Forest View

A foam bowl of Frosted Flakes glared up at her from the table. She sat with her arms crossed and glared back at it, disgusted by the amount of sugar and fat it contained. An image of her walking around with a fat gut and box of donuts at hand flashed through her head. She shuddered.
Sierra had arrived at Forest View late afternoon the previous day, and they allowed her to skip her classes so she could get used to the ward. Every once and awhile, she would see a group of girls and boys pass through. She wondered who they were.
It was now painfully obvious to her that they were just a bunch of crazies. As she sat amongst them for breakfast, they couldn't help but stare. She was so thin, so pale, so broken. It was like those bad car wrecks you just can't bring yourself to look away from.
"Are you going to eat, Sierra?" a tall, scrawny man asked.
"This shit?" she laughed, "Fuck no."
"It says here that you were diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa," he said.
She rolled her eyes.
"Am I mistaken?" he questioned.
"No, my doctor is mistaken," she replied.
He studied her. The hot temper, baggy clothing, and toothpick thin bones were all common among anorexics. Even bitterness and denial were part of their nature. Somehow, he had the hardest time believing her doctor had wrongly diagnosed her.
"Either way," he sighed, "You've been checked in here for treatment of anorexia, and eating is the quickest cure."
"I'm not going to eat," she hissed.
"Just a few bites?" he bartered.
"I said I'm not going to eat," she answered.
"Please eat something, Ms. Monroe."
"No, damnit!"
He frowned and scribbled something down on a clipboard. Then he walked away. The people around her gaped, somewhat impressed, somewhat taken aback. How could she back talk Luke? He was the nicest fellow.
Sierra sighed and put her face in her hands. How long am I going to be here?, she asked herself, as if she could really supply an accurate answer. She hoped, in a few days, that she would be back home.
"Hygiene!" a women shouted.
The crazies rose to their feet. Uneaten cereal slopped into sinks, foam bowls and plastic silverware made "thumps" as they were thrown away, and bedroom doors slammed shut. Sierra watched, puzzled. What was going on now?
"Ms. Monroe, it's time for hygiene," said Luke.
"What the hell is that?" she retaliated.
"It's time for you to go to your room, take a shower, brush your teeth, comb your hair, that sort of thing," he told her.
She remained seated.
"...Are you going to do hygiene?" he asked.
She looked up at him, "Can I have a towel?", she answered.
He smiled and left her for a moment, returning with a soft, white towel in his hands. He held it out in front of her. She stared at it for a minute, took it, and retreated to her room.
The shower was cold, the toothbrush was frayed, and the comb hurt her head. The towel wasn't even that soft. She stood in front of the mirror, hating her mother for allowing her to come to this place. It just wasn't fair.
When she finally mustered the strength to leave the comfort of her bedroom, Luke was standing in the eating area with his clipboard, waiting. He raised his head at the sound of a door closing and grinned. She looked away.
"It's about time," he said, "You're late for class."
"Oh, darn," she replied sarcastically.
"Come on, I'll escort you," he laughed.
He walked over to her and offered her his arm. Sierra sighed, and he nudged her with his elbow. She let out a laugh, and, to her surprise, took his arm. Then they headed off to class.
"This is an eating disorder class," he spoke as they stood outside of the room, "They will help you understand your condition."
"That's all nice and dandy, but I don't have an eating disorder," she told him.
"Oh, I forgot," he replied, slapping his head playfully, "Well, your name's on the list. Better go anyway, huh?"
She gave him a dirty look.
"Have fun," he said.
He disappeared. Sierra walked into a big, open room filled with some girls she had seen earlier and a few new faces, and almost everyone was sitting cross-legged. She avoided eye-contact and followed suite. After a moment or two of chatter, banter, and her introduction by Susan the counselor, they returned to what they had been doing before she entered.
"Myra is so stupid," the girl next to her, sporting a baggy t-shirt and tight fitting jeans, blurted.
"Tell her, Liza," Susan instructed.
Liza cocked her head to her left and repeated what she had just said.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Myra demanded.
"What's your problem?" she answered, "I swear to God, you piss and moan about everything!"
"I do not-"
"Do you know why no one likes you at home? Do you know why nobody wants to talk you at home? Do you know fucking why?!" she screamed.
"No, go a head an tell me why!" she shouted.
"Because you lie! All you do is lie!"
"She's a pathological liar, you dumbass," someone jumped in.
Sierra looked in the direction of the voice, spotting a girl wearing a black hoodie and matching pajama pants across the room from her. Her hood was up, nearly covering her entire face, and she was rocking back and forth on her tailbone. The room went quiet.
"You...You got Mink to talk, Liza..."
"She can talk?"
"How'd you do that, Liza?"
"Alright, alright, that's enough," Susan interrupted. She looked at her watch, "I think it's time for activity, girls."
"We still have five minutes left of venting," said the one named Myra.
"Liar," Liza hissed.
"No, no, it's time for activity," the counselor assured, "It's time for activity."
She got to her feet and walked up to a cupboard, a hint of frustration seen across her face. Sierra looked around. What the hell had she gotten herself into?