What's It Like to Die Alone?

“Freya, you have to eat. It’s 10am, you were meant to eat 2 hours ago for breakfast. Come on, you were doing so well, you don’t want a step backwards, do you? Half a piece of toast, and you can even squeeze your own juice if you want.”
I blinked a few times and saw the face of the chubby nurse hovering over me. I smiled at her and nodded, telling her I would get up and be in the dining hall in 10 minutes.
Squeeze my own juice, what a fucking joke. Did she really think that would excite me? The fat, overly happy nurse actually thought that would cheer me up?
What a fucking imbecile.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The bright white walls blinded my tired eyes. I fumbled around for my glasses and put them at the end of my nose. I sighed, despite the supposedly cheery surroundings, I felt nothing less than a little depressed. Everyone around me was insane and controlling. They were all ill, or addicted, or just plain crazy. People didn’t understand why they were here, but it was blatant to me. How could they not see what they were doing to themselves?
Then again, I didn’t know why I was here. All I was trying to do was make myself more beautiful. I like being skinny, honestly. I’m not suffering from severe anorexia nervosa. I’m not. It’s all a figment of other people’s imagination, they’re the crazy ones. They’re jealous, because they’re obese. Do they realize how hard it is to remain thin when you live in the obese country of the world? Everywhere you turn; fast food lathered in calories dipped in more calories and deep fried in calories.
Would you like a side order of calories with that, m’am? They’ll ask, the words escaping they’re mouths. So rehearsed. I bet they’re laughing inside, thinking how all the fat globules will surround my vital organs and make me ugly.
But I’m on to them. I’m on to them and it scares them, I know what they’re doing. So I opt for nothing. Because that way, I’m not eating something with those infamous globules hidden in there somewhere. They’re scared because I’m too intelligent for them.
I stood up and slipped on a tight, blue wife beater and some dark skinny jeans. Things to show off my beauty, of course. Beauty was all about size, and I was a perfect size. I can see how my body is working, I can see the ribs; the pelvis; the spine.
I know how I’m working, that’s healthy for me.
I didn’t bother putting on shoes because that way anything sharp on the ground would cut my feet. I was trying to strengthen the skin underneath my feet, because that would make me heavier, yet also make me stronger. It would increase the red number on the scales, that we get weighed on every single fuckin’ day. The nurses would see I was a healthy weight, then they could let me go. No longer would I have to be put through the agonizing pain of gorging on those dreaded globules. I could be free, a citizen of America again.
When I am out of here, I have decided to move to Paris. The fashion capital of the world, so surely there would be models spilling out of every where possible. All with perfect shape; just like me. Obesity wouldn’t be a problem anymore, they would think I was crazy for not being slim, rather than the other way around.
The only problem, which I didn’t mind at all, was that I needed glasses because my eyes were no longer strong enough. But I liked my rectangular glasses, it only accentuated my cheek bones. Perfect cheek bones.
I let my brown hair cascade around my shoulders, then applied a multitude of products. My hair didn’t need it, it was perfect, but it added weight, increased that number that nurses seemed to be so damn obsessed with.
I applied lashings of make up and left my room. I’d done the same thing for 3 months, 23 days now. It was getting a little tedious.
The mental home, sorry, I should call it ‘Enlightenment Towers.’
I know you’re thinking exactly what I am. Two words: Bull shit.
The mental home meal room was swarming with all the drug addicts and self harmers. They eat breakfast at half past ten, to suit their time table. The anorexics and bulimics eat at eight. Sex addicts at half eight. Depressed and suicidal at nine, that was always fun. Alcoholics at half nine and abusers/rapists at ten. Same times, day in, day out, on the dot.
I poured myself 3 glasses of orange juice, then poured them all away. I poured another because it was the bottom of the jug, it contained more pith and bits from the orange. More weight.
Then toasted a slice of bread and ripped it in half, throwing half of it away. I wasn’t idiotic enough to spread calories over the toast, don’t be a fool.
I took the plate and glass, then sat down at a vacant seat, next to a drug addict. I was going to say he was addicted to heroin, the eyes told it all. I scanned his arms, which were scarred. A few of the cuts seemed relatively fresh, I estimated they were nine days old. I moved to sit opposite him. He seemed different to the other addicts and harmers because he was sat by himself. Normally, they would group up, dependent on the drug or instrument used to harm. But not this one.
Morning. I said, monotonously.
“Morning.” he nodded curtly. “I haven’t seen you before.”
I’m not an addict, so that would be why.
The lunatics were never put all together, we were always sectioned off. The nurses didn’t seem to mind about me, I wasn’t one to do drastic things and go on rage sprees. I stayed calm, contented and cooped up in my room with the window open forty-three degrees.
“Why are you here.”
I got out my notepad and began to write. You see, I don’t talk. Statistically, writing uses less energy than talking. I don’t care about my weight, as long as I don’t have to eat. I’ll weigh more if I write instead of talk.
They think I’m anorexic. I think they’re being melodramatic and should leave me to my own devices.
He smirked and looked up, revealing his pale face and rings around his eyes. His mouth dropped and he slammed his spoon into his bowl of cereal.
“You.” he spat.
Me?
“Don’t act fucking dumb.”
Way to insult a girl, jerk.
He laughed bitterly. “You’ve changed to a ludicrous extent. You are anorexic.”
I’m not anorexic. I’m intelligent, is all.
“I’ve changed too, as you can’t recognize me. I look dreadful, I know, but I don’t mind it.”
Your arms.
“Ahh yes, my arms. That’s what needles do to you, babe. Especially infected ones.”
I’ll take note.
He laughed. “You know, I like it you don’t know who I am.”
Care to expand?
“No, not really.”
I paused and sipped carefully at my drink.
You’re drinking a mojitio at half ten?
“Wow, you really are intelligent.”
Hold up on the sarcasm, loon.
He laughed again. “I take drugs, big fuckin’ woop. I cut occasionally, it’s therapeutic. At least I eat, loon.”
I took a bite of my toast.
I eat.
“Not enough, blatantly.”
I eat.
“Okay.” he nodded and picked up his bowl, then disposed of it. I took one more bite, swallowed regrettably and discarded of my items.
I walked outside and sat on the wooden decking, swinging my legs side to side seven times, before getting bored and scanning the lunatics surrounding me, trying to delve into their thoughts.
The boards creeked and the heroin man from previously sat next to me with a lit cigarette.
“Do you want a toke?”
I thought it was only classified as a toke if it was drugs, not cigarettes.
“Okay, miss intelligence, would you like to inhale some poison and addictive nicotine into your lungs, slowly killing you?”
Yes, please. You make it sound so tempting.
I took the cigarette from between his two fingers and puffed twice on the addictive nicotine and poison. I breathed out contently as I felt the smoke fill my virgin lungs and passed it back.
Thanks.
“No problem.”
He puffed several times and I watched him closely as the smoke left his mouth in trails and swirls, drawing patterns in the air. It wasn’t long before he’d finished with it, and edged closer to me. He picked up my wrist and put his fingers around it, then smirked.
What.
“You’re so damn skinny.”
Really. I never would’ve guessed.
“Stevie Wonder always used to put his fingers around girls’ wrists, to see how fat they were, without seeming rude. I think that’s genius, you never did see him with a fat bitch, did you?”
I’ve never been one to pay much attention to Stevie Wonder’s bitches.
“You should. They’re hot.”
He put an arm around my waist and shook his head. “Girls with curves are sexy. Your curves are your bones, that’s a little repulsive.”
You’ve got heroin eyes and a slashed torso. Mmm, sexy.
“I’ve already told you I look dreadful. You look it too, but you think you look beautiful. You used to be, with your curves. You had an amazing butt, and your breasts, wow.”
You stared at my breasts?
“You were the one flaunting them babe, not me. What, you must be like an A now?”
It doesn’t concern you.
“So an A then.”
Correct, man whore.
“I’m guessing you used to be… gonna go for a DD.”
I frowned.
“Wow, I got it right.”
Can you please stop fantasizing about my breasts.
“You can fantasize about my genitalia, if that’s any consolation.”
It’s not.
He laughed again. “I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends.”
Discard that feeling rapidly.
“In fact.” he said, moving his face closer to mine so I could smell the cigarette breath. “I think we’ll fall in love.”