“C’mon, you’re going to give us away.”

     He tugged on my sleeve, heaving me past the shoe section and into the blinding aisles full of assorted beauty products. I was rendered sightless as I saw the endless shelves, all filled to the brim with expensive sounding brand name lip liner, exclusive celebrity endorsed mascara. Familiar brands met my gaze, along with strange, new and bizarre sounding others. Urban Decay. Oriflamme. MAC Studio Eye Gloss. Crème liner. Fusion Pink. Lady Danger.

     Makeup, I’ve noticed, always comes in colors that aren’t really colors, like Summertime Sunset Eye shadow, or Pink Daisy Lip Balm. White Cherry Contour Pallet, Jaded Liquid Eye Liner. Everything is placed on a white throne, screaming, buy me. You need me.

     Ryan, self-acclaimed golden God, image of beauty and perfection, held a small shell of Night Scent eye shadow by Masco Cosmetics to my eyes. He made a face and shook his head.

     “Dark colors aren’t your thing, apparently. Your cheeks are much too round.”

     He put it his bag. I shrugged.

     Sure, I thought.

     Ryan knows best.

     Ryan was beauty. He was glamour. He knew everything. He must’ve. It takes a lot of mental work to be 5’11 and weigh ninety-three pounds.

     He picked emerald greens, shimmering silvers, and ruby reds, shoving them into his bag. He also grabbed brushes, palettes, and exotic sounding crème products that were advertised to smell like Tropical Raindrops and Kissed Peach, but really smelled like orange.

     I almost said no, Ryan. That’s stealing.

     But I didn’t. What good would it be?

     Large security guards didn’t notice as he picked the tags off of tubes of foundation with digitally enhanced faces featured across the cold plastic. They didn’t see Ryan wink at me as he did the same to every overpriced stick or tube of whatever, barely hidden behind the lipstick counter. They especially didn’t see him walk out of the department store, head held high, into the parking lot, me trailing behind.

     Jump to an hour later, somewhere in the college, scotch resting in between us. We positioned ourselves on the cold, linoleum floor, heads together, and exhales of air as loud as our thoughts. He took swing after swing from the bottle, making a disgusted sound every time afterwards.

     “How many calories do you think are in Scotch?” He asked me.

     “Fifty-five,” I muttered in reply, my arms shielding my eyes from the bright lights.

     “You know that, though,”

     “You’re the one who told me that.”

      I could feel his smile. “You’re learning.”

     He made a groaning sound as he pulled himself to his knees, crawling toward the empty bathroom stalls.

     He hesitated. Maybe for too long.

     As I heard him retching, I closed my eyes, and allowed my head to hit the hard floor. It felt like home.

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     I met the supreme queen, Ryan Alexander, in the middle of a bar, back when I spent my days slaving away at an uptown smoothie shack and my nights bumming menthols off of street strangers. The real world was new and unfamiliar, and I let it eat me alive. I was okay with it.

     I was in a booth, leather jacket and collar popped, cigarette burning away in front of me. The torn fabric of the seat dug into my back, but I just leaned back and took it in.

     Breathe.

     Count, one, two, three.

     Inhale.

     It smelled like cancer and desperation and a sad shot at happiness.

     Exhale.

     I hadn’t eaten anything that day. I was on the typical college student diet of coffee and inhaled nicotine, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping me off of death’s doorstep and in touch with reality. I could see the people around me, and I could tell most of them had met the same fate I had, drowning in the pool of angst that came with being a college student majoring in English; broke, almost homeless, and completely hopeless.

     In the middle of dealing with my racing thoughts and letting the cigarette dust pollute the air, that’s when I looked up.

     Deserted, he was positioned on a stool in front of the bar and disconnected from everyone else. No one spoke to him or even acknowledged his existence, and he returned the favor. His only friends were a scotch glass and the stench of cigar smoke mixed with remorse.

  
     It was like looking in a mirror.

     He turned to look at me, and I met golden honey eyes that blended into a mess of thin limbs and silky features, topped with chocolate brown hair and puppy dog eyes.

     As I remained in my seat, unmoving and barely breathing, I noticed how he looking at me with purpose.  I tried to look away, but he had a gravitational effect on me, drawing me in and asking something of me, so much that I couldn’t bear to look away. I knew he wanted me to see him staring at me, to meet his gaze, to see him and feel this sense of obligation, to give up fighting him.

     When I raised an eyebrow at him, I silently invited him in, and skinny jean clad legs made their way to my table. He sat, dark features shining against the dimly lit lights, and pulled out a cigarette from the packet sitting between us. He never brought it to his lips, but instead, smiled at me.

     “Hello.”

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      Weeks later, in the bathroom of a dance club, somewhere in the second district, lost among the closed down bakeries and abandoned shopping carts, Ryan approached me again.
It was my only free day, and the shrill silence of my empty apartment was too much to swallow after days of morning classes and nights of blending peach and mango or sweeping floors.

     In the middle of a fast beat, the sound suddenly cut from a fast song to a smooth, melodic slow song that gripped my insides as people who were there with friends, with partners, and lovers began to sway together.

      I stood there, alone, in the middle of the luminescent dance floor, and took it in. This life, my reality, it all hit me in the face and left me out of breath.

     I ran past the hot bodies, away from the scent of sweat and regrets and into the single bathroom, locking the door before falling onto the hard floor and facing the porcelain bowl. I dry heaved, and it hurt. It hurt terribly. All of the thoughts- everyday I’d spent alone in my cheap, dirty, one room apartment, every time a customer screamed at me- they came up.

     As I lost consciousness, falling onto the tile, it felt like a victory.

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     “Hey. Hey, wake up.”

     Cold hands shook me awake and aroused me from my temporary sleep.

     When I opened my eyes, it almost felt like a dream as I realized, it's him. It’s Ryan.

     He didn’t say anything, just grabbed my hand and helped me onto my aching feet, brushing me off and fixing my hair into its proper place. 

     After adjusting my untidy appearance, Ryan asked me if I wanted to see something beautiful.

     I said yes.

     He led me to the rooftop of an abandoned building, where a once beautiful garden had inhabited the space. Now, it was a desolate wasteland full of wilted brown roses and overgrown weeds that covered every surface. It looked like the physical manifestation of death and something that used to be, but it felt like home.

     We both sat on old rusty lawn chairs that had been abandoned along with the array of daisies and orchids. I looked around, and I felt the alcohol leave my system. I became aware that I was alone, here, in the middle of a crime infested city with a boy who I knew nothing about.

     I thought to myself, who are you?

     It seemed as he read my mind as he began to talk about himself.

     Ryan, nineteen years old. 5’11, 93 pounds. Ryan doesn’t eat. Ryan doesn’t like talking about eating. Ryan doesn’t like to think about eating.

     “What about you?” He asked me, moon shining on the soft highlights of his brown hair.

     “Me? My name’s Annie. I’m nineteen, 5’5. I weigh some pounds. I was throwing up earlier.”

     “Did you know I was throwing up?” I demanded, questioning him.

     “How did you get into the girls bathroom? I know I locked it.”

     “Where the hell did you come from? Why won’t you answer me?”

     I diverted my attention to him, glaring at him. He smiled and handed me a bottle of brandy.

     “Bottoms up,” He cheered, taking a swig and toasting it to himself.
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     After a few weeks, Ryan started coming to me when I was in my flat, by myself, warming up a pack of cheap microwavable whatever and shivering from the lack of heat.

     He would sit on my counter, taking sips from a bottle hidden inside of a brown sack.

     “Come on, Annie, let’s go.”

     I asked him, “Where?”

 
     “I just put that pizza in the oven.”

     Sighing, he rolled his eyes. "You don’t need pizza, Annie. You need this,”

      He laughed, heavy and dark.

     “You need me.”

     I considered this.

      I thought of Ryan as a disease. He clung onto whatever he could find and destroyed it, all while feeding on the death of it. He was clinging onto me, sucking the life out me.

     I however, was friendless. I had no life. My family,they were off in their warm homes, eating their homemade meals around the dining room table, before going off to watch Wheel of Fortune until bedtime. I was there, drowning, with one person in the entire world who reached out to me.

     And with that, I turned the oven off, grabbed my coat, and followed him down the flights of stairs and past the chipped white walls, into the dark night.

     He didn’t have a car, I noticed, as he strode down the dimly lit sidewalks, towards the local park.

     I asked him, “What’s at the park?”

     I could hear his smirk as he said, “You’ll see.”

     After we passed through the rustic gates of the local park, he lead me towards the old brick bridge, high in the air and abandoned. It overlooked an unkempt river, neglected, reckless and full of mud and pollution. In the dark, though, it looked alluring and tempting as the moon shined against it and tricked the mind.

      Ryan climbed the bridge, silently asking me to follow him. He stopped when he got to the center, swinging his long legs to the side and dangling them over the edge, above the shallow deep. He didn’t ask me to sit down, but I did it anyway.

      We sat there for minutes, for hours, for years. It felt like a lifetime passed by as I asked the moon to forget to fall down.

     “Have you ever thought about it?” He asked me, cutting through the silence.

     I asked him, “About what?

    “Jumping into a water dumpster?”

     He waved his hand in the air, stopping my train of thought.

 
    “No, no, no. Not jumping. Falling.”

     When I didn’t say anything, he continued.

 
     “That isn’t the point. You don’t jump to jump. You jump to fall.”

     He turned to me, looking at me straight in the eyes.

    “You are on the edge, and getting ready to jump. You haven’t jumped yet. Therefore, you haven't fallen yet."

     He took my hand and intertwined his bony fingers between mine.

     "You need to break. You cannot get better until you break. Annie, please, I can help you break."

     I huffed out a foggy breath of chilly air, accusing him, “For what? Nothing is free.”

     “You must want something.”

     He tucked his hand around my back and moved me closer to him, burying his face in my long locks as he muttered,

     "Don't eat."

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     I would go shopping at the grocery store, and Ryan would be there.

     "Do you know how many calories are in the crap you eat?" he asked, loading my cart with heads of lettuce and vitamin water.

     “Sure,” I would say.

     I would go to buy a pair of new work pants, and Ryan would be there.

     "These pants are huge. They'd be like a cloak on me."

     Snickering, he would squeeze my thigh. I looked at myself in the full body mirror, black slacks and smoothie-stained blouse, arms as wide as Ryan’s waist.

     “You have a point,” I would say.

     I would pick myself apart in the mirror, and Ryan would be there, standing next to me.

     "You are almost two of me, you know that?" He would challenge. "Look at us. Look at you. Look at me.”

     I did.

     I regretted it.

     Everywhere I went, he was there. He was a reminder. He was the voice in my mind, the shout that woke me from any attempt at sleep.

     Bit by bit, I came undone.

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     I remember darkness.

     Everything hurt, and my throat felt like sandpaper, scratchy and parched.

     "Annie? Annie, are you awake?"

     A man I couldn’t place shook my shoulder gently, causing my eyes to snap open and immediate panic to set in.
I was laid out on a bed of plastic, clothes gone and replaced with a loose nightgown.

     There was an IV inserted into my arm, antibiotics flowing into my protruding veins, numbing my mind.

     Everything was white, and I thought about makeup and perfume and shopping carts, and Ryan, where is Ryan?

     I voiced my thoughts and asked, “Where is Ryan?”

     The man gave me a questioning look, and cleared his throat.

     “Annie, there’s no Ryan here. But my name is Doctor Sven. Can you tell me who you are?”

     “Yes,” I said, slowly. “Annie Cambridge. I live in a little apartment, 10 minutes from the center of Chicago. I’m 19 years old, and I work at the Smoothie Shack uptown, at the corner of 3rd and Walker Street. I go to Devon University, and I major in English. I’m in a hospital.”

     I asked him, “Why am I in a hospital?”

     “Annie, yesterday you were found unconscious in the bathroom of your workplace. A coworker called an ambulance and you were admitted yesterday, around six. It’s nine in the morning now.”

     I thought of fingers shoved down throats.

     I thought of Ryan, tall and lean and perfect.

     “Annie,” He said, calmly, “When was the last time you ate?”

     “Oh,” I said.

     And it all made sense.
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     Jump to right now, two weeks later.

     “This the most cliché looking office I’ve ever seen,” I declare.

     “This couch is leather and not nearly as comfortable as you make it seem to be. It’s sad, really.”

     A woman who could be mistaken as a supermodel over a shrink takes her black frames off and sets them on the desk, smiling at me.

     “Hello, Annie. I’m going to be your therapist for the next 20 sessions. You can call me Lisa.”

     I tell her, “Okay. You can call me desperate.”

     She doesn’t laugh.

     She picks up a notepad and begins to assure me of my nonexistent worries, talking of how this is a safe place, and I’m free to discuss anything without apprehension.

     I only half listen as she babbles, but words like anorexia nervosa and bulimia hit my ears.  I barely register that she stops speaking until she clears her throat, causing me to meet her gaze.

     “Annie, sometimes when people develop eating disorders, they give their disorders names. I think it might be easier for us to discuss this if you had something to refer to it as.”

     She puts her notepad down and folds her hands in her lap.

     “Did yours have a name?”

     She looks at me, knowing and questioning. We both know why I’m here.

      I face my knees as tears prick my eyes and whisper, “Ryan.”