Piece by Piece

17

Mar. 14

Dear Corinne,

When I was in the hospital, the girl I shared a room with was named Anya. She loved country music and had a killer voice. She would sing all day- Dixie Chicks, Carrie Underwood, Faith Hill, Shania Twain, Luke Brian... and I never got tired of it, because it was so amazing. (There was this one nurse that used to get all pissed off every time she sang, so Anya would sing That Don't Impress Me Much every time she came into the room).

But Anya was really sick. She had anxiety and was on her third stay at the hospital for anorexia. Whenever the nurses would give her a meal, they would stand there and watch her eat it because if they didn't she would stuff it under the mattress or flush it down the toilet. Then someone would stay with her so that she couldn't excuse herself to get sick right after.

That didn't stop her from throwing up, though. She would make herself gag- using her fingers, her toungue, or her sheer will-power, and she would vomit all over herself and the floor. So they started tube-feeding her. After that she couldn't sing anymore, and the room was always eerily quiet. Her fingers would constantly be tapping the mattress next to her, to the beat of whatever song was in her head.

Then, one morning, at like 3 am, I heard her singing If I Die Young by The Band Perry.

It didn't occure to me until it was too late.

Nurses rushed in and found her in the washroom, the tubes she yanked out of her stomach and her sheets tied together and suspending her from the ceiling tiles. They pulled the divider so I wouldn't see, but it didn't matter. I sang the song in my off-pitch voice as they took her away.

You know, when we were little, they told us about anorexics and kids who were depressed and committed suicide, and none of us ever thought we'd end up like those ghostly skeletons that haunted our Sex Ed. classes.

I promised myself I wouldn't think about her, but that song is stuck in my head right now, and I'm too exhausted for empty promises.

Love,

Leigh