More.
More.
More.
The smooth and shiny toothbrush with the sea foam green stripes on it,
The toothbrush that she used to facilitate the tooth decay and destruction of enamel. Ironic, huh.

The toothbrush that she carried around with her at the bottom of her  purse everywhere she went. Just in case.

The object of shame.
The object of disappointment.
The most important object she brought with her.

The object that tickled the back of her throat until it hit the right spot, and once it did, relieved her of her sins, of her mistakes, of her worries.

The time-turner.
Bulimics can travel through time, take things back.

Purge until they black out, break into cold sweats, with tears streaming down their face. More, more, more.

There’s more in there, get out. Get dizzy. Sit down. Give it 5 minutes. Try again.