Chapter Text
He knew that this could kill him; it was terribly obvious The effects had already seemed to find him. No one knew, and he had to keep this to himself. It brought too much sick comfort to his life to even consider getting better. He feared that if anyone were to find out, it would just become more problematic than it already was. It seemed things like this always did, once other people are involved, everything fell to pieces.
He looked up from the sink, his hands still shaking. He’d done this far too often now, it was only just a habit, a routine. The lights seemed dimmer than normal it seemed, his reflection looked more like a ghost than his own. It frightened him for just a second, before he went back to washing himself up. The discomfort he had felt earlier had finally disappeared, which was a miracle it seemed. His head was still pounding, but that never seemed to go away. He looked up again, hoping no one would notice the way his appearance differed from earlier. They couldn't find out, and this was a dead giveaway.
He sighed. If he would spend more time in here worrying, then they'd suspect even more. He left the bathroom and headed back to the cafeteria. He could feel his heart pounding. He wasn't sure why, well he knew, but he didn't like to admit it. He wasn't keen on admitting how much damage he had done. He watches the expressions of the others as he sits. Mainly to see if they would show immediate signs of suspicion.
There were none.
He took a deep breath. It seemed everything was still normal. He went back to writing the article he was hoping to publish. The one on Hiram Lodge and his plan. It was all that he could think about.
“Hey Jughead, you've been so wrapped in your computer. What's so important?” He heard Archie ask. He gave a side eye to Betty, who shook her head; a notice that he should not speak the full truth.
“Just something; as usual.” He told Archie, who shrugged it off. Everything was normal. No one even suspected anything. He was playing it well.
Everything seemed to be ok...until he fell asleep in English. Something he never did, ever. It wasn't even long, but after he had snapped awake, he could feel Betty’s eyes on him. There were probably more, but he couldn't care less about them. He felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. He buried himself in his laptop for the rest of the period, hoping no one saw. Once the period ended he felt those same eyes on him, as Betty walked over.
“Everything alright? I've never seen you fall asleep like that.” She asked. He shrugged it off, hoping she wouldn't take a second glance.
“Yeah. It's just been a bit stressful at home with all that's going on.” He reassured her, knowing damn well it was a lie. Lying to Betty seemed both normal and wrong at the same time.
“If you ever need anything. I'm here.” She told him. He smiled and hoped the subject would change as they walked out of the school. He hated sympathy, especially from those closest to him. It just felt he deserved none of it, he had done such horrible things. The most recent was Penny, and the fiasco that destroyed him, yet saved him at the same time. He knew he could never punish himself enough for it. It seemed after that night his cuts grew deeper and he spent far more time over a toilet bowl.
He went home, which, to no surprise, was empty again. His dad was out working most likely, which was definitely far better than it used to be. It meant he was left on his own for the night.
That was dangerous.
There seemed to be a storm beginning to brew, and it didn’t help the mood of the place. Especially when the sky began to darken at four. There was a pang in his stomach. It wasn’t painful, at least not terribly. He had no clue what it was from. He had his suspicions. He knew it could either be from the stress of the Black Hood and the Lodge takeover, or it was from the constant binging and purging. The effects of both seemed to merge anyway.
He wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to do it again, as it had only been a few hours since the last one, but the urge was going again. It seemed neverending.
He sat for a bit, contemplating if it was at all worth doing again. The cleanup took a bit, especially at home, as he had to take extra care to make sure his dad wouldn’t find out. It would absolutely be a nightmare if he did. Luckily, FP would be out for quite some time that night. Which meant that he could probably do it again without the chance of getting caught.
And he did.
There wasn’t much in the house-foodwise, but it was enough for these sessions. He didn’t care what he ate, not at all. He only needed the numb feeling that came with the food, then the odd high feeling of relief after it all came back up.
He was addicted, and it seemed to be destroying him.
He scoured for anything he could find in the trailer, well, anything that wouldn’t cause any suspicion from him dad. He went to write while it all happened. To make it seem less insane to him, because he knew this entire thing was crazy. Who would ever do such a thing, eat and puke all the damn time.
It was a shitty way to cope with himself, he knew that.
The calm before the storm. That’s what the binge was. It calmed him down, before all the pain came up again, leaving him terribly empty. He knew this never solved anything, and no matter how many times he would do it; it would never change. He was just addicted to the feelings that came with it.
Yet it was rotting him from the inside out.
He looked towards all the empty wrappers laid out on a side table in the tiny living room. They reminded him of what had just happened, as he tended to blank out during most sessions of binging. It was always the same, a way to take the pain away, and once reality hit, he realized he had to get it out. He made his way into the bathroom and locked the door just in case. When he had just started doing it, he would get nervous before purging. Now it was just a second nature, as if he was on autopilot. He put the toilet seat up and leaned over the bowl. He shoved his fingers in his throat and puked. Some of it came up, but not all. It never did the first time. He knew he could just force the rest out using his hands and stomach muscles. It seemed that came with time. As terrible as it was, he found it useful. It lessened the bruising on his knuckles, which were a dead giveaway.
He puked again.
Getting the rest of it out was easy. Two more times. His heart still racing, his body shaking. This feeling was all too familiar. He hated it. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. He wanted out, but the comfort it gave was far too much to even try.
He was trapped.
It took his entire strength to get up off of the bathroom floor. He reeked of vomit, and it was only getting worse. He shakily opened the window, hoping it would air out the room before his dad would get home. He had a long list of excuses just in case someone would ever catch on, but it was easier to just deny it. The smell of vomit seemed to linger, which meant it was on him again. He sighed and stripped to shower. His body was a wreck. He caught sight of it in the mirror by the sink. His skin was white, ghostly. The cuts on his stomach, his legs and shoulders were healing terribly, almost never healing at all. He would open them up whenever he was particularly numb. The same areas, he never let them heal.
He finished his shower and the smell of puke left the room. He sighed in pure relief as the evidence had diminished. He flushed the toilet, re-wrapped his knuckles, and rinsed his mouth.
No one could tell, as long as they didn't read between the lines.