Skeletal Prison

Chapter One

I sat in the two person bedroom, looking at the pictures that I snuck into the treatment center before I arrived. I traced my fingers over the picture with one hand as my other traces the part on my body. The bones still as visible as when I entered, some of them even more. My brunette hair was pulled up loosely in a ponytail white my leggings clung to the bones that where called legs with the thick cardigan keeping my skin warm even in the 70 degree clinic. 

I looked out my window at the park where girls-my age-where playing soccer with the guys even as the streetlights came on. Their faces had no worries of food, and the smiles they had were of real happiness. I remembered when I could just go out at night, play soccer, noting being afraid that I would pass out, not being afraid that someone would see the scars on my wrist or my hips, not afraid that I would have to sit out because of the hunger pains that take over my body.

But those days are over, now I am sitting in a prison, being forces against my will every day. Having to eat, and get rid off al the hard work I did to get to the point I am at. 

I watch as the kids leave the soccer field and all walk down the street together with laughs and smiles while I just sit there and dream of being one of them. But the funny thing is, is that at school, I was the girl that everyone wanted to be. Girls would always ask me how I got so skinny, they would ask how I got rid of the thigh fat, how I got rid of the stomach bulge, and just how I did it. They wanted the tips I clung to as if it was my life support. 

But soon, I nearly jump when hear a knock at the door. I shove the pictures under my mattress, the pictures that I wasn't supposed to have because they “could be triggering” to me and or other girls before I stand up, brushing the air off my over sized blue tee-shirt. 

"Tessa; its time for snack.” the woman that wears double digit sized trousers, the one that looks like a chipmunk in her cheeks, her old disney land sweatshirt that hugs all of her oversized curves, and her hair is grey at the roots. She is the main nurse of this hell hole. She is the one that will shove the feeding tube down your neck if you refuse to eat.

Taking a deep breath, I just threw a headband in my hair, and fixed my ponytail - rule one here, hair must be tied back - I slip off my jumper - rule two, no jackets, purses or pockets - and set it in the small closet in the corner of my room.

Walking over to the hall and trough the clinic until I reach the stairs. The nurse is standing behind me so I can smuggle anything into the kitchen that would hide food. I feel my head swimming, and I can feel air replacing my bones. I feel 20 pounds lighter, but yet I can also feel the black triangles running up my spine, and gravity pushing me down. I just stand, I breathe, and I count to 36 - my lucky number. 

Out of all the places, and out of all of the people in the clinic, this would be the worst place and worst person to pass out around. Unless you want to be tube fed and having to go to hospital. But soon I can feel myself, and the black triangles are gone, and I continued my journey to the first floor of the 2 story clinic and found my way into the blue kitchen. The kitchen were you had to be watched, and you had rules on how fast to eat, and you were watched like a hawk until every last crumb was in your body.

I hated snack before bed, that meant no time to burn it off. Sure, you would walk laps in your room - which most girls do at the dead of night - or crunches and leg lifts in bed. But when you were too weak to even walk down stairs, it was hard to keep your body away for 18 hours to work out.

As I walked down the cedar stairs I could hear the other girls telling there visitors bye, the door opening the closing, and the talking of parents to the owner-Cathy about how their daughter is doing. I have always wondered if Cathy lies to them, telling them that we are getting better even though if anything we are getting worse. I walked down and just passed everyone staying low and walked into the kitchen, finding my seat and sat down messing with my fingers under the table.

I remember when my nails used to be longer. They were so pretty, they were strong and perfect. I used to paint them all the time, I had around 36 different colors in my collection at one point. But as I got sicker, the more brittle they got, and when I was checked in here, they cut them down so you couldn’t hide food under them. You would be amazed by all the places we could hide food and the places they check to make sure that there is no food.

For the past 2 visiting days, my mom nor my dad showed up. My dad worked as a lawyer in the city center and my mom was a surgeon at Johns Hopkins. They were divorced, and my dad remarried - my mom was always too busy at work to even think about a relationship with another person. I had a younger sister; half sister; named Mia. She was beautiful, naturally skinny, and just that perfect girl. She is 6 years younger than me. She was good at everything she touched, and my step-mom was set that she was a prodigy. She has the perfect life.

But I never had that, I was 8 when my mom and dad split, Mia was the reason. Well, no not Mia, but when my mom found out that my dad was cheating and that he got another woman pregnant, she drop him like a pen and moved as far away from his house that she could without having to quit her job. 

My dad says that he will come visit, but I know that my step-mom doesn't want Mia around me, thinking that it ‘s the flu and she will pick it up. I don’t blame her, who wants so spend their Saturday here? I don’t even want to be here. No one does. 

But everyone, my family and my friends, all just thought that if I just ate, that if I would just eat that damn piece of food I would get better. But they don’t see the struggle I have, how hard it is for me to eat.