched up. For that one moment, Sandy Lewis looked every year of her age.

"Your face is gaunt," Mrs. Lewis said, taking in her daughter's appearance. "Your eyes are sunken. You ... my God, Lisa. You look terrible."

Terrible
, the Thin voice agreed.
Huge and ugly and so
fat.
You're hopeless.

Her mother spoke again tentativly. "Are you dieting?"

Lisa shrugged. She hadn't thought of her relationship with food as anything as simple as a diet, not in a long, long time.

A diet, she could break.

A diet is temporary
, the Thin voice said knowingly.
Being thin is forever.

Exactly. Forever. Lisa wanted to sob.

There was another long moment as her mother measured her up. Then something hardened in Sandy Lewis's eyes, and her mouth set itself back into its prim and proper line. "Well. You need to stop it," her mother declared, sitting back as if that were the end of it. "Clearly, you're not getting the nutrition you need. You should know better."

Lisa's heart galloped in her chest; her blood pounded in her ears. "What are you saying?"

"You're too thin, Lisabeth."

Oh my God.

Black was white. Heaven was hell. Her mother couldn't seriously have said she was too thin.

Lying
, the Thin voice insisted,
she's lying she's just jealous like Tammy like Suzanne like all of them jealous that you have control over your body and they don't they don't they can only dream of doing what you do—

"So whatever crazy diet you're on," her mother scolded, "you just stop it."

Lisa wanted to scream.
Just stop it
, her mother said, as if it were that easy. Lisa's hands shook, and tea lapped over the rim of her mug.

Her mother sniffed. "Or is it pills? I know a lot of girls like to take pills to curb their appetites."

"No pills," Lisa gritted. Not including the stolen Lexapro.

You couldn't even kill yourself
, the Thin voice said, mocking and cold.
You're pathetic.

"Is it the tea?" Her mother motioned to Lisa's cup. Bracelets clacked on her wrist. "You've been drinking tons of tea. Is it one of those herbal remedy things? Those are all a crock, you know. They just dehydrate you, and then you'll gain it all back when you drink water—"

"It's not the tea!" Lisa hefted her cup and hurled it at the floor. The mug shattered, spraying liquid and porcelain on the linoleum, splashing Lisa's pants. She shrieked, "It's not the fucking tea!"

Shocked in equal parts by her daughter's profanity as by her violence, Sandy Lewis clasped a hand to her breast and stammered, "Lisa! What's wrong with you?"

Everything.
The Thin voice sighed.
Everything's wrong. You're a failure. You're fat. You're nothing.

Lisa fisted her hands in her hair and pressed them against her head, screaming, trying to drown out the Thin voice.
Stop it!
she cried out, but her mouth wouldn't work.
Just stop it!

She didn't feel it when she tore out hunks of her hair.

"Lisa!" Mrs. Lewis reached over to put a well-manicured hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Please, you're hurting yourself !"

Hurting? Oh, she had no idea what it felt like to be hurting.

But Lisa would show her.

Shadows ate her eyes and feasted on her soul as Lisabeth Lewis gave way to Famine. The Black Rider clamped a hand on to the woman's wrist—a woman who thought she could touch Famine and not be touched in return.

And Famine slowly sucked out Sandy Lewis's life.

Muscles atrophied and body fat melted away, leaving her skin loose and ill fitting over her frame. Her skin broke out into patches of dryness, then became peppered with red rashes. Sickness bloomed inside of her in black flowers of scurvy, of anemia, of beriberi and pellagra. As her body ate itself, her heart and lungs slowly shrank. Her bones became more and more prominent until they were clearly visible under her suit of flesh. Her stomach bloated as fluids collected within, desperately trying to keep her body functioning. Hollowed out from hunger, her eyes sank into their sockets, and her face transformed into a skeletal mask.

She opened her mouth to cry out in agony, but she was too weak to make any sound stronger than a wheeze. Dying, she held on to Famine's shoulder and croaked out her daughter's name.

Through the black haze of Famine, Lisa blinked. She saw her mother's desiccated form, and she whispered, "Mommy?"

Her mother's yellowed eyes rolled up. Shaking with palsy, she collapsed back into her chair.

"Mommy! Oh God oh God oh God..."

Lisa, sickened and horrified by what she'd done, clutched her mother's bony hand. She had to make it right. She had to fix it. Had to...

Her mother's energy swam inside of her, sang within her. Filled her almost to the bursting point. She had to get it out, had to...

She had to give it back.

Biting her lip, Lisa closed her eyes and reached inside herself. Her imaginary fingers dug deep, scrabbling to find the life she'd stolen, desperate for purchase. She gagged; she coughed. But she wouldn't let go—not of her mother's hand, not of her own power.

Give it back!!!

With a body-shaking heave, her power spewed out. It splashed against her mother, coating her face and hair, dripping down her throat. It sank into her, and Sandy Lewis absorbed it like a sponge, her body filling out, her organs rebuilding, her muscles reclaiming their shape. Disease burned away; her skin firmed up and smoothed out. Her face softened. And her eyes brimmed with tears.

Lisa smiled weakly, then sank back into her seat, shivering. She was ice all over, from her face to her toes. She was so horrifically hungry that the thought of food nauseated her. But she'd done it. She'd finally forced herself to purge.

Tammy would be proud
, she thought, and then she let out a laugh that sounded like a whimper.

"Lisa," her mother said—her normal, healthy, self-centered superficial mother who didn't give a damn about her and who was too busy speaking out for causes to bother speaking to her daughter—and took Lisa's hand gently, as if worried it would break. "There's something wrong with you."

Lisa was too exhausted to nod her agreement.

"You're sick," her mother said.

Yes, she was. But Lisa also was hopeful. Not for herself, no; she was a lost cause, and had been for far too long. But maybe she could help make things better.

"Bed," she whispered, trying to pull herself to her feet. Things went gray for a moment, and then her mother was right there, propping her up, letting Lisa lean heavily on her.

Under her brittle, perfect shell, her mother was surprisingly soft.

Sandy Lewis helped her daughter up the stairs, even stripped the boots off her feet. Lisa was already fast asleep when her mother tucked her into bed, and so she didn't feel the gentle kiss on her forehead, nor the careful smudging of a finger over her brow, trying to remove the lipstick print.

Lisa walks amidst green and yellow fields, the stalks standing a little taller as she passes by. Ahead of her, she sees waves of darkness attempting to drown the crops—rats feasting, disease spreading.

She smiles. She won't allow such things to hurt the food. She will keep the food safe and give the food to the world.

Raising her arm, she summons the Scales. They appear, heavy in her hand, and she grips them tightly, taking comfort from their weight. Weight gives substance; weight allows you to plant your feet and meet the broaching storm. Light spills forth from the Scales, illuminating her path as, smiling, she walks on, unperturbed.

Thousands of red eyes peer at her; thousands of mouths flash wickedly sharp teeth. Their bodies are infested with viruses and bacteria, promising sickness and death with just one bite.

Lisa's smile broadens.

As one, the rats charge forward, swarming her.

Lisa holds the Scales high. The light is blinding, and burning, and with it comes a surge of pure delight. The smell of charred flesh tickles her nostrils; squeals of dying vermin make the sweetest music.

As one, the rats perish.

Around her, the fields reach up to the heavens and try to touch the sun.

It was a good dream, and it ended much too soon, as good dreams are wont to do.

When Lisa opened her eyes, it was the middle of the night. She groaned, hurting all over, thinking she needed to take a hot shower and work out the kinks—and knowing in her heart that a shower wouldn't help. She was sick, feverish. She wanted water, but the thought of getting up made her sigh. She was too tired to move. Exhausted, Lisa closed her eyes and wondered how she would manage to get out of bed.

Time passed.

She must have fallen asleep again, because when she next opened her eyes, the covers had been kicked off. Lisa glanced down, surprised to find that she was still dressed. Her thoughts were soupy and slow, but she thought she remembered her mother helping her up the stairs.