As you read along you may notice that this is not my usual writing voice, but it seemed appropriate for the overarching theme of the piece as a whole. If you are triggered by the mention of eating disorders, I recommend you skip this one.
Here is Part One of The Thing
The child first saw the Thing in a nightmare, but like most nightmares, they are easily forgotten in light of our daily life, full of its own miseries. Mornings were a terrible time for her. She feared them and they never did her any good. It wasn’t until midday that a happy thought surfaced, and by degrees, come night, she came alive again. That evening, however, as she stood in the kitchen wondering what to make for dinner, she still found herself somber. Perhaps some guacamole? That ought to cheer her up. She was only a fair cook, and did not always trust herself with a knife, but dismantling an avocado was something she could do, so she set about doing it.
Once done, she got up on a chair and took out a loaf of bread from the cupboard. She sliced three thick slices and spread each with the green mixture, then placed the plate on a tray and carried it into the living room. She moved rather gracefully for a twelve year old girl, so small and plump.
“Dinner’s ready!” she shouted into the void. She stood detached for several seconds, a lonely stranger with downcast eyes and a cold but troubled expression on her face, waiting. Her parents worked late into the night.
She sat down but before she could take a bite of toast she noticed something strange. The avocado had settled its impersonal, strangely watchful eyes on her, as if calculating something. Or, rather, as if to say: I began my life in a plantation somewhere in Michoacán state, Mexico, then traveled in a container ship across the Atlantic, to the port of Rotterdam, only to be shipped in a box with my ripened cousins, my parents and my friends, to the supermarket next door, where your mother picked us up one by one, squeezed and bruised us with her dexterous thumb, until she finally landed on me. At least show some respect before you eat me.
Since the child was one of those rare types of children who, were the house on fire, would stop and straighten out the bedsheets, the thought of a cognizant avocado repulsed her. With one stubby finger she pushed the plate aside and looked out over the table, into her quiet little garden of order. It was dark and she did not feel like doing anything. The thought of getting up felt like one great burden, but so did staying seated. Perhaps she should read a book. But the longer she thought that thought through, the more she realized she did not feel like doing that either.
“I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to drink, I don’t want to watch television or even read my book, I finished my homework, and I don’t want to get ready for bed. What can I possibly do when life is so full of things I don’t feel like doing?”
“You could give me a bite of your toast,” something whispered.
She let out a little gasp of shock, then looked around.
“What?”
“Toast, are you deaf?”
“Who are you?”
“Who? People tend not to ask, so I don’t know.”
“Alright then, where are you?”
“Down here,” it rumbled around in her pocket like a growling stomach, then stuck out its head. It had a small, pink body, almost translucent, like milk diluted in water, and tiny hands which ended in precisely sculpted fingers. It stared up at the child with its two dotted eyes.
“Just a small bite, please? I haven’t eaten in years.”
“In years? How’s that possible?”
“It is possible, it is possible! It’s easy once you start. You feel time less when you stand still. I could teach you how.”
“Really? Could you teach me by September?” she asked. She had wanted to look beautiful on her first day of classes.
“Of course! But first, food!”
Its face was a small and expressionless thing, but if she looked carefully, the freckled eyes and pointed ears worked together to create something harmonious. Especially the little area between the eyes seemed to, occasionally, give way to a powerful emotion. She decided the Thing must really be hungry. With the same round, pointy finger she had pushed her plate aside moments earlier, she now gathered a generous scoop, and placed it neatly into its soft meaty mouth.
“Delicious!” it screamed.
She scooped and scooped again until the bread’s surface looked wet and moulded, like an old sponge. Then she ripped each slice into tiny pieces and fed it accordingly. Before long it was sleeping, grunting and snoring like a hog, its breath loud and stertorous. She carried it carefully upstairs.
Her bedroom was small, with a high ceiling, a dressing-table and a chair, from which lay her clothes for the following day. On the dressing-table lay her hairbrush, her journal, all kinds of books, and some doodles she had drawn the day before. Everything gave off the impression of early rising, attention to duty, diligence, Sunday church going, early bedtimes. The moon shone in through the open window; there wasn’t a single noise besides the child’s cooing as she cupped the Thing up into her hand, like water from a well. With the other hand she shook her sweater off, then folded it neatly into a square, placing the Thing within its furrows.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, the child could not wait until morning. A door had been opened through which life had walked in. Her face shone with delight as she lay in bed, her fleshy fists clenched white, and the little bun at the back of her head loose, so that her hair dangled freely along her arms, onto her pillow.
Loneliness no longer touched her throughout those next few days. She worried less about those lethargic summer months which did nothing but cascade her into middle school, with the same girls who never liked her as much as she liked them. An affinity sprung up between her and the Thing, a profound sympathy for one another. It made no demands other than food. It wanted to eat all the time, its appetite was insatiable.
“Delicious! It is all just so delicious!” it said. The child’s ears burned red with pride. She had never made anything delicious before.
As each day brought in the next she gave in more consistently to its commands. It really did appear to be starving. It was also incredibly suspicious by nature. Just like humans have laundry-lists full of strange demands required in a friendship — loyalty, compassion, trust and all that — so did the Thing, and why shouldn’t it. But unlike us humans, who liked to complicate everything, its tiny, walnut brain had compacted all those demands into one: food. To the Thing, food equaled fidelity. They were one and the same. So, in order to gain its trust, the child had to shrink. As she nibbled on a carrot, or ate dry cereal one piece at a time, the Thing feasted. The more she fed it, the happier it became, and the more beautiful she felt. When they weren’t in the kitchen they spent many minutes each morning, afternoon and evening planted in her parent’s room, scrutinizing their full-length mirror.
When, rarely, the Thing was not thinking about food, it liked to go on walks. Or, rather, it liked being taken on long walks. Some spanned hours. And though her mother never wanted her venturing out past their front lawn, the Thing proved to be incredibly persistent. Under its tutelage they journeyed just a little bit further everyday.
“I won’t tell your mother if you don’t. Anyway, didn’t you want to be beautiful by September?”
During the long, hot hours between lunch and dinner they walked along the bland street, lined by tall, identical houses. With a porch and pillars and two steps leading up to the front door. Some had generous yards, lawns and trees, shrubs and flowers. The sidewalks were well maintained but here and there roots cracked the pavement. At the edge of the neighborhood stood a supermarket, presided over by a plain woman whose mouth hung slack and whose cheeks draped loose, and gave off the overall impression of time running out. Though the child did not have any money, the Thing insisted on at least browsing the shelves.
“Looking doesn’t cost a thing,” it reminded her, “and I want to play a game.”
It was a hot summer’s day but the child was shivering in the packaged goods section. She longed to be out in the sun, reading her book, but the Thing was mesmerized by all the food. A treasure trove of forbidden appetites, a place where all the world’s beauty was showcased in organized rows, exhibited for those who knew how to appreciate them.
“What type of game?”
“I tell you the food, and you tell me the calories. I’ll test you, and then you can test me.”
“Can’t we just sit outside, in the sun?”
“Just for a little while, it’ll be fun.”
They played for an hour that day, until the shopkeeper told her to run off if she wasn’t going to buy anything. And though she did not like to be reprimanded, they returned the following day. The Thing felt heavier in her pocket, big as it had gotten. The two played until they were told to leave again, only to return the next afternoon.
Sunday gave way to a slight shift in schedule. Since the supermarket was closed and her parents stayed home, the child planted herself in the kitchen, and cooked one lavish meal after the other. Partially because she could sneak the Thing a snack without being found out, and partially because the Thing’s passions had suddenly become her own — as the weeks passed she could think of nothing but food. She experimented with recipes of her own invention, the old dishes no longer interested her. Recipe books had become her preferred genre. She made vegetable ragouts, tomato and feta omelettes, pumpkin mousse piquant, and smoked eggplant pitas.
Because the Thing was expanding rapidly, they had to be resourceful. She hid it wherever she could find an opening. Its favorite spot was the pantry, but because her father sometimes went in there to steal a treat, it was dangerous. Especially during those long hours between lunch and dinner wherein he’d scavenge through the clipped-closed bags looking for chocolates, cookies, or dried fruit.
The Thing shared an interesting relationship with the father. Where it was suspicious and selfish towards the child, towards him it felt generous. It enjoyed watching him eat. The way he threw himself onto his breakfast, for example, with the keen appetite of a healthy man. At times the Thing even felt vexed when it ate more than him. So, for the father’s sake, it did not mind hiding in the packaged-foods cupboard, just above the stove, where it could anticipate the meal to come, licking its lips and filtering the air.
Where it adored the father, for his gluttony, his hedonism, it despised the mother. She, like it, was a distrustful creature by nature, and whenever they sat down to eat, she spent many long minutes observing the child from across the table. Her eyes were watchful, misty pale with a little black dot in the center, like a fish eye on a white, porcelain plate. Her appetite was meager, she chopped her food into small bites and ate each piece one by one. Throughout the child’s short life she had seen so precious little of her mother that, at times, she imagined she may have been absent at her birth. All this sudden attention frightened her. If anyone was to find the Thing, it would be her. Whereas her father would never share a meal with anyone but himself, the child felt, with sudden certainty, that her mother could look right through her, into the kitchen and through the cupboard, where the Thing waited impatiently. What if she found it and told it to leave?
The two spent many long hours practicing for these Sunday meals: “Talk frequently,” it instructed, “it’ll distract her. Then, with your cutlery, move your food around on the plate. Every so often bring an empty forkful quickly to your mouth, then chew on your teeth quietly. Then, when your mother isn’t looking, hide whatever is on your plate in a napkin, or on the ground under your chair, or even your pocket. Then, when they retreat to the couch, I’ll clean it right up for you.”
“Can’t I just eat? For once? I’ll make you something extra later.”
The Thing looked at her, red and crimson, its face pinched with disgust.
“Eat then! Eat you pathetic, piggish, deplorable child. But don’t complain to me when you’re ugly come September.”
“I’m hungry!” She screamed.
“Stop copying me!” It retaliated.
“I’ll die if I continue on like this!”
“Continue on like what?”
“Continue on… like this.”
As far as she could remember, she had not eaten a proper meal in almost two months. Everything felt like one big struggle. Even watching the television. Her mind was clouded with nothing but the Thing, by food and counting calories, to make sure it had eaten enough. Her legs and arms, once round as barrels, and the belly which once bulged high in the air, had shriveled like a dried prune. Her chest was sunken in, her bones showed all over. And her head, which had once been small, had expanded like pizza dough. She looked, ever so slightly, like a fleshy lollipop. Meanwhile, the Thing kept swelling, all its transparent features made opaque by a dark liquid. It now came up to her knees and was twice as wide.
“There’s nothing to fear as long as I’m here,” it sung.
“My chest hurts, right where my heart’s supposed to be. What if I die?” She asked again.
“It was your idea to be beautiful by September, not mine! And, anyway, what a silly worry! Death! Our whole world is a cemetery where Plato, Beethoven, Nietzsche, Proust are the only ones we remember, and even their names are illegible on moulding stone! And the mourners who once stood around their graves, what happened to them? No one remembers anyone in this life and the next. If you’re not standing right there in front of them, they forget your name.”
“Sometimes I don’t even remember my name. I look in the mirror and I can’t find myself.”
“Let me tell you a little story. It’s gruesome, but interesting, so be prepared. There once was a dog whose head was completely severed from its body, but its blood supply still maintained by its arteries and veins — by means of an artificial heart. Believe it or not, the dog’s head, all alone on that tray, continued to live. Its brain was fully functional. They did all kinds of tests on it to prove the simple fact. It responded to commands, it recognized its owner, it licked its nose to keep it wet. It was in every way still a dog, despite its overall lack of a body. In conclusion, one does not need a body, or at least, a well functioning body, to stay alive, as long as a supply of properly oxygenated blood can be maintained in the brain.”
“Did the dog really carry on living?”
“Well, it carried on existing.”
The child, who did not yet understand nuances, felt momentarily reassured.
Wow, this is so powerful. Your writing is extraordinary.
As someone who had a “thing” of her own throughout my adolescence, this was deeply moving. I look forward to the next part.