Chapter Text
By January 20th, the snow had mostly vanished. From her window, Larissa could make out patches of dark, damp soil where students’ boots had worn down the grass into sticky mud. The sun was out, and for the first time in a while, the sky wasn’t just grey and dull. Between the clouds, small strips of blue peeked through.
She shut the curtains anyway.
Nobody could see what she was about to do.
The scale was where she had hidden it—slid beneath her bed, pushed against the wall so no one could stumble across it. She no longer trusted the bathroom. There were too many footsteps coming and going, too many curious eyes hungry for drama. Two—Gomez and Morticia—against thirty or more eager to find out was enough to make her rethink.
She held her breath as the numbers flickered, taunting her before falling in place.
146.2.
Her stomach dropped.
For a moment she only stared it, as if blinking would erase it, as if it might roll it backward. She had thought she was doing well. She had thought the long walks, the smaller portions, the refusal of eating would mean something.
The world hated her.
She shoved the scale back beneath the bed. Her eyes fell on the yoga mat she hadn’t touched in weeks. It was covered in dust. Shame burned through her. She dragged it out, shaking it hard until the particles scattered, then dropped to her knees.
She stretched until her muscles trembled. She twisted, curled, pushed until her vision went black. She stood and crouched in repetitions that made her lungs ache. By the time she collapsed flat on the mat, sweat had dampened the back of her shirt, and hair stuck to her forehead.
She turned her head, staring down at the slope of her stomach. Bloated. Puffy. Wrong.
Her hand gripped the skin hard, pinching, pulling, trying to force it inward, as if she could mold herself to be smaller. The flesh resisted her ministrations, grumbling in hunger.
“Ugly,” she whispered under her breath.
When evening came, she followed Morticia and Gomez down to the dining hall. She sat opposite Gomez, beside Morticia, quieter than usual, her thoughts still tangled around the number on the scale.
Gomez devoured his portion of roast beef, praising the rare appearance of actual seasoning. Morticia had gotten something simple—half a sandwich, and an apple sliced into slices. She had insisted on carrying an extra plate for Larissa that held a small burger, and a banana.
When Larissa hesitated to bring the burger to her mouth, Morticia leaned in close, her dark hair brushing against her sleeve. “You look very pretty tonight. Your cheeks have colour again.”
The words were meant to be kind.
Her cheeks burned hotter. She forced a smile, but inside, everything roiled. If Morticia thought she looked “rosy,” that meant she looked full. Round. Bigger than before.
It was unbearable.
She excused herself minutes later, mumbling something about homework.
Once back in the room, she sat on the edge of her bed, Morticia’s words pounding in her head. Pretty. Coloured cheeks. Eating had made her rosy. Had made her disgusting.
She remembered an article she’d skimmed in the library, some shallow fashion magazine she’d only grabbed because a thin woman was on the cover.
Between pages of jewelry and shoes was a piece on how models kept their figures. According to it, many of them forced themselves to vomit before runway shows.
Her hands shook in her lap. The thought both repulsed and electrified her.
A door cracked open in her mind, one she had never dared to step through before. Now it was impossible to close.
That night marked the beginning of Larissa’s ruination.
—
The bathroom was quiet.
Larissa stood by the door for what felt like an eternity, listening for footsteps or chatter. Only when she was sure no one was inside did she go in.
There were seven stalls lined up in a row, each with faint carvings on the doors—initials, hearts, stars, flowers. The tile floors were cold, one could tell even though their socks and shoes.
She chose the last stall, which was the biggest. Safer. Less chance of someone seeing.
Her stomach twisted as she latched the door. She’d read about this. She knew time mattered. Before it digests. Before the body could absorb it.
She set her bag carefully on the hook, rolled up her sleeves, then turned on the miniature sink in the stall—scrubbing her hands once, twice, harder than necessary until the skin turned pink. She had to be clean. No germs, she’d read.
The toilet looked wide and unwelcoming. Her knees shook as she bent over, her reflection showing in the water. For a moment, she just stared. Her heart was racing, urging her not to lean forward.
Then she opened her mouth.
Two fingers awkwardly slid inside. She pressed against the back of her tongue, her eyes watering as her gag reflex seized. Nothing came. Just a dry cough and a flood of saliva.
Her hands trembled. Immediately she was frustrated. Of course.
“I can’t even do this right,” she muttered to herself, spitting out a string of saliva.
She tried again, pushing deeper this time, her nails scraping against her teeth. Her throat spasmed violently, and she gagged, tears spilling through her eyelashes. Still nothing but a bitter taste.
Her jaw ached, her eyes stung, her body screamed at her to stop. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
One more time.
She shoved her fingers in further, until her whole body convulsed, and then suddenly her stomach lurched. Warmth rushed upward, unstoppable now. She leaned forward, and the burger came up in chunks, splattering into the bowl with squelches so horrid they made her wince.
The stench hit her instantly—acid and meat, sour and vile. The taste stuck to her tongue, burning her throat.
She gasped, coughing, strings of saliva hanging from her lips as she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. It was disgusting. Humiliating.
And yet, her heart raced with exhilaration.
Her body felt light, hollow. Empty.
It was horrible. And god, it was thrilling.
—
The puzzle lay unattended to on the floor of the girls’ dormitory, half the pieces flipped wrong-side up, corners bent from Gomez’s restless fiddling. He was sat on the rug, rambling about some fencing move he’d seen an older student try earlier that day, while Morticia leaned against the bed frame, pretending to listen but clearly more absorbed in fixing her hair.
Larissa sat at the edge of the mattress, her chin propped in her hand in thought. She had barely spoken all evening.
When she finally did, it surprised both of them.
“Do you—” She cleared her throat. “Would you two want to go down for dinner? Now?”
The room went completely silent. Morticia’s eyes lifted slowly, as though she hadn’t heard right.
“You mean—you want to?” she asked, her voice almost cautious, like if she asked too loudly Larissa might change her mind.
Larissa only nodded.
Morticia shot to her feet so fast Gomez held his hands up in defence. “Then what are we waiting for?” She asked, taking Gomez by the sleeve, tugging him upright before he could even process what she’d just said.
By the time they reached the dining hall, Morticia’s hands were held in front of her chest, as if she were trying not to look too obviously delighted. Larissa held a tray with mashed potatoes, a bread roll, and a small slice of cake. She slid into her seat across from Gomez, who had piled his plate high with dark meat. Morticia sat beside Larissa, hovering over her as she picked up the bread roll.
Larissa ate quickly, her fork moving nonstop until the plate was clean of potatoes. And when she lifted her fork to the cake, Morticia’s eyes widened as though she might cry.
She picked at her own food, then, on an impulse, slid her fork into her chicken and held out a small bite toward Larissa. “Here. Just try it.”
For a moment, Larissa thought about saying no. But Morticia’s eyes were unbearable. She leaned forward, took the bite, and swallowed.
Before she could stop herself, Morticia pulled Larissa into a tight hug, her cheek pressed against Larissa’s forehead. “You’ve made me so happy,” she whispered, her voice shaking just a little.
Larissa laughed awkwardly, but hugged her back. Gomez smiled at the sight, though he looked faintly puzzled, like he wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about.
Not long after, Larissa pushed back her chair. “I should—I need to call my mother,” she said quickly, excusing herself before either of them could ask questions. She left with a smile, leaving Morticia’s expression glowing with hope.
Back upstairs, the bathroom was thankfully quiet. Larissa hurried inside, locking herself in the far stall. She knelt on the tile in front of the toilet.
The first attempt failed—her throat spasmed, but nothing came. She leaned closer, tried again, forcing her fingers deeper, angling them until her body finally lurched.
The potatoes came first, smooth enough. Relief washed through her. Then the cake followed, soft but sticky, sweet turned sour in her mouth. She gagged, coughed, but continued until it was gone. The chicken scraped her throat, but the soft bread came up after, soothing the sting.
When she slumped back against the stall wall, she was trembling, her throat burning, her mouth bitter. But her stomach was empty again.
Happiness outweighed the pain easily.
—
By late March, Larissa’s body had thinned again. Morticia could see it—though she didn’t understand how. Larissa had been eating entire meals, finishing whole plates at dinner, even taking dessert. Morticia had been elated. She had practically glowed with pride each time Larissa lifted a fork. Yet now, she was shrinking once more. On March 23rd, she had slipped down to 131.7. Morticia didn’t know that number exactly, but she sensed the loss in her friend’s body.
The two of them were alone in their dorm—Gomez was in the library with some fencing theory text he insisted was more fascinating than it sounded.
Larissa had slotted her favourite tape into the little television. She was curled up against the headboard of her bed, her bony knees drawn in loosely, her focus solely on the screen. Morticia, restless and half-attentive, let herself drift from her own bed toward Larissa’s.
She dropped herself down beside her. Inch by inch she shifted until her shoulder brushed against Larissa’s arm. When Larissa didn’t immediately move away, Morticia dared to lean in, just slightly, until her head rested near her friend’s chest.
Larissa held her breath.
Morticia ignored the warning and let herself relax into the contact. For weeks now, she had been nearly giddy at the sight of Larissa eating again, at the idea that her friend was healing. Yet as she leaned closer, what she felt unnerved her. There was less there. Her chest—always modest, yes, but last month when they’d changed clothes Morticia had seen and quietly admired her curves. Now where she brushed lightly against Larissa’s front, she registered nothing of the sort.
Her arm moved lower, sliding around Larissa’s middle. That was when she felt the edge of her ribs beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.
Larissa shifted under her touch, a subtle repositioning, almost as if to change the shape of herself, to bring whatever body fat forward that she could to hide the truth. Perhaps she thought Morticia wouldn’t notice if she moved just so, pressing her arm between them to disguise the jutting bones.
But Morticia had already felt it.
She kept her cheek against Larissa’s chest anyway. She told herself it was only friendship—after all, best friends lay close together all the time.
Her heart however had a mind of its own, practically jumping out of her chest.
What she didn’t know was that Larissa’s own heart was hammering beneath her. Not only from the terror of being discovered, of Morticia noticing too much, but also from the way her friend’s body fitted against hers. Morticia’s closeness was terrifying for more than one reason.
—
Larissa woke first. At some point in the night, they had drifted into sleep side by side, Morticia’s body folded against hers. For a moment Larissa didn’t move. She laid there, watching the rise and fall of Morticia’s breath against her shoulder. When she finally lifted her head, the little clock on her bedside table showed just past seven. Early. And it was one of those idle school days anyway, a free morning set aside for the students who were struggling to catch up.
Larissa inched out from beneath Morticia’s body, careful not to wake her. The room felt strangely empty without the pressure of her friend pressed against her side. She took the outfit she had chosen the night before, folded on the nearby rocking chair.
The top she tugged over her head stuck in all the places she now half-proudly, half-anxiously noticed. Pale pink with faded white flowers, its scoop neck revealed the angles of her collarbones, more prominent now than they had been weeks ago. Her skirt was white, simple, with a tiny pink bow stitched in by her mother at the waistline. Finally came the shoes—those same white Mary Janes she’d worn enough times to loathe. They still pinched, always did, but she had trained herself to accept that ache as part of the appeal.
When she turned back, she nearly jumped. Morticia hadn’t been asleep after all. She had been watching, following every movement as Larissa dressed, taking in what had changed.
Morticia slipped off the bed and stepped closer. Her expression was softened, almost sorrowful, her mouth in a pout as though Larissa had somehow hurt her by simply standing there. She reached up, cupping Larissa’s cheeks in both hands. Her palms were cold.
Recognition, suspicion, worry, she didn’t know what to feel. She spoke softly, yet clear enough that Larissa would know she was serious. “You are beautiful, Larissa. More beautiful than any other girl I have ever seen.”
Larissa was unable to hold the eye contact for long. Her chest ached under the compliment, both from the longing to believe it and the guilt of knowing it wasn’t true.
Morticia, either blind to the discomfort or stubborn in ignoring it, let one hand fall to Larissa’s stomach. Her fingers prodded gently. “Being thin won’t make you any prettier, Larissa. You already were. Even ten pounds heavier, you were still the most beautiful girl ever.”
Morticia drifted past her without another word, the bottom of her nightgown moving across the floor as she went to her side of the room. She tugged it over her head and let it fall onto the bed. Her figure in just a bra and underwear seemed more fragile than she’d ever let on. She stood in front of the mirror, tilting her head. The sunlight from the circular window fell through just where she stood, outlining every detail of her body.
“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly. Her eyes flicked to Larissa through the mirror. “Do you like how small I am?”
Larissa’s brow furrowed. “I—I guess so,” she answered.
Morticia turned from the mirror to face her. “Well, I don’t. I hate it. My mother won’t stop reminding me—‘eat more, Morticia, you’re all skin and bone.’ I hate that my chest looks like a child’s still, and I’m hardly growing any taller.”
Larissa’s throat burned with a mix of shame and admiration. How she wished to hear such things from her own mother. “You’re still beautiful,” she said quickly. “More beautiful than anyone I know. None of that changes it.”
Morticia didn’t answer. She bent, grabbing a black skirt from her drawer and pulling it up over her hips. Then came a lacy black blouse, tight against her waist.
Her expression softened when her eyes met Larissa’s again. She stepped forward and reached for her hand. In a sudden, unthought movement, Morticia wrapped her arms around her and pulled her in closer.
“I like you,” she murmured against her shoulder, “skinny or fat, thin or thick—it doesn’t matter to me.” She leaned back just enough to meet Larissa’s eyes, pursing her lips for a second. “But I won’t like you if you’re sick, or frail, or if you’re hurting yourself on purpose. That I couldn’t stand.”
Larissa forced down the spit gathering in her throat, her light eyes flicking from Morticia’s face to the mirror. Her reflection stared back. Too tall, grotesque, cheeks too round, shoulders too broad, eyes sunken in.
Morticia had only meant to squeeze her hand, a small touch before turning back to the mirror. But something stopped her—the way Larissa’s skin felt uneven beneath her fingers. Her eyes dropped. She turned Larissa’s hand over and studied it.
The knuckles were faintly swollen, the skin a little rough, rubbed in an unnatural way. When she ran her thumb across the back, she noticed the strange discolouration. She pressed her nail lightly against one of Larissa’s own. It bent almost instantly.
Morticia’s head lifted tersely. “Larissa…” Her voice was soft, though from disbelief rather than gentleness.
Larissa immediately tried to tug her hand back, but Morticia’s grip grew tighter.
“Tell me,” Morticia whispered. “Tell me the truth. Have you been—” she stopped, swallowed, as if even suggesting what she thought pained her. “Have you been making yourself sick?”
Larissa wanted so badly to lie, to shake her head, to laugh like it was insane. But she couldn’t. Because it was Morticia. Morticia, who noticed everything—the way Larissa pushed food around on her plate, the bitterness in her breath she’d prayed no one else would smell.
“I…” Her voice was barely audible. “Yes.”
As soon as the confession left her, she hated herself for it. But she also felt the smallest release, as though some terrible burden had been pried out of her hands.
Morticia looked at Larissa as if she’d never seen her before.
That’s what had hurt the most.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Morticia’s lips had just parted, her eyes beginning to dampen, when the door creaked open. Gomez came in with a ball of fur cradled in his arms.
“I found a little cat outside,” he said, before registering the tension in the room. His eyes went from Larissa’s worried eyes to Morticia’s pale, troubled face. “Thought, maybe—Larissa—you could…I don’t know, study it? For your shapeshifting practice. Since you’ve been working with cats…”
He trailed off. Even in his obliviousness, he seemed to understand he’d barged in at the wrong time. “It was just a thought.”
Morticia dropped Larissa’s hand. She shook her head once and lowered herself onto the floor, her arms locking around her knees.
Larissa hesitated, glancing helplessly between them. “I…I don’t think I can,” she said to Gomez, so quiet he barely heard. “She’s not feeling well. Sorry.”
He nodded quickly, as if grateful for an excuse to leave. “Right. Of course. I’ll…keep the cat safe.” He flitted back out, shutting the door behind him.
Larissa crouched in front of Morticia, who looked so small on the floor—smaller than Larissa had ever seen her.
Morticia buried her face against her knees. “I failed you. I was supposed to notice. I thought you were better. I thought I fixed it.”
Larissa reached out, resting her hands on Morticia’s stiff shoulders. “No—no, don’t say that. It’s not your fault. It’s me. I did this. I made myself sick. I chose it.”
Morticia lifted her head just enough for Larissa to see the tears falling down her cheeks. For the first time since they’d met, Morticia Frump—imperturbable, sardonic, untouchable Morticia—was crying.
Larissa hadn’t ever experienced another girl crying in front of her. She had no idea how to handle it. All she could think to do was swipe at Morticia’s cheeks with the backs of her fingers, whispering whatever came to mind. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop, I promise I’ll stop. I’ll eat, I’ll get better. We could…we could go to breakfast, right now, if you want.”
But nothing worked. Morticia’s sobs grew louder.
In her panic, Larissa latched onto the one thing she knew Morticia craved most—touch. Touch had always soothed her, persuaded smiles out of her when words could not.
So Larissa leaned forward and brushed the gentlest kiss against Morticia’s wet cheek. She pulled back quickly, terrified she’d crossed some unforgivable line.
But Morticia had frozen. The sobs had stopped. She blinked at Larissa through the tears. Her grip on her sleeve slackened, her hand falling open. Her fingers twitched as though they wanted to reach for Larissa, but she was caught between moving closer and pulling away.
Larissa slipped her hands under Morticia’s arms instead, pulling her up from the floor. The moment she was on her feet, she latched onto Larissa’s shoulders, her hands refusing to let go.
“Promise me,” Morticia whispered, finding her voice again. “Promise me that you’ll stop. That you won’t do it anymore. No more making yourself sick. No more starving. Just…eat. Properly. Please.”
For some reason, Morticia expected Larissa to agree. To say she would, to promise she’d be herself again by morning.
But, of course, that wasn’t how Larissa responded.
“I’m sorry, Morticia. I can’t. I can’t just stop. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I’d like to.”
Morticia’s face crumpled again, tears streaming down her face quicker than before. She pressed her forehead against Larissa’s shoulder. “Does being skinny mean more to you than me? Than us?”
Larissa’s arms went tighter around Morticia’s back. “No. Never.”
“Then why?” Morticia’s voice cracked, each word coming out hoarse and unclear. “Why would you choose this? You could choke—you could die. You could ruin your heart or bleed inside yourself, and I wouldn’t even know until—” Her words paused on the thought, panic taking over. “Do you want to die, Larissa? To never make it to thirty because you don’t like the food you hardly even eat?”
Larissa hadn’t realized—hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. “I…I didn’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t know I could die just from…throwing up. I didn’t know, Morticia, I swear.”
Morticia leaned back a little, tears still running down her cheeks and smudging her mascara. “I don’t care if you’re curvy or thin or anything in between. I care that you’re alive. I care that you breathe when I wake up and that your heart keeps beating. I’d rather see you healthy and living than skinny and dead.”
She looked down at the floor. “Even Gomez wants you alive. You know that. Even he notices.”
The mention of Gomez made Larissa’s chest twist tighter.
Larissa held her closer. Her fingers moved through Morticia’s hair, stroking it the way she knew always calmed her.
Morticia’s voice was muffled as she leaned against Larissa’s collarbone. “I don’t like it. I don’t like how thin your fingers feel when I hold them, or how I can feel your ribs when I hug you. I don’t like that your teeth don’t shine anymore, or how none of your clothes fit right. I can’t stand it.”
Her body shook against Larissa’s. “Please don’t leave me.”