Part 1:

Food.

Foooood!

Please… just a little bit?

Henry walks through the front door. He ignores my pleas – doesn’t even acknowledge my presence, or the fact that I’ve been sitting here for hours, alone and hungry. Confused and afraid that I might never eat again. One quick look at me, and you can tell that I’m wasting away. Famished beyond belief. Delirious from hunger. Waiting for death to overtake me.

I get off the couch where I had been watching for him through the front window, and I walk over to him. Henry shuffles through a pile of envelopes on the counter looking stressed. Maybe he’s having a bad day. Maybe something bad happened to him at work – like he vommed or pooped somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe, just maybe, I can make him feel a little better, and he’ll finally give me something to eat.

Honestly, I cannot remember the last time I ate. I wish I could. At least then, I would be able to relish the memory of it. I would relish it so hard… Relish. That’s food, right? I think he puts in on his hot dogs sometimes. Or in his tuna. Oh my god, I would kill for tuna right now. I would kill my mother, my father – even the red laser – for just one taste of the heavenly fish.

No, Hannah. You’re being ridiculous. That’s the hunger talking. You can’t kill the red laser. You can’t even catch it. It is simply a figment of your imagination.

Henry sits down at the kitchen table. Maybe he just hates me. He has got to know that I’m dying. Yet he does nothing. I hop up to the table and touch his shoulder. It feels tense. I’m not sure if I should continue caressing it, but I do anyway. Fortune favors the bold. I nuzzle my head into his neck, and feel his stubble rub across my cheek. It feels nice and fills my nostrils with a lovely scent. His touch comforts me in the way that I hope mine comforts him. Maybe then, he will respond to my pleas. Surely, he can sense the pain I’m in.

Without warning, he stands up and walks down the hallway toward the bedroom. He doesn’t even look back. Goddamnit, Hannah. You messed it up. Why do you always do that? No wonder he doesn’t feed you. Can’t you do one little thing right? Your life is on the line!

Should I follow him or let him cool off for a bit? I’ve already searched the premises up and down for errant pieces of food. All the usual spots – the baseboards, the counters, the far reaches of the carpet. I’ve checked the unusual ones too – flower pots, bed sheets, old vom spots. I’ve checked literally every inch of the ground and found none. There’s got to be something I can nibble on. Anything – even if it’s not truly edible.

My stomach feels like it has caved in upon itself – a black hole in my belly. Hollowed out from the inside. Emptied. Why does he do this to me? I am almost never mean to him. I lavish him with attention. I’ll do practically anything to make him happy. Lately though, no matter what I do, he never seems to care. I’m invisible to him. I might as well be a piece of furniture – décor for the house.

Maybe I lavish him with too much attention, and he just needs space. Maybe I am smothering him. You need to let him breathe, Hannah.

But I give him space! I barely see him most of the day… He’s always out doing god-knows-what while I wait for him here. Isn’t that enough space?

Lately, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I will lie there and watch him sleep. I stare at his belly as it rises up and down with each breath. In and out. In and out. Sometimes, I watch for hours, fixated on the rhythmic movement.

He looks so peaceful, but I wonder if he’s drifting away from me, further and further each day. Barely noticeable, but it’s happening. One of those things that you can’t watch in real-time, no matter how closely you observe. Kind of like the houseplant on his windowsill. I look at it every day and see the same thing. The same plant from the day before. Yet, months ago, it barely had a single leaf worth chewing on. Today, there is a bountiful supply. It would take at least three or four vomits just to sample the lower half. It is a constant reminder of the strange and mysterious world we live in…

Still, I remember how his eyes would light up at the sight of me each morning. We’d both wake up excited, ready to take on the world together. We would spend hours together in bed doing whatever silly things came to mind, as if nothing else in the whole world mattered. And nothing else did matter because we were together, and that was all we needed. It was absolute bliss. He’d call me cute names like Hannah-banana, or Hanny-hanny-ho-ho, and we’d cuddle like there was no tomorrow before going to bed. Sometimes, we’d cuddle so hard he would almost crush my tiny frame. That was the best.

Yes, and the way he’d look at me like I was the only girl in the world worthy of his gaze… it would melt my insides. It went on like this for months – years even. Ha! I don’t even know because I lost all concept of time when we were together. Weeks would go by in the blink of an eye. But I didn’t care. I was young, and the world seemed infinite. Nobody cares about time when they are young. Nobody I’ve known, at least.

Footsteps.

I hear him coming back down the hallway. Quick – I adjust my posture to look at ease. Cute, but approachable. Affectionate, but not a trollop. I want him to know that I love him no matter what, but not in a desperate or needy way. Like, if I had to, I would be totally fine without him. He hates when I act desperate. And he’s going through a really tough time right now, so the last thing he needs is for me to become a stage five clinger.

He walks briskly into the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge. Yes. Please god, yes. That’s where he keeps his food. Tons of it. Milk, salmon, bacon… the stuff of kings! He opens the door, leans in, and grabs a bottle of beer.

That’s it.

One stinking bottle of beer. The door closes.

Are you kidding me? Please tell me you are joking. Do you know how hungry I am? I can practically hear death knocking at the front door. How is this fair? It’s so ridiculous that he gets to eat whenever the hell he wants; yet I sit here like chopped liver… starving to death. Oh Hannah, don’t get yourself started on chopped liver. The last thing you need right now is to imagine eating that smooth, succulent meat. The tangy treat would be too savory, too mouth-watering, too decadent in your fragile state. But, boy, would it hit the spot.

I stare at him with a helpless look on my face. Please? PLEEEAASE?

He says, “No,” with a stern look and turns away.

But why not? I’m sooo hungry. I know he knows this. Quit playing games with me!

He smiles and turns back toward me while twisting the beer open with his shirt. He motions toward me with the bottle and says, “Cheers”. He follows it up with a swig of beer and a self-satisfied sigh. His smug face makes me want to vomit. If only there was food in my belly to expel.

I am crushed. Not only does he deny me the one thing I truly desire, but also he taunts me while doing it. I think he can tell that I hate him right now because he suddenly changes tone, and acts all lovey-dovey:

“Come here my sweet little Hannah”

My ears perk up upon hearing this. I love when he says my name. The way it rolls off his tongue and reverberates through my bones gives me the chills – the good kind. He says it the way someone who truly loves and cares about you says it. The way the brown-haired girl who always comes over here says it to him. The way my mother used to purr into my ear.

He looks into my eyes, and makes his way toward the couch. He sits down and pats his lap, inviting me to join him. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. He’s got me wrapped around his little finger and there is nothing I can do.

Instead of sitting directly on his lap, though, I merely sit next to him – to show him that I’m still a little upset about what he said. I once heard on a TV show that communication is key to maintaining a healthy relationship. So I make sure my body language never minces words. He knows exactly what I’m trying to say with my passive aggression. I cuddle up next to him, and he gently puts his hand on my shoulder.

“I know you’re hungry, Hannah, but I’m not gonna give you any food.”

I stare straight ahead, resisting the urge to pummel him in his stupid, giant head. It takes every fiber of my being not to react, and give him that undeserved satisfaction. So, I sit there calmly, seething with rage.

“I mean, all you do is sit around the apartment all day. You shouldn’t even be hungry”

The nerve! The unimaginable cajones Henry must have to say that straight to my face. Un-frickin-believable. You know what? You should leave, Hannah. This is a toxic environment for you. You do not need this in your current state.

Yet, something compels me to stay. I remain tense and frigid, unable to comprehend how we’ve come to this. How we’ve come to his starving me like a prisoner – and being able to justify it by blaming it on my sedentary lifestyle. What a load of poop. If anyone, he is the one to blame. He is the one who locks me in this fortress, day after day, never allowing me to leave. Like he’s afraid that if I went out on my own – even just once, I would never come back – perhaps choosing to go home with somebody else instead. Or selling my furry body to a man with a larger food supply.

Whatever the case, he denies me my freedom out of jealousy – a lack of trust. Well, you know what? I don’t trust him! I don’t trust him to feed me when I need to be fed, and to treat me with the dignity and respect that I truly deserve. Hell! I don’t even trust him to wake up on his own in the morning. HELLO. The sun is shining! The birds are chirping! Yet, he lies there in bed, dreaming of god-knows-what. Birds… mice… string? Who knows? All I know is his stupid dreams don’t fill my empty bowl.

Ugh. Is he incapable of displaying any semblance of maturity? How’d I get stuck with a guy like this? There is a whole world out there for me to see – for me to piss on, to nap on, to shed on. I see it every day out the window. But he will never let me experience it the way I truly ought to.

Last time I even tried to go outside – not to leave for good, just to get to know the neighborhood – yes, last time I tried to go out there, he flipped out – went absolutely nuts. I’ve never seen him in such a panic. He ran down the stairs after me like a crazed murderer. Of course, seeing him like that freaked me out, making me run even faster. Before you know it, we’re at the bottom of the stairwell and he’s got me cornered. He looked at me with this deranged, savage face, like he was ready to eat me alive. And I wasn’t ready to die, so I did the only logical thing – I ran – only this time, the other way. I darted under his legs and sprinted the up the stairs back to the apartment door, which of course was now closed. By the time he made his way back up to me, he looked even crazier! His face was blood red and he had the eyes of a wolf. Again, I had no choice but to run. I raced back down the stairwell as he laid chase, and then back up again at least three or four times. Eventually, he looked so tired and frustrated that I gave up out of sheer pity. He fumed the entire night while I pretended that nothing had happened.

Nonetheless, it was kind of nice to see him panic a little bit – to see him care. He really didn’t want me to leave because deep down, he knows that we belong together for the rest of our lives. And he knows that he would be heartbroken if I ever left him. Which is how true love should be. I mean, I’d be absolutely devastated if he left one day and never came home. Which is why I’m willing to sacrifice my dreams of seeing the world in order to spend the rest of my life with him by my side.

But every now and then, I forget this a little bit. So I sneak out the door when he comes home from work or takes out the trash – partially because, yes, I still am interested in the outdoors – as I will always be. But more importantly, I do it as a reminder for myself. And a test for Henry, if you will – to make sure he still cares.

Henry puts his hand on me, pulling me back to the present moment. He gently caresses the nape of my neck. I purr in delight, and glance at him with a loving smirk, but he’s looking the other way.

“Hey there, cutie.”

Ugh. He’s not even talking to me, let alone paying me the slightest bit of attention. My muscles tighten. He’s smiling like an idiot, holding his stupid phone to his stupid face. Why does he always have to play with that thing when we’re together? He wastes so much time staring and tapping at that lifeless hunk of crap when he could be spending quality time with me. Why doesn’t he notice my presence? What’s it got that I don’t have?

“How’d the rest of your day go? You still down for what I mentioned earlier?”

Are you kidding me? He just got home, hasn’t given me a speck of food, and he already has plans to do something else? With someone else? You can’t spend one darn night with me and just me? Am I too boring for you? Well screw you. You’re too boring for me!

“Come on, babe. It’ll be fine… Just this once… I told you, she’s out of town for the week… Besides, I’m here with Hannah, and she really wants to meet you.”

Who the heck is he talking to, or should I say, lying to? Whoever it is, I can guarantee that I don’t want to meet this so-called “cutie.” I really wish I could just grab the phone and yell at her: You know he doesn’t think you’re anything special. He used to call me “cutie” too! You’re fooling yourself if you think you’re the only one he finds cute, or cuddly, or wants to sleep with. Open your eyes, and leave us alone!”

Ugh. I get so pissy when I’m hungry. I just wish he would give me some food, and let me be. Then he could do whatever he wants with whichever cutie he wants to string along. Ughh. He hasn’t even played string with me today. What happened to our nightly string-time? Has he forgotten about it? I certainly haven’t, and he knows how much it means to me. I can’t imagine there will be much string play going on if there is some girl coming over.

Perhaps if I look super cute and beg him for – right in front of her – she might insist he does it. I hate groveling, but sometimes it is so worth it – like for string-time. I don’t understand why it’s such a chore for him to play the game once a night. All he has to do is stand there, and throw the string in my direction. I can literally take care of all the rest. And it provides me with so much pleasure, such rapturous joy, that I nearly poop myself. Seriously – sometimes I become so excited to catch that darn string that I fart during a particularly intense moment. I wonder if he notices. Maybe that’s why we don’t play so much anymore. Note to self: don’t fart in front of his lady friend. That will only cause unnecessary strife.

At this point, I’m sick of his mind games. I get off the couch and walk toward the bedroom to practice cute poses for later this evening. He seems to be wrapping up his conversation.

“Sounds great. Can’t wait to see you tonight.”

Ugh. I can’t even remember the last time he said that to me. Well, I guess we never speak on the phone… so it wouldn’t really make much sense for him to say something like that. But still. I just wish he would love me more.

He hangs up the phone and turns to me as I trudge down the hallway.

“Hannah!”

I stop and look back toward him – thoroughly aware of what to expect from such a liar.

“Come back, my love! I want to hold you.”

He gives me the come-hither look and pats his lap. I give him the I’ll-poop-on-your-face look and keep walking.

Continue to Part 2