Whatever It Takes
Three.
.AUGUST.17.2000. 3:22 PM.
I stood infront of the mirror, studying the reflection. Blonde hair, with a streak of pink in the front. Sea green eyes, swirled with different shades. Clear, pale skin, almost translucent at this point.
I turned sideways, and tugged at my shirt a little. Critiqued what I saw. I scowled.
There was nothing wrong with me. I was simply dieting. Getting rid of the excess fat littering my body in all the wrong places. Why did any of them care anyways. It was my body. My life.
I punched the mirror, fed up with the reflection. With the reflection not morphing into the picture it should be. With the picture I wanted it to be, needed it to be.
I ignored the sharp sting in my hand, the red droplets that were dripping onto the plush, cream carpet.
I walked back down the stairs in a fit of blind fury, not knowing what to do with myself. Why did he care? It wasn't a big deal, but he just had to go and make it one. I walked into the kitchen, instantly going for the clear glass cupboard that held all of our important papers, as well as pill prescriptions.
I opened it up, moving a few small orange bottles out of the way. One fell. I ignored it, continuing my search for that one specific bottle. I found it, smiling.
I walked over and grabbed a cup, filling it with water to down the small white diet pills. It said to take one, but I was determined. I wanted the reflection to be what I wanted it to be. I needed that final phase more than anything right now. Milo would understand, as soon as I was skinny, he'd be relieved that I did this. I knew he would be.
He'll be so happy.
- -
I sat in a hospital chair, listening to the steady beep of my fiance's heart through a machine. I looked at the tubes currently feeding her, and frowned, gently grabbing her limp hand. She'd passed out, from exhaustion, or malnutrition I wasn't sure, but I brought her here and told the doctor's what I knew.
They'd found a high amount of alcohol and dieting pills in her stomach that had begun to eat away at the stomach lining. Not only that, but the high amount of drug going into her blood system had almost stopped her heart. They'd be admitting her to a rehab center shortly after she woke up here, and I was worried about her reaction to that. Would she leave me out of anger? Would she realize it's for the best?
I looked around the cramped room, trying to ignore the sterile smell that I so despised of hospitals. You could feel the sadness, the death, the agony of hurting family members and friends. You could feel the uncomfortable emotions rushing through doctor's who'd lost their patients, who'd lost their flare of life, who'd lost their desire to do this job, and all that it entails.
Whenever a nurse came into the room, to check her vitals, check the tubes, check everything else, you could see the sympathy. You could also see the repetition. How many patients did that particular nurse have that were here for eating-disorders? How many patients did that nurse have anyways? Did the nurses remember what their patients names were?
I hated hospitals, and all that came with them.
She started moving, suddenly, and then started struggling and coughing. I quickly pressed the nurse button, and ran to the door, calling for one. I moved back to my fiance, and she had tears in her eyes. Her hands were at her mouth, where there were tubes going down her throat to her stomach.
The nurse rushed in, and realized what was wrong, before calmly telling her to settle down so she could take them out. Once they were out, and the nurse left I sat back down, taking her hand in mine.
"I'm sorry, Milo." She said sadly.
"I'm sorry, too." I said, looking away for a second.
She smiled, and squeezed my hand, but she didn't have the strength to squeeze very hard.
I didn't want to break it to her. I didn't want to tell her. Why did I have to tell her?
"Baby, they're putting you in rehab."
I stood infront of the mirror, studying the reflection. Blonde hair, with a streak of pink in the front. Sea green eyes, swirled with different shades. Clear, pale skin, almost translucent at this point.
I turned sideways, and tugged at my shirt a little. Critiqued what I saw. I scowled.
There was nothing wrong with me. I was simply dieting. Getting rid of the excess fat littering my body in all the wrong places. Why did any of them care anyways. It was my body. My life.
I punched the mirror, fed up with the reflection. With the reflection not morphing into the picture it should be. With the picture I wanted it to be, needed it to be.
I ignored the sharp sting in my hand, the red droplets that were dripping onto the plush, cream carpet.
I walked back down the stairs in a fit of blind fury, not knowing what to do with myself. Why did he care? It wasn't a big deal, but he just had to go and make it one. I walked into the kitchen, instantly going for the clear glass cupboard that held all of our important papers, as well as pill prescriptions.
I opened it up, moving a few small orange bottles out of the way. One fell. I ignored it, continuing my search for that one specific bottle. I found it, smiling.
I walked over and grabbed a cup, filling it with water to down the small white diet pills. It said to take one, but I was determined. I wanted the reflection to be what I wanted it to be. I needed that final phase more than anything right now. Milo would understand, as soon as I was skinny, he'd be relieved that I did this. I knew he would be.
He'll be so happy.
- -
I sat in a hospital chair, listening to the steady beep of my fiance's heart through a machine. I looked at the tubes currently feeding her, and frowned, gently grabbing her limp hand. She'd passed out, from exhaustion, or malnutrition I wasn't sure, but I brought her here and told the doctor's what I knew.
They'd found a high amount of alcohol and dieting pills in her stomach that had begun to eat away at the stomach lining. Not only that, but the high amount of drug going into her blood system had almost stopped her heart. They'd be admitting her to a rehab center shortly after she woke up here, and I was worried about her reaction to that. Would she leave me out of anger? Would she realize it's for the best?
I looked around the cramped room, trying to ignore the sterile smell that I so despised of hospitals. You could feel the sadness, the death, the agony of hurting family members and friends. You could feel the uncomfortable emotions rushing through doctor's who'd lost their patients, who'd lost their flare of life, who'd lost their desire to do this job, and all that it entails.
Whenever a nurse came into the room, to check her vitals, check the tubes, check everything else, you could see the sympathy. You could also see the repetition. How many patients did that particular nurse have that were here for eating-disorders? How many patients did that nurse have anyways? Did the nurses remember what their patients names were?
I hated hospitals, and all that came with them.
She started moving, suddenly, and then started struggling and coughing. I quickly pressed the nurse button, and ran to the door, calling for one. I moved back to my fiance, and she had tears in her eyes. Her hands were at her mouth, where there were tubes going down her throat to her stomach.
The nurse rushed in, and realized what was wrong, before calmly telling her to settle down so she could take them out. Once they were out, and the nurse left I sat back down, taking her hand in mine.
"I'm sorry, Milo." She said sadly.
"I'm sorry, too." I said, looking away for a second.
She smiled, and squeezed my hand, but she didn't have the strength to squeeze very hard.
I didn't want to break it to her. I didn't want to tell her. Why did I have to tell her?
"Baby, they're putting you in rehab."