Like Me: A Novel

From the bathroom, where I was perched in front of the toilet, I could hear Gemma Anton laughing. Gemma was on her way to a party. Not now. Last night. I'd left her on my bed, imprisoned in the two-by-six-inch screen of my phone, as she was goofing around and singing to Bob Marley in the back of a taxi. Her giggle reverberated through my shitty studio's thin walls in a tinny, mechanical loop.I was kneeling in a pose of abject submission, my forehead pressed against the cool plastic seat of the toilet, hands clammy against its sculpted porcelain. This was how I spent most of my mornings that summer—the summer that concerns us, the summer that Gemma disappeared—hunched in my bathroom, waiting for the bile to climb. I had convinced myself that I'd developed insomnia and needed to drink at least two bottles of wine, or the equivalent, to fall asleep. Although what I called "falling asleep" was what medical professionals would probably term an alcoholic blackout. I often woke fully clothed, reeking of cigarette smoke, the chemical aftertaste of cocaine in the back of my throat, with only the dimmest idea of how I'd gotten there. Of course, I slept worse and worse, and drank more and more, and somehow failed to see the connection between the two.At nineteen, I was already well trained in the school of hangovers. They were worth it, too, I thought, for those few blissful hours asleep, swimming in the inky black void, falling through nothing. So, on this particular morning, I did not hesitate to act: I bravely lifted my head and, bracing myself with one hand, delicately probed the velvety flesh at the back of my throat. It was like fitting a key into a lock with the lights out. I closed my eyes, feeling for the give, and then—click—it came in a gush: relief awash in soured vodka soda.Satisfied with the purge, I leaned back and surveyed my reflection in the shallow oval of milky pale water below me. I tore off two squares of toilet paper and cleaned my fingers, tossed the refuse into the bowl, and flushed.Standing up, I stretched my arms towards the ceiling. Beautiful little fireflies, the kind that signal intense dehydration and hunger, danced in front of my eyes. Reaching past the shower curtain—depressingly mass-market white, mildewed on the bottom—I turned on the shower, pushing it as hot as it would go. The rushing sound drowned out Gemma's laugh and calmed me, making my scalp tingle. I stripped naked, leaving my clothes in a puddle on the floor, and examined my body in the full-length mirror, waiting for the steam to fill the room. I ran my hands along the length of my sides, pinched the skin on my stomach, tapped my hip bones, running my inventory. All the products were in place: flat stomach, skinny arms, ribs that protruded ever so slightly, white skin. I thought of my body as a tool, something I owned. I could rent it out if I wanted to—which is more or less what I did. For all that talk about selling one's soul, no one seems to be in the market. It's the body that everybody wants. The body is a currency everyone can understand.The steam clouded over the mirror and swallowed me. I stepped into the shower, closed my eyes, and finally lost sight of myself. I felt empty and pure.