Tamy's Journal

A Note From The Author:

This is just a one part short story about someone's struggle with the eating disorder anorexia. If this will trigger you then I don't want you to read it because that's the last thing I would like. Hope you enjoy reading:

It never feels right, going through someone's stuff, especially if they're your friend. Don't get the wrong idea about me; I wasn't snooping or anything. In fact, I think I'm the only one that would even go through her belongings. I think I'm the only one who cared. That's why it hurt even more to go through my cousins things, after she passed.

It was a cloudy day. Normally I liked cloudy days; after the burn I got one year the sun and I don't exactly have a perfect relationship. But that day it felt almost appropriate in a way. It was about a month after her funeral. When I drove up to her house I wasn't expected. I didn't call because I had nothing to say the person who would have answered.

Normally I'd be excited, walking up to her front door. I knew that I'd be going there to make memories and have fun. However then, all I felt while walking up her driveway was regret and sadness, but mostly regret. I walked in and honestly didn't care if anyone was home or if anyone saw me.

"Hey what are you doing here?" a voice lazily asked me from my right, obviously confused by my unexpected entrance. It was my cousin Dilan. I immediately had flash backs of being in there living room and Dilan coming in to yell at her, or even drag her across the carpet by her feet because she was too weak to fight back. He sat on their blue couch, which matching their blue carpet, was covered in dog hair. It had been about 1:00 in the afternoon and he was still in his pajama bottoms, not wearing a shirt. He had obviously just gotten up. He was four years older than her and, even though he was skinny himself, could always overpower her. I held my head high and didn't even look his way as I walked right past him. As far as I was concerned, he didn't deserve my answer.

I hesitated before I walked in. The last time I was there, she was there with me. I thought I had prepared myself enough so that I would be okay to do this, but I would never be able to prepare for something like that. I took a deep breath and opened the door anyway.

It was worse than I thought it would be. The second I walked in I felt like I couldn't breathe, like someone punched me in the stomach or I was choking on water and there was no one around to hit me on the back. No one had been in her room after she passed. Her room had always been small like mine, except hers had a bathroom and a big closet, and ever since about five years ago it had always been a mess. Her queen bed looked as though she had just woken up in it today; messily made. Her purple carpet was littered with cloths, rubber bands, papers, and just odd things. Her dresser was just about as messy as her floor, covered with hair products and jewelry, and there was even a plate that had an untouched chicken leg on it. I knew she had no intention of eating it.

I tried to get to work quickly. Being in that room just brought back too many painful memories. I started with her dresser. I took out all of the cloths that she once wore and put them in a large shopping bag that would get donated. Most of her clothes were actually mine. She never really liked to shop anyway. It's sad really, because even though I was a year younger than her, all of the cloths I grew out of I would give to her and they would fit her just fine. It should have been the other way around. I could never fit into the extra smalls like she would. And I was actually happy about that.

I moved on to her rather large closet next. I reached up on the shelf above where all of the clothes were hanging, and grabbed the first box my hands found. I took the small brown cardboard box and sat down on the floor right in front of her closet.

The first thing I found when I reached into the box there was a framed picture. I felt my body tense up again when I looked at my own smiling face, standing next to her. My mind immediately takes me back to that day before I can stop it. It was last summer, and that day was especially hot. We were both wearing tank tops and shorts. She was wearing her blond hair up while my long black hair was down. Even as I looked at the picture I could see how her thighs don't touch, and how her rib cage was prominent even through her tank top and how her bony angular arm was lazily draped around my shoulder. I would do or give anything to go back to that day, to save her, to stop her from killing herself.