Hot Lunch Narrative

Hot lunch today was ravioli, with a side of garlic bread.

I loved cooking Italian food. It was one of my favorite types of food to prepare and to eat. There was something freeing in it.

Then again, any different type of food from another country, may it be authentic Mexican, Indian, or Chinese, was of interest to me. The cheeseburgers and greasy pizza of America was sometimes overwhelming, so a change in food was nice.

I got my lunch, the lunch ladies not even acknowledging me (but that wasn 't anything new), and found a table near the back of the room. A light bulb was burnt out back there, so it was darkish and secluded. Perfect for me. No one would notice me, and even if they did, they wouldn 't bother me. I just wanted to be left alone.

And I was.

I stared down at my tray, curls of steam tickling my face, calling for me and telling me to gag.

Just the

I could still feel the ravioli and the apple in my stomach. It felt like they were dancing in there, mocking me, calling me names like "fatty", "pig", and "disgusting".

That was enough for me, and I shoved my fingers to the back of my throat, expelling the food into the toilet. It burned, it always did, but that was part of the relief, knowing that it was gone and out of my body.

Standing up, I brushed myself off and shivered. I hated the lingering taste of bile in my mouth. So, to complete the "ritual", if you will, I shuffled over to the sink, leaned down and drank some water, swished it around in my mouth, and spat it out. I repeated this a few times until I had purged the nasty flavor from my tastebuds.

Finally feeling satisfied, or as satisfied as someone like me could feel, I exited the bathroom, going back to the lunch room to dump the rest of the contents on my tray into the trash can.

I returned to my table and sat in the darkness, alone, waiting for the bell to ring. Just like I did everyday.

Nothing ever changed. Everything was always the same, a pattern, a routine.

Or so