Skinny • Book 1 In The Reality Series

Calum

Waking up I felt as if I'd been hit by a bus.
Confused, since the last place I'd been was crumpled on my bedroom floor like a used piece of Kleenex, I looked around at the dimly lit room in which I lay.

I was aware of a dull pain in my chest, a strange thickness in my throat and an uncomfortable pressure on my side.

Seeing my Parents sharing a chair in the corner, asleep, I somehow remembered in my subconscious that I had been given vocal chords for a reason and tried to speak.

Instead of words a weird choke like cough sounded and I became aware of something in my throat. Suddenly feeling as if I were choking to death I flailed around awkwardly, waiting for my impending death before my Dad's familiar shadow was cast over me.

"Calum stop." He commanded, "Breathe through your nose. You can breathe."

The next thing I knew a horde of nurses ran in, all talking a mile a minute, and then I was out once again.

The second time I woke up my throat was clear however it burned as if it had been stripped raw. Groaning, I scanned my room but it was empty.

Coming to the conclusion that if I did not obtain water, I was doomed, I peeled the sheet which covered me and tried to sit up.

Feeling something holding me back I pulled against it. There was a brief moment of pain and then something wet was spilling onto the bed. Looking down I realized I'd ripped an IV out of my arm leaving a portion of the needle inside.

I felt everything get fuzzy and then I was out again.

The third time I woke up, both my parents were sat on opposite sides of my bed, my mom running her fingertips through my hair like she did when I was younger while my dad held a small, styrofoam cup of water.

"You going to stay awake this time?" He chuckled, standing up and sitting me up with one hand while holding the cup of water in another.

My mouth to dry to speak I took fish like gulps before falling back against my pillow.

Closing my eyes I tried to remember what had happened that brought me to the hospital, a fact which eluded me momentarily until my eyes landed on the half eaten cup of yogurt beside my Mom's chair.

It was because I hadn't eaten.

Opening my eyes I took a deep breath and waited for the lecture. The angry shouts of disappointment and disgust, the looks of pity and shame but they didn't come, instead my Dad took a long sip of his coffee as if we were casually sat at the breakfast table, before turning to my mom.

Colleen, why don't you go out in the hall and call Anna and Cal's friends and tell them he's awake please.

Nodding, my Mom rose to her feet, giving me a lingering kiss on the forehead and a whispered proclamation of love before stepping outside, cellphone in hand.

My Dad and I were along then.

Taking a shaky breath I braced myself for his harsh words, hastily trying to build an impenetrable fortress around the already cracked glass case which encompassed my emotions.

However, it didn't come, instead he looked down at his hands, looking as if he were waiting for me to begin a verbal assault on him.

We sat this way for several minutes, until the tension was quite literally clawing up my throat, desperate to be let free.

"I'm sorry." The words flew out like vomit.

He looked up at me, his eyes glassy and nodded.

I sat there staring at him thickly for a moment, wondering if a fist bump would qualify as an appropriate means of comfort before the word vomit came back up again, "Are you okay?"

He shook his head.

That floored me. Whenever you ask someone if they're okay, I think the subconscious preconceived notion is that they will reply positively. Claiming that despite the return of their testicular cancer, the death of their dog, the divorce of their wife and the pink slip they'd received in the mail that morning from work, that all is fine and dandy.

The underpaid under appreciated woman at the grocery store asks you how you are and you say fine. Even if you're crumbling on the inside, hell, even if you're crumbling on the outside.

Which was why I didn't know what to say and do waited quite stupidly for him to speak again, which after a moment, he did.

"I don't know what to do Calum." He whispered, "I tried. I watched you eat, I got you a therapist, I let you pick out whatever you wanted from the grocery store.... I thought you were doing okay."

"I was." I mumbled, "For a while. Then I got bad again."

"You could have come to me."

"I didn't want you to think I was being, I don't know, weak or stupid."

"Asking for help is never stupid."

"It's hard."

"I know."

"I was scared."

"I know."

"I need help."

"I know."

Reaching up, he ran his fingers through his hair, "I thought I lost you Calum. We almost did and why?"

"Because I'm a freak?"

"Because you're too scared of your own dad to tell him that you're struggling with something."

I looked down.

"How do I fix it?" He questioned, "what do you want to do? What do you and I need to do to get you better."

"Can I go home."

He winces, before shaking his head, "they're moving you in three days."

"where?"

"Somewhere that should help."

"Dad where? A psych ward?"

"Psych hospital. Ravenwick."

"I'm not going to Ravenwick! That's where that crazy guy went after he ate his wife!"

"Calum."

"I'm not nuts! I'm a little off upstairs but I'm not insane asylum ready?"

"Calum."

"What are they going to do put me in a straight jacket and force feed me?!"

"Calum."

"I'm not going there. I refuse. I can't. Everyone is going to know, I can't do that I can't be that. I can't be the wacko who's missing finals because he's locked in a loony bin. I can't! Please don't make me go! Please I'll do anything!"

"Calum!" He cries, looking pained, "It doesn't matter that you don't want to go, or that I don't want you to go. You need to."

"No I don...."

"Calum you almost died! I don't think you get that! You were almost dead! I almost had to pick you a casket and a grave plot and buy you a suit for them to cram your dead body in! You almost.. I almost... I can't loose you buddy. Please, you have to go."

It was then that I realized that it wasn't about me. It wasn't about how I looked or felt, it was about how much I was hurting the people I'd made care about me. It couldn't hurt me to be buried in a box, but for those left behind, the ones who would have to lower my casket and choke out a speech, it would burn, burn more then any price of food sitting in my stomach and more then the acidic liquid searing my already raw throat.

"I'm sorry." I said for a second time, it's meaning somehow changed, "I'm sorry Dad, I'm so sorry.