Finally, on the twenty-fourth floor, I sit on the top step, open the bag of Doritos, open the box of ice cream sandwiches, and wait, completely still, until the motion-sensor lights turn off and I’m allowed to start. I can still stop, I think, biting into a chip. I can control myself. I don’t have to do this. I fist a few more. I’m going to feel so shitty in the morning. I lick the prickly spices off my forefinger. You know that feeling of waking up on your side, acutely aware of the way your stomach fat curdles and bubbles as you move? That’s how I’m going to feel, the taste of Cool Ranch coating my tongue. In the morning I’ll vow to never do it again. That one or two chips is just as satisfying without the self-hatred that comes hours later.

But I know that’s not the truth. Nothing is as satisfying as sitting in this darkness, not tasting anything, not feeling anything, but knowing there will be no proof of what I’ve done. No evidence. I can cover things up, too, I think, licking the thick doughy ice cream sandwich remnants off my thumb and forefinger as my other hand reaches for the bottom of the chip bag—for the tiny broken-off pieces that have been sitting in the chemically made flavoring the longest. Maybe it’s the self-hatred I actually crave.

When I’m finished, three ice cream sandwiches and only scraps of Doritos left, I toss everything straight down the garbage chute at the foot of our back door. We get a note about once a month reminding residents that food should only be tossed into the trash room if it’s in a proper garbage bag. I am the only person who knows that note is for me.

I follow the darkness into the apartment, instinct taking over until I’m in the bathroom, the door shut and locked, the lights still off. I turn the shower on full heat, then lower onto the floor and lean over the toilet. I’m too tired to get my toothbrush so I decide a finger will do. I’m so full I could probably initiate the motion with just a gag, but a finger feels more civilized than dry heaving until something comes up. Anything to make The Afterward feel more civilized and less like a primal reaction to starvation. As the hot steam from the shower starts to build around me, I begin.

When I finish, an exhaustion washing over me like a tidal wave, I shower. The water burns my skin, turning it so red I’m afraid, for a moment, that I’ll blister and it will stay that way for the wedding. But the water always needs to be this hot after. I need to come away from this night feeling something. And, at this point, I can only feel extremes.