#(and then my mum even took the icing sugar away from me. 1 less thing i could eat. i think the icing sugar is still kept way high up)

[hearties-circus]

Yknow I don't think I've had a magnum ice cream since the night before the punishment and having one now.. yeah I cant really blame myself this ice cream is good

[prorevenge]

I end up working for the scammer who conned my parents.

So, this tale starts twelve years ago in 2007. Both my parents had retired at the same time and had received a large cash lump sum and would have a decent pension income for the rest of their lives. Dad was ex-Army, doing his national service and staying for another 8 years before travelling the world. He served with the Royal Engineers and moved into an engineering/maintenance role when he returned to the civillian life. Mum was a teacher, and with careful savings and multiple pensions they had more money coming in individually than I did in a salary.

The first thing they did was to renovate their house. They got several quotes for new windows, some minor building work, a new kitchen and a block-paved driveway. I helped them with researching the companies involved and with all the information at hand, they settled on a local company that we'll call Bad Company. Bad Company had membership of all the relevant professional bodies, had some good feedback and importantly was not the cheapest but their sales guy explained to my parents why a cheaper quote wasn't always better. They agreed on the £35k work and paid a 10% deposit. Work started, and they weren't asked for a single penny more until it had been completed. There were a couple of minor snags which were easily corrected, and it went £500 over budget due to the bad drainage of the house (something that had been mentioned before) but it looked satisfactory.

As it turned out, the windows had massive gaps in them that leaked water when it rained and you could actually hear the wind whistling through. Heating became expensive. Within a month, weeds and grass started poking through the block paved driveway and the electical work that was done in the new kitchen caused blown fuses if both ovens and the hob were turned on together. If you touched the plate around the light switch, you'd get an electric shock. After three months, water burst through the newly laid kitchen floor and the "Secured By Design" doors could simply be lifted out of their frame even when locked. We also noticed that they keys to the new doors were not the originals, and they were extremely difficult to lock especially as both parents had arthritis. The icing on the cake was that most of the windows were supposed to be argon filled, but the seals had already blown allowing air inside and condensation on the inside was apparent.

Dad asked a friend, Bob, to estimate the extra cost of fixing it. Bob said that to correct the now evident defects would cost nearly £20k as almost everything would have to be ripped out and re-done. Dad immediately contacted Bad Company, and the guy they sent round was rude, arrogant and blamed everything on the builders who had originally constructed the house doing a bad job. He wrote a report stating that none of the defects were down to the work carried out as the work had been done according to current best practices. That evening, one of the window frames fell out.

Dad spent a month after that trying to get Bad Company back to fix the issues, then he called all the regulatory bodies to find that Bad Company wasn't a member but just used the membership logos on their documentation. Around a year after the work was originally completed, Bad Company simply vanished. Phone numbers were disconnected emails bounced back and their office was now a conservatory showroom. Dad had already paid a well estabished window company £3k to fix the immediate window and door issues, and was left to pay another (much better) company £22k to fix the issues. This time we checked everything and made sure they were registered. We even got a warranty.

Cut to 2018, and I'm looking for a new job. Dad passed away quite unexpectedly in 2015 and Mum wasn't too good either (although she's a lot better now) so I needed a job closer to her house than the 2 hour commute to the next city that I currently had. As luck would have it, a local kitchen manufacturing company (lets call them Local Kitchens) was looking to expand and wanted an IT technician/developer. The pay was about £1k more a year than I was currently making, but I didn't have to spend £500 a month travelling to and from work (busses and trains are expensive). I interviewed, liked what I heard, and was accepted for the role. All the time, I thought that I somehow knew the boss of Local Kitchens.

Having worked in factory environments before, I arrived in a hi-viz vest, toecapped boots and with my own ear defenders. No-one else wore any P.P.E. - not even masks and goggles. When all the machinery ran, the factory floor hummed and buzzed along at a noise level of 105dB, well over the required minimum for wearing ear defenders or plugs. The boss, who we'll call John, also attempted to cut corners everywhere. My workstation was barely powerful enough to run the development software let alone the CAD/CAM software required. When the CPU fan died, he said that he couldn't afford to replace the fan. A new computer keyboard took 3 weeks to arrive and although we were paid on the 28th of each month, the pay was often not in the bank until 9pm, well after he had chased people who owed him money.

There were more lies that I uncovered, and bad business practices. It was like John had read a book on running a business then did the exact opposite. I spent the first six months between designing kitchens - something that I knew nothing about but suddenly fell under the remit of IT technician - maintaining the factory machines, driving the forklift (something that requires a specialist license that I don't hold) and doing IT work on his personal home computer equipment and mobile phones of him, his trophy wife, his kids and his parents. I also wrote several small computer programs, wired up the factory network, ensured that machinery could connect to the office computers and re-wrote most of the configuration for the industry specific software he used - which was not only unlicensed but also used on five separate machines despite the single (lapsed) license.

Also working at the company was Dad's friend Bob. Bob was a decade and a half older than me and had served his time "working the tools" making and fitting kitchens, bedrooms, and had spent a good fifteen years as a shopfitter on some very prestigious contracts. Bob was hired originally to do my job but he moved back to the manufacturing side when the expansion started as it was easier to employ an IT tech than it was a shopfitter. Bob had read an eulogy at Dad's funeral and was often round helping mum with bits around the house, so I knew Bob well and he looked after me at work. We got talking one day and I found out that Bob was earning less than me, even though he had a highly skilled and experienced role, and that despite being given more responsibility, John refused to pay Bob what Bob was worth.

Honestly, if Bob wasn't there, most of the knowledge was lost. Bob and I had frequently told John better ways to do key tasks, but John refused simply because there would be a small cash outlay. I should have seen the writing on the wall at that point, but no.

Running up to Christmas, John tells us all that he's giving us all a bonus, and will pay us early for the christmas to new year shutdown period. We soon discover though that the bonus was a £5 tub of sweets - which Bob can't eat because he has type 1 diabeties, and I can't eat because I have this really strange sugar allergy. I was going to mention it to John, but Bob tells me not to as it's Christmas and it will be something for my kids to enjoy. I actually ended up with three boxes of sweets because he over-ordered.

That day, despite being an IT technician, I had to chase an order with a company, order some materials from a supplier, and supervise a fitter as he attempted to install some new showroom units. John is nowhere to be found until just as we're about to leave. He asked Bob for a moment of his time and I go home.

The next day, Bob tells me that he and John talked until 7pm (an extra 3 hours) about the business. Bob was asked to invest £10k for a quick capital injection as winter is always a bad time for people buying kitchens, so income is slow but there are a number of large orders in the pipeline. Bob told him what he thought of the shady business practices and the poor management, and he said that he could walk out of this job today and be earning double before the year is out. He refused to invest. Other things were said, and Bob dropped the first bombshell, explaining that every job they did for a new client was actually making a loss. The new client had been Local Kitchens only revenue stream since mid October. Apparently John was genuinely shocked and didn't realise that it cost him £200 per hour just to run his business, jumping to £300 if the machinery is running.

The day before we're due to finish for Christmas, I get called into the nearly complete new showroom. I thought John was going to show me what needs finishing and which units need designing, but no. He's worked out the finances and states that there's only enough money to keep me on for another couple of months. He even tries to turn it around by saying that he's sorry and that I'm a good employee but the income isn't there, and he wanted to give me enough time to find something else. I felt my entire world crumble. The rest of the day was a daze, but just before I left, I overhear him ordering some materials from a supplier. His exact words were: Yes, it's John from Local Kitchens. You might have us down as Bad Company.

That's when all the pieces fell into place. It finally clicked why I knew his face. He was the one who scammed my parents.

The last day of work before Christmas arrives, and John had taken his family away over the christmas / new year period. We had to ensure that the factory was powered down, locked off and secure. No-one else wanted the responsibility so I volunteered. With only Bob and myself still left in the factory, I set about gathering evidence and investigating his finances. I already know about the losses, but digging deeper I find that the company actually has no cash flow. Everything is done on credit. His house, his wife's Range Rover, his Jaguar and several other assets are registered as company assets but they're all on finance through Local Kitchens. He owed at least £750k in credit, loans and mortgages.

Bob advised me against doing anything rash as it would only come back to me and agreed that John needed to be taught a lesson not just for the way he treated his empolyees, but for conning my parents and several others out of their life savings. Bob had found a set of files from 2005 to 2008 with customer complaints for shoddy work in the name of Bad Company. It was far too late to legally do anything about the complaints, but we could bring down John and his smug attitude. Bob suggested I read up on health and safety over christmas, and perform some observations in the new year.

January and February I spent making notes, taking photographs and researching legislation. By the time the end of February rolled around, I had a thick folder full of breaches of health and safety, environmental issues, data protection (or lack thereof) and the lack of software licensing. John was well aware of the software issue, but he said that "as long as the software keeps running, it'll be ok". I had emals from him to back this up, and requests for purchases of software and hardware that were turned down so he could dine out at fancy restaurants or stay in 4 star hotels.

My last day rolls around. I have a much better development job lined up thanks to some recruiter contacts I have, and as the current day was a Thursday and I didn't start my new job until Monday, I planned on sleeping in on Friday. John is strangely absent all day but arrives just as we're all leaving for the day. HE SAYS NOTHING as he watches me leave. I got the impression immediately that he wanted me to stay until Friday, but he said that my last day was "the end of the month" and not "Friday". Unsuprisingly, the pay is late. It's 10pm before it appears in the account.

I went to see my mum that evening and told her who my boss was, the way he simply cast me aside when he was done with me, and that I wanted to break him as revenge for the bad work and what we have always considered as a scam. Now, my mum is the sweetest lady you could ever meet, and I was completely shocked when she actually said "bury the bastard". She even let me use her garden incinerator to destroy the personal hand-written instructions that Bob and myself had created since I started. The knowledge of how to fix issues with the specialist software now only existed in our memories.

Friday rolls around, and I have no reason to get up early. My phone is ringing constantly becuase John is trying to get hold of me and it's soon evident that things are going south, rapidly. Bob sent me a text telling me that he gave John a final invoice at 8AM and walked out. Now, had this been petty revenge then the tale would have ended here with him not being able to use his business-critical unlicensed software, and hiring new people, but this is Pro revenge and my mother did tell me to "bury the bastard" so despite feeling sorry for the one other genuine employee that I had a lot of respect for, I enacted my totally legal if not a little underhanded plan.

I reported Local Kitchens and John to the Federation against Software Theft for illegal use of licensed software, giving them information regarding which software was illegally used and how. Just to be safe, I also reported them directly to those software companies too. I supplied the emails as evidence where I had explained to John that he was breaking the law by not having the correct and valid licenses.

I then called a friend at the local government Health and Safety team, reporting no fewer than thirty rule breaches, sending him the supporting images and video. One of Local Kitchens professional memberships had lapsed, but John was still using the logo on paperwork, email signatures, website and the company van, in addition to the signage on the building. I reported that to the professional body in question. I honesly considered reporting GDPR breaches, but I don't think that he had done anything that could be considered a breach.

A week later, John sent me a message stating that If I was still looking for work, he would pay me £50 per day to do "IT work" for him. It came across as if he was trying to do me a favour. I told him that I was previously on £90 per day, but as I was now a freelance contractor, the going rate was closer to £200 per day. He didn't send me another message.

Three weeks later, and the showroom saleswoman - who we'll call Jane (the one remaining staff member I respected) called me to tell me that John had closed Local Kitchens and declared bankruptcy owing nearly a million pounds. I asked about fines, and she said that Health and Safety were behind a building closure which stopped production causing the bankruptcy. In the same week, he had legal notices for illegal software.

As this unfolded, I kept Bob in the loop and Jane kept me informed. As of the start of July, the final figure for fines was levied. £932k debts to the business, £876k fines too. On that same day, purely by chance I was helping a friend deliver pizza and John placed an order My friend was driving and doing the shop work, and I was going to the door to hand the food over, so I actually got to deliver his food. He was nice enough to me when he opened the door, and stated that if I had done the extra "IT Work" for him then I wouldn't have to deliver pizza. I told him that it was what it was, and questioned the fact that there was only enough for 1 meal - didn't his wife like pizza? He told me that she'd left him and taken the kids back to her parents, and that he wasn't OK with that but he had no choice. I agreed, an then decided to twist the knife even more.

I told him that it was a good job he got rid of me when he did, because I now had a fantastic well-paid job that I'm good at, and that if I had stayed, then I would have brought myself down as well as him. That's when he realised that I had called in all the agencies that had eventually shut him down. He demanded to know why, as he had "given me everything" and "taught me how to work in the kitchen industry". I simply replied with my parents address and the year 2007. I saw the colour drain from his face as he realised that his past had caught up with him. Then I told him how much he had to pay on his pizza, and he threw £40 at me and snatched the food out of my hands, slamming the door in my face. His food was only £21.50, so I got a nice £18.50 tip from him that night.

(source) story by (/u/tac-21a)

[neo--heart]

Short story draft 1 beneath the surface

I will post updated drafts shortly

Beneath the surface Draft 1 James had left his home to move to university and he’d forgotten how cold Devon is in winter, especially with how warm August was this year. He only remembered when he came back during the Christmas holidays- when his hands grew red and numb from the cold air when he carried his groceries, left at the bottom of the stairs before he had ascended them. At least, in his student accommodation, he didn’t have to worry about paying bills and could turn the heating on for as long as he wanted. Upon reaching the top of the stairs his eyes landed on the open door directly ahead of him and like a car crash, the events of five months ago collided with the sight of the dusty room.

James and Ben had been driving home at around 2 am that Friday. The Toyota Corolla they drove in had belonged to their father, Lance Weaver who had passed it down to Ben after being accepted to his university in 2018. When James joined the same uni a year later, he and Ben would drive each other to campus. Ben would then walk towards the Forum, where his criminology course was and James would walk downhill, where his Film and Television classes were held in the archaeology building lecture theatre.

The two had ended up in the 1987 Corolla after James had discovered Ben was once again working on his summative assessment. It was an essay on international criminal justice and comparative criminology, that wasn’t due for another month and yet he had decided to work on it that night until 1 am with a friend in their student accommodation, a 3-minute walk from the centre of campus and a 10-minute drive from Ben’s private accommodation. When James had finally dragged Ben to the car, Ben looked as dishevelled and manic as the stranger who had offered them coke in a back alley they had shortcutted through in the city centre during James’ freshers week. James assumed Ben’s unkempt appearance was due to the sleep deprivation, the stress that came with Ben’s perfectionist studying style and many, many, many empty cans of Redbull he had caught a glimpse of as he dragged Ben out of the student’s accommodation and to the car parked outside, blinkers on. Ben had put up a fight when James took his study materials from him and delicately placed them in the boot. Now he was slumped in his seat, eyes closed and jacket rising and falling slowly with every inhale and exhale.

Sometimes when he and Ben drove to Ben’s house, the difference in outdoor lighting would catch his attention, especially if it had been raining like the day before. Student accommodation like James’ and Ben’s friend was always so well lit that someone couldn’t sneak up on you, even in the darkness that dusk brings. Ben’s accommodation, on the other hand, had streetlights that focused on the roads, dimly lit up the footpaths outside of his house and more often than not, had damaged lightbulbs or blown fuses.

The road that it had happened on wasn’t extremely dark or well lit, somewhere in the middle. The stoplight was red and as Ben shifted in his seat, James felt the lightweight frame of the car move with him. James tapped his finger on the thin, grooveless steering wheel as he waited, recalling the Bluetooth speaker one of his mates’ parents had on their BMW which could be controlled via voice command. It would take years to save up for that kind of car, so he would have to make do with turning on the cassette player at stoplights until 2023. After turning on the stereo and inserting an old Roxanne cassette that had been stuffed into the visor, he glanced at the stoplights, swearing as he realised they were green and changed gears. He wasn’t sure why- maybe the roads had frozen over, or the wheels were too worn out- but as he drove around the roundabout, he lost control of the car. He could imagine the dark skid marks the wheels drew into the floor as he lost his grip on the steering wheel, car flying off the road.

The next thing he remembered was his mother crying as he woke up in a white room, bed hard and clothing thin, a consistent beeping noise that sounded like it was having a breakdown, and the feeling of a long, hard object shoved deep into his trachea, which he later learned was an endotracheal tube as his lungs couldn’t breathe by themselves for five months with the damage the crash had done to his stomach. His mother had showered him with kisses after the nurses assisted with removing the tube. She told him about the crash and how he was unconscious for five months and she took it upon herself to tell him Ben was still in a coma. He couldn’t process another word. All he could think about was finding Ben. He didn’t think about the numbness in his arms as he tried to sit up. He didn’t think of the pain in his throat and the shaking he felt in his legs as he tried to roll out of bed. He didn’t think of his mother begging him to stop and calling for help. Even as the nurses injected anaesthesia and he fell into a day’s long sleep he could only think of Ben.

James refused to let his memories continue to what happens next. Blinking, he cleared the memory from his head and shut the door, steering his gaze clear from the mirror in the room. He knew the house was empty but out of habit, he shut the door behind him as he entered the toilet next to the room. Upon finishing his business, he flushed the toilet and moved to the sink, making sure to use the hot water. He made the mistake of looking at the mirror, his eyes stared back at him, plain and neutral, before changing to an explosive, unstable image of himself soundlessly screaming, mouth open wide and eyes shut, hands clawing at the sides of his head, before switching back to his emotionless visage like a channel on TV.

He left the toilet, unresponsive to his reflection’s show and headed down to the kitchen, grabbing his groceries as he did. He checked his texts to Aimee. Still unread. She must not be feeling well. Once everything had been arranged or put away he began making his lunch and just as he was about to slice through the onion, his phone rang, the name Nick popped up on the screen. He accepted, putting the call on speaker, “hi.”

“Hey,” none of his usual shenanigans or pop culture references, no insults or attempts to trigger him. Just hey. He didn’t know why he was still noting that after five months, it’s not like Nick had greeted him any different since the accident, “how ya holding up?” Ignoring the empty Kopparberg he nearly tripped on, James shrugged his shoulders, somehow managing to glance up and catch his reflections gaze in the mirror.

“I’m coping,” his reflection made a face as if it was chewing a sour pick and mix candy and looked to the empty bottles of VK, Russian Standard Vodka, Jaegermeister and more just out of sight for James but visible in the reflection on the window. James looked back down at the onion, once again unresponsive, and started cutting.

“How about Ben?” As the blade slid into the onion, James didn’t feel any sting at the corners of his eyes, nor did he feel them heat up or water.

“The same.”

“My mum visited today, she probably just missed you. She said she was just visiting your mother but I guess she wanted to visit your brother and try and bump into you.”

“That explains the clean grave and new flowers. Give her my thanks.”

“I will. She wanted me to tell you by the way, that you’re always welcome at ours. Any time.”

The silence dragged itself out then, inch by inch until eventually, James gave a half-hearted, “thank you.”

“Your welcome.” More silence. Nick was not one for smooth-talking or sugar coating. He would either say something then and there or keep his mouth shut. Though Nick had been doing the latter more and more with James- as if he had turned into a porcelain doll and needed to be handled with extreme care, lest he falls apart. James wasn’t falling. James was fine. His mother’s death was sudden, but it happened 3 months ago. He had processed it and he had healed and he was fine... and Ben will be fine too. Everything was fine. Nick didn’t need to worry. Nick’s mum didn’t need to worry. Aimee didn’t need to worry. Because James was fine. Nick gave some rushed excuse to hang up and the silence stretched on.

The onion was cut now and James’ eyes were still dry. Once his hands were washed, he moved onto compiling the rest of his dinner, with his laptop playing the Titanic in the background, a movie he hadn’t watched since the last time he was curled up in a sofa with Aimee and was one of the only movies that could make him watery-eyed. He checked his phone once more, going through Aimee’s Instagram story from 3 hours ago which showed her and a coffee at costa with her friend. He then went through her posts from the day, adding comments like, “thinking of u,” and “we should go there after the holidays,” or “so cute,” with a heart emoji.

By the time the sauce was cooked and he was waiting for the water to boil, the Titanic was slowly plunging into the icy sea and Jack was holding onto Rose with a grip stronger than life. It was when Jack finally let go that James paused it, seeing the water had begun to boil and he placed the pasta in, before pressing play and Jack resumed sinking into the darkness of the ocean, never to be seen again. Rose’s tears turned to ice on her face as she lay waiting for death. James checked his timer, unaware of his dry eyes and tearless cheeks. His meal would be cooked around the same time the credits rolled down the screen.

The rest of the movie went by slowly for James. It wasn’t as if he found it any less tragic or romantic as when he last watched it or all the other times he had watched it and it had made him melt into a puddle of tears with Aimee following him shortly after. He couldn’t find a reason and he couldn’t seem to care less why he was unable to cry now. As Rose let her priceless jewel slip into the sea, his phone lit up, beeping at him.

“Hi.” The text from Aimee said, below all of his texts that, until now, had been left unread.

“Hey,” five of them said, with varying amounts of kisses after, “want to go Costa?” one asked, “miss you,” another read, with a heart emoji. “I’ve not been feeling well, sorry I haven’t been texting much,” read one he had sent over a month ago, also unread until now.  

He picked up his phone, checking the timer on it as he saw the water simmering before replying, “hey”. The three dots appeared in a text bubble, jumping as she texted.

Finally, she typed, “how are u.”

He thought about what to type, before replying, “ok.”

In another text, he continued, “I watched the Titanic just now. We should watch it again.”

A pause, “Idk.”

In an instant, the message was unsent. She typed, “sorry.” The timer was beeping now and the water boiling, “I don’t want to date u anymore.”

He blinked, looking up from his phone, seeing his reflection briefly as it looked down at him, a sneer plastered on its face before he looked back down at his phone. Two unsent messages. Then her profile switched to offline. He typed.

“Why?” Unsend.

“That’s fine.” Unsend.

Finally, he typed, “If that’s what you want. I’ll not bother you anymore.” Send.

He put the pasta in.

After setting a new timer, he went upstairs. James closed the bathroom door, avoiding the mirror as he did, and went into his room, its mirror covered with a bedsheet. When she died, he found numerous diaries written by his mother, some from as far back as her teen years. Ignoring all the empty bottles on the bed, table and floor, he made a beeline for the box of diaries. He shifted through the ones at the top and opened one he didn’t recognise.

“Lance was with Mabel again. He showed off the new car he told me his dad had bought him and took her for a ride. Elsie and I walked to her student house. I told her that she should tell Arthur she-.” James flipped the pages, “Arthur and Lance got into a fight. Mabel couldn’t pull Lance away and Elsie was crying. They wouldn’t stop fighting each other until I banged their foreheads together. Someone told the teacher who was called over that they were pranked as someone else hid Elsie and gave her some water. I yelled at Lance and Arthur who had half a brain cell between them. Mabel gave Lance the silent treatment.”

James checked his timer. The pasta was cooked. He rushed downstairs to turn off everything before it burned. He drained and mixed the pasta into the sauce, before pouring it carefully onto a plate, which he then brought upstairs. As he was about to dig in, his phone started ringing, the name Dr Morgan popped up. He answered it, holding the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this James Weaver?” James put the diary down.

“Yes.” James nodded his head, “I see,” he replied, “I understand. Yes. Yes. I’ll come over tomorrow. Bye.”

He pressed the hang-up button, putting the phone and pasta safely on his bedside table. He walked over to the larger table covered in glass bottles and swung his arms at them. The screams of glass breaking into hundreds of shards filled his ears. Gripping onto the table, he refused to turn around when he heard the sound of glass shards being crushed underfoot.

“Get out.”

“I didn’t say anything,” a voice replied, continuing before James could reply, “but I didn’t need to. Right?” James glanced into the window, seeing the reflection looking back at him with his expressionless face.

“Get. Out.” James hissed, refusing to turn around and refusing to look up.

“Make me.” His reflection replied, “make me leave like you did that night.”

James covered his ears, “shut up.”

“You can do better than that. ‘You can wait until next month. You’ll drown in Redbull before you finish the essay. Come on-’”

James slammed his fists on the table, “shut up, Ben!” The reflection stopped.

“James,” it said, appearing across the table from him, “its time to move on.” As it said that, a notebook appeared on the table, open on a page with his mother’s handwriting.

“Lance refused to let me help him, locking himself in his room. I heard him hiss with every stitch he sewed into the cut. James hid behind me, holding his Thomas the tank engine plushie in one hand and mine in the other.”

The pages turned, revealing another entry, “I wish Ben would stop trying to do everything himself. I don’t want James to do the same when he grows up. Ben said he was fine with helping me iron and do the dishes, but he wouldn’t stop until he had done everything. I can hear his music now at 1 am. He said he’d finish the essay soon, but he said that at 10 pm. I told him I could do the chores, but he said he wanted to help again. I can’t let James think he needs to do everything himself. I don’t want him to end up like Lance too.”

Ben, identical to James in life and death -from his dark chocolate eyes to his fair hair- looked him in the eyes before the pages turned once more, “Ben was so quiet during Lance’s funeral. He disappeared before I could tell him that it wasn’t his fault. Now he’s locked up in his room. I tell him through the door. Lance’s death had nothing to do with Ben. Ben did nothing wrong. I don’t know if he was listening, or if he was even awake. I hope he comes back.”

James looked at Ben, “I should’ve left you at Gene’s. None of this would’ve happened if I had just let you work.”

“You were right to worry. You knew I hadn’t slept and you knew I wasn’t eating. It was my fault you had to look after me. I should’ve been looking after you.”

James stared at Ben, who continued, “why do you insist on tormenting yourself when all you did was the right thing?”

“If I did nothing you wouldn’t have flatlined today and mum would still be here!”

“Mother’s cancer had nothing to do with you or me. She was in stage four long before the accident. My death is not on your hands either. I don’t blame you for it.”

“You should blame me!” James yelled, “you should be driving me insane or making me kill myself! I killed you!”

“My death was an accident. No one killed me. No one blames you but yourself.”

The diary flipped to another page once more.

“When he was finally stable,” it read, “James told me what happened. He looked hollow when he told me the story- like he wasn’t fully here. No matter how much he insisted he caused the crash, I knew he was innocent. He must be in shock from everything to blame himself so boldly. Ben was the same when Lance passed. It took him years to recover. I need to help James process all of this. I need to help him realise that it wasn’t his fault, even if that’s the last thing I do.”

Before James could read any more, he wiped his eyes, blurry with the tears that melted down his cheeks, unable to look at Ben.

“The only thing we can be certain of in life,” Ben said, “is death. Nothing we tell ourselves can ever change that. All we can do is treasure what little life we’re given.”

James took a deep, shaky breath, “Ben, I-” as he looked up, Ben had vanished and the book was gone.

James turned to the box of his mother’s possessions and there it was, on top of everything else.

He ran to it and opened it once more, wiping away the last of his tears.

“I’m so proud of James,” it read. James could almost hear his mother’s voice, “it feels like only yesterday he was learning how to say his first words. Now, he’s a university student and has just passed his first summative assessment. I love him so much and I will always love my darling boy.”

James looked at the mirror next to him, reflection hidden from view. He pulled off the cover.

“Ben?” Only his reflection stared back, reflecting his still figure. He felt himself doing something he hadn’t done in a long time, he smiled. Looking up, he said silently, “thank you.”

END

[julesfitnessxo]

Binge Eating Disorder

Growing up, I always interacted with food in a different way to everyone else. I remember even at five, six years old I would always sneak into the kitchen at night whilst my parents watched TV in the sitting room, and devour anything I could from the cupboards. My mum once told me she found me eating spoonfuls of sugar from the bowl- SUGAR. RAW SUGAR. I would eat anything and everything, in large quantities too. I’m not sure if it was the lust for something forbidden that triggered it- I was never, and still aren’t, one for doing what I was told- or if it was just greed. At parties I would always be picking at the food, eating huge portions whilst my friends could subside on a few crisps and a piece of cake. I ate faster and drank faster than other people. I had a massive sweet tooth- chocolate was my favourite thing in the world. I was also a little heavier than the rest of my friends- I was tall, muscly, broader. I have never have a super-thin bone structure. I wasn’t ‘fat’ by any means, but certainly a little larger than everyone else.

This strange relationship with food would follow me my entire life. I began to be able to eat larger and larger quantities, and when I was around twelve, I began bingeing properly. I used to use any spare change I could find to go down to the corner shop when my mum wasn’t home, and buy snacks. I would buy anything, usually huge slabs of chocolate or massive bags of crisps or an entire tub of Ben and Jerrys ice cream. Then I would go home, turn on a movie, and eat the entire thing. I guess it became a comfort thing, a routine. And of course, I began to gain weight. When puberty hit this only got worse. I found I was ravenously hungry all the time, and most of my days were fixated on food. 

I remember hating my body and wanting to lose weight since I was seven. This hatred only grew as I got older, and gained more and more weight. By the age of fifteen I weighed almost 190 pounds. I was around 5′9 at the time, so height contributed to the number, but it was still massively overweight for my age. I would try and diet, but the urge to binge was just to strong to overcome.

I am now 19, and it’s still there. I’m writing this because last night, after a day of reasonably healthy eating, I ate an entire 12 inch pizza and cheesy chips in the space of around five minutes. Not normal, right? It was the first time I’d properly BINGED in a good month or so, as I’ve been eating healthy and exercising a lot recently. And it felt SO GOOD in the moment. I remember literally stuffing the food into my mouth, even though it was boiling hot and burned my tongue and throat, but I just couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t stop. I felt completely out of control- feral, almost, like a wild animal. I’d eaten enough food during the day so it wasn’t as if I’d deprived myself into needing that vast amount of calories. 

That’s what binges feel like. In that moment, it’s just you and the food. Nothing else exists. There is no limit to what you can eat. You literally STUFF the food into your mouth, barely swallowing it, barely even TASTING it. It’s just more and more, more and more, until you can barely breathe you’re so full. But you keep on eating and eating, even when your stomach is SCREAMING in pain, because it feels so good. I’m telling you, it’s the best feeling in the world to me. During a binge, I feel ecstatic. It’s literally like I’m eating away my problems. It’s a release, a form of escapism, sure, but it also feels like a carnal instinct. Like something deep within me is driving me - my brain isn’t really functioning properly, as if it’s been taken over by an outside force. It’s kind of like I’m a different person. 

It’s like the hunger signal to my brain just isn’t there. For example, say you’re having a hang out with a group of friends, and there’s snacks. Everyone will pick at them for a bit, and then just kind of forget that they’re there. Whereas with me, I’m CONSTANTLY thinking about food. I’m constantly picking at the food, even if it’s cold and congealed and disgusting. Food is always on my mind. 

Obviously, I’ve come to release that this pattern of behaviour isn’t normal. I’ve started to do some research about binge eating, and I’ve come to these conclusions.

1. MY RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD IS SOME FORM OF ADDICTION: Addiction runs in my family. On my dad’s side, almost every family member is addicted to alcohol. My aunt actually passed away from alcoholism.  I’m not - and hopefully never will be- but I do believe I have inherited that ‘addiction gene’, if such a thing exists. My addiction is food. Food is more than just something nice or pleasing to me- it is EVERYTHING. I think about it all the time. I guess I could compare myself to the way a heroin addict acts- sacrificing everything just to get that next hit, that next rush, that next binge for me. Also, from observing my one family and also the actions of others with addiction, it is something that is done very secretly. For example my dad drinks and suffers with alcohol addiction, and so when he drinks he drinks secretly. I think a huge part of this is shame, and embarrassment- shame for being so dependant on drink. For me when I binge, I always binge alone. I would never dream of consuming food the way I do during a binge in front of other people. I eat alone out of shame and embarrassment too, shame for consuming such high quantities. So, I guess I could consider myself an addict in some way. There are certainly more dangerous things to be addicted to than food, however this does not mean that this addiction is any less valid or important.

2. THE DESIRE TO BINGE CAN COME FROM ANYWHERE: A lot of therapists claim that people who suffer with eating disorders do so because of emotional issues and trauma in their past/present of some kind- with a lot of disorders such as anorexia, it’s more of a form of control than about weight loss, or about food. 

Binge eating disorder, however, is slightly more complex than that. I don’t necessarily believe that my desire to binge stems from a past/present emotional trauma, nor do I believe I always use bingeing as a coping mechanism, like to cope with issues I have in my life. Sometimes, yes, after a shit day I am more likely to binge than if I had had a great one. However, most of them, they seem more of a carnal instinct, something that I’ve always had in my brain. It’s not about control for me, either- the entire thing is feeling out of control. Bingeing is definitely a form of release and escapism, yes, (at least it is for me), but I don’t know, it seems more mechanical than emotional, if that makes any sort of sense. 

3. I DO HAVE AN EATING DISORDER: It took me a long time to recognise binge eating disorder as a ‘real’ eating disorder. My mum had always just told me I ate a lot simply because I was ‘greedy’, however I don’t agree. Just because anorexia and bulimia are the most ‘publicised’ and well-known eating disorders, doesn’t mean others don’t exist. Technically, I have suffered from an eating disorder for almost all my life, I just haven’t realised it. So that means I can apply terms like ‘relapse’ and ‘recovery’ to my own life. I have gone through several stages of relapse, several short periods of recovery. Now, I want to recover for good. 

Recovery seems completely impossible for me at this point. Maybe I’ll never be completely recovered, maybe I’ll always have this disorder. I’m not even sure if the point of recovery is to reach the point where the urge to binge just doesn’t exist within me anymore, or to reach the point where it’s there, but I can control it for the most part. 

All I know is today marks the first date in my ‘road to recovery’- as disgustingly cliche as that may sound. I’m sharing my story on here firstly because I hope it’ll keep me more accountable, and secondly because binge eating disorder is an incredibly isolating thing. I don’t know anyone else in my friendship circle who has this- no one. When I began to research it though, I read articles and watched videos from people- some of them celebrities- who suffer too, and I don’t know, I guess it just made me feel less alone, and more validated. I hope this ‘diary’ I guess, I don’t know exactly what to call it- account?- makes somebody out there feel less alone too. 

So, here goes. 

[the-coconut-asado]

TEL AVIV: HOT BREAD AND COOL VEGANS

Ugly, beautiful Tel Aviv, how I love you.

In the words of Bonnie, the otherwise forgettable first evictee from Big Brother in the Jade Goody year:  you’re sexy, you’re cool, you’re everything and… everything.  Beach bodies? You’d better believe it. A doggy beach? But of course. Mums on their coffee mornings smoking a joint and shooting the breeze? We’ve all been there.  

I may be getting carried away, but hitting Tel Aviv after days of covering up in Nazareth left me dizzy from sensation overload and access to bare skin. Let’s recap: 20 beaches all in a row with the ancient city of Jaffa – 500 years older than Jerusalem - looming on the horizon; an oil-slicked beach bunny with impossibly toned abs dancing with abandon to Blancmanche’s Living on the Ceiling; everywhere you turn, everything you smell is a wonderful, jangling assault on the senses. And just like Jerusalem and Nazareth, we were here to eat it.

I’m only going to focus on one, 24-hour experience. If you follow this in my footsteps, I guarantee you will understand the energy and creativity that drives Israeli cuisine, and embrace the burnt mouth you will get from eating everything you are offered straight from the oven before someone else snaffles it.

We arrived late afternoon at our smart Bauhaus hotel and were feeling lucky. Adam had read about Thai House, a restaurant with a stellar reputation and, usually, a waiting list to match. But somehow, a quick phone call later, we had struck oil with a table. And here’s me at Thai House, smug as. 

Emboldened, we decided to try and get onto a 5-star recommended food tour of Tel Aviv the following day: Delicious Israel offers a four-hour food-filled walking tour from Jaffa to the City, stopping off at a myriad locally celebrated - and often invisible to the naked tourist eye -  eating spots. We figured four hours’ worth of eating would give us a comprehensive experience of the essence of Israeli cuisine, as well as the tan I had missed from covering up in Nazareth and Jerusalem. Shorts and flip flops hauled from the bottom of the rucksack and baggy trousers consigned to the wash bag, I now felt I was living my best life.

Early next morning, our lips still humming from the chili-infused nectar of the Thai House eating experience (best Thai food I have eaten ever, and believe me we ate some fantastic food in Thailand), we jumped out of a cab at the Port of Jaffa and waited for our guide. Haysha, a young, intellectual archaeology lecturer, was not who we were expecting to fulfil this role -  but who am I to judge what people want to do in their day off? He was passionate about his nation’s food, relentlessly optimistic and full of handy cooking tips. Win-win-win.

I don’t need to tell you that the four hours passed in a flash, but I will give you the top seven highlights from our morning.

Malabi in the Flea Market: huddling under a canopy from the sciorating sun in this little marketplace in Jaffa, the ever upbeat Haysha disappeared into the hubbub with a broad smile, and emerged with a tray of what looked like junket topped with some pink syrup.

“This is the perfect cooler for the hottest day” he enthused as he handed out the pots and teaspoons. What he had in fact given us were little pots of chilled ambrosia – a panna cotta like texture but with less wobble – topped with a raspberry syrup and crushed pistachios and almonds. When I came back home I scoured all my middle eastern cookbooks and found a version in each one. I had never noticed the recipes before as they looked, at first glance, so unremarkable. However, the real revelation on that day was the vegan version of this dessert – made with coconut milk and doubly as delicious as the dairy equivalent.

Hummus in Old Jaffa: While the nicest hummus we ate was that green version in Jerusalem I mentioned in my last post, the hole in the wall Haysha took us to was apparently the first and most famous Hummus eatery in the region. They serve it freshly cooked and warm in little plastic bowls with a side order of lemon broth and chopped coriander. The combination of the lemon and the smooth hummus (20% tahini rather than the traditional 5% that we experience in the West) and the fava bean version if you wanted to try something different, meant that they really couldn’t serve all this fast enough from their hole in the wall. Plus, I realised if I didn’t eat quick with the aid of the pillowy pitta bread, my fellow tourists would clean the plates for me.

Ancient Za’atar bread near the Clock Tower. This is where the bread scrum with my fellow tourists intensified and serve us all right for getting third degree burns in our mouths. Abuoelafia is the oldest bakery in the City, and pumps out original Za’atar bread (using just the Za’atar herb from the surrounding mountains) and their traditional flat Bagels out of the ancient wood fired oven. You know you are going to burn yourself as you lean in to wolf it all down, but you just don’t care.

Halva Babka in Neve Tzedek: This suburb between Jaffa and Tel Aviv didn’t exist 20 years ago – it was a wilderness of scrub land. Then the developers moved in and now it’s the Seven Dials of the Levant. You know this because of the copious bougainvillea the self-consciously arty graffiti and the overpriced gift shops. Sitting elegantly down a little side street is a French-style bakery that offers scrumptious patisserie and this ingenious twist on Baklava, the addition of halva (not something I am usually into) giving the overall bake a lightness and mild spice that make an extra slice inevitable.

Lachuch just outside Carmel Market: We were entering our final hour of the tour and Haysha proudly led us to an unmarked blue door just outside one of the myriad entrances to Carmel Market. Behind this door, he told us, was an extraordinary lady who made Lachuch, (spelled 'Lachuch’ he hilariously told us when we asked), a yeast pancake filled with egg and accompanied by a smoked aubergine puree. All cooked on a tiny primus stove and accompanied with a generous swig of Arak. The lady in question was madder than several boxes of frogs, couldn’t function without the soundtrack of Cats blaring from her little transistor – and made such sumptuous Lachuch that tourists from the previous day who had somehow found their way back to her door came begging for a second serving.

Vegan Gelato at Carmel Market. Not only offering vegan options, but totally modelled on the gelaterias of Sicily, is Gelateria Siciliana. The owners, Italian-born Raffaele (who used to help his parents make ice cream) and Israeli-born Keren, met in Switzerland (still with me?) and decided to open their own ice cream shop in Israel, now talked about as the best in Tel Aviv. The ice cream is made daily on site. Their specialities include an all-natural vegan soy ice cream (rather nice) as well as inventive flavour combinations such as pink grapefruit and Campari sorbet (aka an iced Negroni).

Shakshuka in Bread Café. It wasn’t part of the tour, but this mellow little café in Downtown Tel Aviv is worth a mention for its total dedication to all things yeasted (already established as something Israel does exceptionally well) and its Shakshuka, served in a hollowed-out sourdough loaf, with all those added value pickles, labneh and other trimmings we had come to love over the previous 10 days.

As soon as I returned to London I started to perfect my Malabi recipe, tested out Lachuch options and arrived at a Shakshuka balance of flavours that did it for me. And here they are for you.

Coconut and Pomegranate Malabi

Supplementing coconut milk makes this a guilt-free trip if you are vegan. Not entirely free of guilt, though, as there is sugar in both the pannacotta and the syrup. I have used pomegranate juice to get the restrained colour and flavour into this syrup, omitted the rosewater usually included as it has an overpowering flavour for this delicate dish, and toasted the nuts before chopping to give an extra textural crunch. Serves 6.

Ingredients:

50g cornflour

500ml coconut milk

200ml water

½ cup single cream

80g caster sugar

30g shelled pistachios and blanched almonds.

For the syrup:

60g caster sugar

60 ml water

2 tbsp. pomegranate juice

How to Make

Whisk the cornflour with the milk or almond milk until smooth with no lumps.

Pour the coconut milk, water and sugar into a saucepan and heat gently so that the sugar resolves. As the mixture heats up (but don’t let it even get near to boiling), whisk in the cornflour paste and continue to whisk until the mixture thickens (just like crème patissiere). Remove from the heat, pour into a jug, so that you can more easily pour out the mix into six individual tins or ramekins. Cover the top of each pudding with clingfilm (making sure the clingfilm touches the surface to prevent a skin forming), and place in the fridge, ideally overnight but at least 5 hours, until they are set.

 Make the syrup: put the sugar, water and pomegranate juice into a small saucepan and heat gently until the sugar dissolves and it thickens slightly. Take off the heat, cover and leave to cool.

Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Pour the nuts onto a rimmed baking sheet and pop into the oven for 10 minutes or until brown and toasted (check regularly so that they don’t catch and burn). Remove from the oven, tip the nuts onto a chopping board and cool, then chop roughly and set aside.

Remove the clingfilm from the puddings and serve each one topped with syrup and a handful of the chopped nuts.

My Shakshuka

This is really a perfect lazy brunch option. Colourful and flavourful. Give each person two eggs and have some sourdough toast on the side to scoop up the sauce. Serves 4-6.

 Ingredients:

3 tbsp. Olive oil

6 large eggs

1 onion, sliced

1 red pepper, sliced

4 garlic cloves, crushed

2 tsp ground cumin

1 tsp smoked paprika

1 tsp ground coriander

pinch chilli flakes

1 x can cherry tomatoes

salt and freshly ground black pepper

small bunch coriander, chopped

 How to make:

Heat oil in a large frying pan, then add the onion and red pepper. Cook slowly until soft, about 15-20 minutes. Add garlic, cook for another couple of minutes then add the cumin, coriander and paprika and stir. Add the tin of tomatoes, smooshing each one as you stir, then season. Simmer for about 10 minutes.

Crack the eggs over the tomatoes (think clock face when spacing them out) season, then cover the pan and cook on a very low heat for about 5-10 minutes. When you (carefully) raise the lid, the egg yolks should be opaque and the whites soft but set. Sprinkle with the coriander and serve immediately.

Lachuch ‘Quesadillas’

Personally, I am not sure that the Raki chaser particularly adds anything to the experience of eating this, but no need to listen to me if you want to go for it. Just make sure you this eat it fresh from the frying pan. By now you should be used to that scorched mouth. My version of Lachuch was inspired by my cousin and gifted chef Juancho, who with my other cousin Michael owns and runs Saberico Restaurant in Guatemala. Serves 6

Ingredients:

For the yeasted pancakes:

3 cups plain flour

3 cups warm water

2.5 tsp fast acting dry yeast

½ tbsp. Salt

1 tbsp. semolina

For the aubergine puree:

1 large aubergine

1 clove garlic

250g Greek yoghurt

1 generous tbsp. tahini paste

pinch sumac

 6 eggs

 For tomato chutney:

10-12 cherry tomatoes, halved

2 tbsp. ml olive oil

1 large banana shallot, sliced thinly

1 clove garlic, chopped finely

½ tsp. ground cumin

pinch of chilli flakes

salt and pepper

 to serve: 1 tbsp. coriander, chopped

How to make:

First, make the aubergine puree. Either toast the aubergine over a flame until it turns soft, and charred on the outside, or else heat an oven to 200C, then pop the aubergine in the oven, pricked all over, and roast for about 30-40 minutes, until it feels soft and squishy. Remove from the heat or oven, cool, then peel the skin and mash up the flash in a bowl with the crushed garlic, tahini paste, sumac, greek yoghurt and seasoning to taste. Cover and put to one side.

  Make pancakes: Mix the dry ingredients then add the water gradually, mixing to a smooth batter. Cover and leave for about an hour, until the surface is covered with bubbles.

Butter a non-stick frying pan or crepe pan and put on a medium heat, add a ladle full of pancake mix, enough to cover the base, and cook until the surface is covered with bubbles and dry.

Remove from pan, cool the pan down under running cold water and dry (do not miss this step out) then repeat with the remaining mix. Wrap the pancakes in a towel as you finish each one to keep them warm and soft.

 Next, make the tomato chutney: Fry the sliced shallot in the hot oil until starting to brown, then add the garlic and cook for another 30 seconds. Add the tomatoes with the rest of the ingredients and cook on a low heat for about 5-7 minutes, stirring. Season.

Poach your eggs in boiling water with a splash of white vinegar.  

To assemble: smear a generous spoon of aubergine puree onto each pancake, then s dollop of the tomato chutney. Top with an egg and drizzle and garnish with the chopped coriander. Serve immediately. Leftover lachuch pancakes can be covered and re-heated whenever you want to eat them.