"Souldiers, Away". Or perhaps... "Embers"
Have you ever just looked out at the world one day, the same as the rest of your life, and realised what it meant? The sheer beauty of it, everything. It's unexplainable. To notice all the beauty that you can't have, but you're lucky enough to see. Some people don't. You probably don't. Sitting there, with your glossy frames behind you and the desk in between us, I can tell you've never had contact with anyone or anything that you'd remember. You're so convinced that I'm a textbook case, that you could open the book on your desk to a page--say, page 281, or perhaps 34--and repeat my story to me. It would be a different name and a different place, but the reasoning would be the same. The struggles. And of course, the outcome. That goes without saying.
I look at you, and there is no beauty. You don't understand how everyone must play a part in the world, or it would all end. You're dead, dry, brittle as a leaf in winter, and I feel sorry for you. You pity me but it doesn't affect me. You can't possibly understand. I think of this as you lean forward, conversationally, plastering that smile on your face to make me trust you.
"How are you today, Abigail?" All I see is the fake white, the white of death. I bet you never realised death has any other colour than black, did you? A soft purple, sometimes, or the deep green of the ocean. People are astonishingly stupid about death. That much I've learned during my time.
"I go by Abby." This doesn't please you. What do you want me to do? Start crying, confide in you that this past year has been torture, that it was merely stress that made me do what I did, that being in this office makes me see how ignorant I was, that I misread my place on this big Earth. I can't do that. I've never been a liar.
"Fine. Abby. I know this may seem hard to you, but I want to help you. Everyone here does. We know life can be tough, especially at your age. It's nothing to be ashamed about. But you need to get better, you understand? This will affect you for the rest of your life, but you can overcome it. Here, in this folder..." she droans on. Her smile never leaves, and suddenly I wish it was winter. The white of the snow, that's the white I love. It's a blanket, a shield. You walk down the path and see your footsteps and it hits you--you're the only one alive. It's not true though. If you were to bury under the snow, curl up in a ball with the rabbits and the other creatures, your heart would pause. It would pause, but not stop. The white covers the mistakes, and when it leaves, everything is transformed. Breaking out, blinking, it's as if you've transported yourself; the place you wake up to is not where you were.
Babies can get into all sorts of trouble. It's unwise to fall asleep under the snow.
*
Everything in my room is soft. I can feel the softness through my bones. It's more prominent to me, probably. I try to kid myself in thinking they want to make us comfortable, to make us believe that where we are is a place we can feel safe. But I have to give myself a rueful smile. The real reason is they don't want any more trouble than they have. Their hands are full, and its our fault. Everyone on my floor has messed up, but not in the complete way. I start to wonder if all the staff with their fake smiles and coveted degress realise how pointless it is. When we've fucked up this bad, when we've landed here, we're exhausted; there's nothing else we could do.
There's a knock at my door. I had been sitting on my bed, in the middle of my schedule, and I knew it was time for lunch. I sat up straighter and didn't respond, didn't even look up when the door opened and the soft voice (even the voice was soft, as if words could hurt me phsyically if spoken in too harsh a tone) told me I needed to walk with her. I kept my head bent over the pages for a minute more, perhaps to just affirm her suspicions about me. When I got up to walk with her, I saw something in her eyes. Perhaps it was fear? Did she worry that I was to attack her, to scream and cling to my bed, refusing to do? I don't know what they had seen, but I wasn't going to fall into her idea of me. I was worth more than that. I wasn't worth much, the universe would keep turning when I was gone, but still; I was something.
When we left, as I knew she would, she shut the door with a quiet click. So quiet it was almost inperceivable.
*
There is no hope without colour. Has no one every noticed that? All these walls, all the tables, even the people here are so boring. I can't stand it. The only glimpses of colour I see are in flashes as I walk past a window. The green of a tree, the orange of a flower, the red of a robin's breast. I horde those flashes. They keep me sane, although everyone already believes me to be unbalanced.
I hate it here. I know everyone says that, but it's true. People here don't know me, but they pretend they do. They think they knew what drove me to this option and how to get me out of my hole. They think they can fix me with subtle marking and posters. That therapy really will work wonders. But they're wrong. I really only need two things to get back to normal. I need the colours. And the other...
Normal isn't the right word. I am normal now. I'm not a stereotypical case. But no one can know that. I can't trust anyone. I haven't even tried, because I've watched them enough to know what would happen if I did. Even being selfish, as I've been called, I can't bear to watch it happen to another person.
The meals don't matter much, to me. I eat bits of what they want me to and I fuss like they expect, but here I'm safe. I don't fuss because my brain is screwed up; I fuss because I know that my life here is temporary. Safety is never forever. I can look around so many times before I head out of the grass to drink in the waterhole. What I won't always realise is that the tiger wasn't waiting where I expected him to be. And that will be my downfall.
*
You are probably the least amount of help. It's so annoying to have to sit here for an hour every day and listen to you chart my progress or my decline. It seems like nothing is mine anymore. It never was, but you make it painfully clear.
"You're getting better. I know you're a bit behind, but the goals we set forth are a bit eager, but we like to aim high. Hardly anyone can reach them the first week, but you're not as hard as some of the other girls." You slowly place your hand over your mouth, giving me a playful look. Do you think that I am relieved that you treat me as a friend? That by breaking a slight confidence agreement that I will trust you more? It's the opposite. I don't want to be talked about. I have been, my entire life. Shadows and doubts, kind words and hidden hands, stares and touches. It doesn't matter to me, except the lies. The speculations you have of me are worse than the views of my classmates.
There is a bowl of peanuts placed on your desk. If I wanted to, I could extend my hand and grab a few, but you're infuriating to me. What would you do if I just broke down here? If I were to stand up and scream about the tragedies I've forced upon myself, knock the bowl over and sob that I never wanted to even smell food anymore, that I'd rather kill myself than put the revolting stuff in my mouth, what would you do? I bet you'd just sit there and smile at me with your death smile, hardly even fazed. There'd be a checkbox on your clipboard for the day that I proved myself to be crazy. I can't stand that. I look at the peanuts and then I look at your face, and you're watching me intently.
"Would you like a peanut?" You ask me, and there's something in your eyes that I don't like. You know flashes through my head before I can stop it, but I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. I was not examined for anything when I came here except for the extent of my damages I had put upon myself. But when you give me a nod and continue talking, I realise that you took my shake to mean I did not want one, that I really wasn't getting better in the way you wanted me to.
*
The idea came to me later that night, long after our talk. Even though I tune you out, I can still remember stuff you said to me. I don't know how I do it, how I can be in a stupor and not take any notes and when the teacher sees me and calls me out, thinking to be sly, I can repeat the lesson almost verbatim without even realising I knew it. I've actually made a few enemies in my time because of it. People hate the truth and they hate even more knowing people that have the truth.
What if I never got better? You went over my timeline and told me, ideally, I'd be ready to be out in a couple months, as long as I continued therapy. But who says I have to go? The rooms are soundproof. As long as I don't let any superiors realise what I'm doing, I can live the double life. It wouldn't be the first time.
It's not mental. I know in your book it tells you that I need to get over my mental image. That once I can look past what I want to see I'll realise what I've done and notice everything that can be fixed, instead of thinking of what I want to break. It's not like that for me. I can see myself, I can feel myself. I know my elbows are too sharp, my ankles frail, my collarbone juts out too far. I know that my stomach shouldn't cave in like it does, and I know how many ribs I have because I can count them. I know my hair is dying and that things haven't gotten heavier, I've just gotten weaker.
It doesn't matter to me. It's not about the image I want. And that's what you'll never understand. Look around. Actually, don't even do that, because it would be unnatural. Just focus on you. It'll make my point clearer, anyway. People are selfish. They walk around in the world, looking at things, and wondering how they'll help them. How their life will be affected by events and people. They work on themselves to gain the approval of others. Everyone just wants to be noticed. Of course, there are always the exceptions, the people who are selfless and get their happiness from helping others with their selfishness. But even you, you want to help me to up your credentials. I become a success story, and it's better for you. You're afraid of me failing your plan, not for my problems, but for what it could do to your record. People are only people in their own minds. Otherwise, they're objects, having ideas and theories bounced off them. You'll ask yourself, will people really notice when I start dressing slutty? Will they notice when my eyes look red and blotchy, and I sit with my head down? Will they notice when I stop eating? It can be good things, too--not everyone is a pessimist, there wouldn't be room enough in the world for all the negative thoughts. You can also hope to be recognised as valedictorian, as being MVP of a team, of having a successful career and loving family.
People don't know how to notice messups. You can't raise your hand in greeting to a friend, because they're no longer the person you loved. If you see a stranger, lingering on them would be uncomfortable, and it could be made even weirder if they saw you staring. What would you do then? Quickly avert your gaze and pretend you didn't notice the problems of their lives? People hate having their own problems, but seeing someone that can wear them openly, in public, and walk around as if they were normal, it makes people restless. I noticed it in the beginning, when I'd get small questions that hadn't been there before-- "Abby, do you want to come out to dinner before the movie? There's a new place we all really want to try, it's got delicious burgers" --and the questions from teachers-- "Abigail, your focus on this essay is very scattered. Have you been resting and eating properly? Is everything all right?"--and when I assured everyone I was fine, that they didn't need to watch me, they had to back off. They were awkward enough raising the questions in their tentative voices, to pursue the matter would have been too rough for them to even consider.
Me, I liked the control. It was made for one reason, but it filtered over into other aspects of my life and I'd be lying if I didn't like the way I could command someone, even if they didn't realise that's what I was doing. Being with people almost became like attending my own funeral. They were afraid to upset me, afraid to make my situation worse. It was laughable but also strangely sweet that my friends thought they were my problem. It had nothing to do with them, but nobody, not even my best friend, knew it.
It's tough. I'm not saying my road was a cakewalk. It took insane amounts of determination to not give in. My stomach would rumble and conjure up pictures of the meals my mother worked so hard to perfect. At first, I would go down to please her, but it was too difficult to be there and not eat. To be in the room was always torture, but the nights I gave in were the worst, especially in the aftermath. I started saying I was ill from the stress of senior year, or that I had too much homework and go to the library, not coming home until they were asleep. I'd scoop out some of the cold leftovers and throw them away. The cold food didn't appeal to my stomach, it never had; I wouldn't heat up my own food until I was around 11--seeing it lie there, so lifeless, always turned me off to the food, no matter what kind it was. Eventually, my mother stopped asking about me. It wasn't that she was heartless, it was just that we weren't really that kind of family. She wasn't lonely and I wasn't worried about her. She was always distracted and after a while I realised how ignorant she was to every problem around her. My refusal of the food became simultaneously to push the night away as it was to see how long it would take her to notice a problem.
She never did, anyway. Not to me. Perhaps she had hinted to some of my friends that I didn't eat at home either, when I told them I did. I doubt it though. I know my best friend is the one that finally told on me, because it was after the lunch that she hardly said a word to me, but every time I looked over she quickly would blink and take a bite of her food, that the counselor came to me with a few questions. I hadn't been back at school since that day.
So--my mother never admitted it. I had control over everyone to do what I wanted, except her. I was weak, I was in danger of myself, and so people rushed to help me, to make sure I lived another day in this beautiful world. But not my mother. I knew she wouldn't notice, because she couldn't handle trouble. Once, when I was 9, there had been a mouse in our cabinets under the sink. She had tried for an hour to persuade it out of the hole so she could trap it and throw it away, but to no avail. When I walked in, I saw her on her knees, in her clothes from the day. She heard my footsteps and when I came over to see what she was doing, I was startled to see tears running down her face. She turned to me and held out her hands, a piece of cheese in one of them, and to me it seemed like she was extending a peace offering. I did not yet know this was her way of showing her helplessness.
"Oh, sweety, I just don't know what to do." To hear this statement, to see this reaction to something as trivial as an innocent, probably scared, mouse, it broke me. I took the cheese from her hands and lifted her and and led her to her bedroom, and not once did she protest. I rode my bike to the nearest grocery store and asked for a mouse trap. Instead they gave me the sticky pads and I placed them down there, not realising that it wouldn't make the problem go away completely.
As I passed the sink the next morning on the way to get some cereal, I heard frantic squeaking from under the cabinet. I opened the doors--I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't to see the mouse looking frozen, his tail and a paw twitching frantically, his nose sniffing and the continuous squeaks that doubled in speed once he saw me. I was revolted. I thought of leaving it there for someone else to clean up, but then I thought of my mother's face yesterday. I picked up the sticky pad, staying away from his mouth, and dropped him in a plastic bag that I tied up and put in our big garbage can. To this day, I hear a mouse, or even the sound of a chair on linoleum floor, and I get slightly nauseous.
My mother never even asked. If someone else took care of it, it wasn't her problem. For that, more than anything now, I resented her.
*
I wouldn't get better then, and it wouldn't be hard to follow my new plan. I didn't have the sickness they thought I did, so getting better couldn't happen either in the way they wanted it to. But if I started looking like I was stronger, that was when danger set in. I lowered myself to the floor and started my exercise plan, the one I had started when the absence of food wasn't working fast enough. I did it in silence, hardly daring to breathe. The room was soft, and I was too. Under the blanket of snow, no one could touch me. I hoped winter never ended.
I did it three times that night, and when I went to bed, I know my smile wasn't the death white I associated with you. And that made me smile even bigger.
I look at you, and there is no beauty. You don't understand how everyone must play a part in the world, or it would all end. You're dead, dry, brittle as a leaf in winter, and I feel sorry for you. You pity me but it doesn't affect me. You can't possibly understand. I think of this as you lean forward, conversationally, plastering that smile on your face to make me trust you.
"How are you today, Abigail?" All I see is the fake white, the white of death. I bet you never realised death has any other colour than black, did you? A soft purple, sometimes, or the deep green of the ocean. People are astonishingly stupid about death. That much I've learned during my time.
"I go by Abby." This doesn't please you. What do you want me to do? Start crying, confide in you that this past year has been torture, that it was merely stress that made me do what I did, that being in this office makes me see how ignorant I was, that I misread my place on this big Earth. I can't do that. I've never been a liar.
"Fine. Abby. I know this may seem hard to you, but I want to help you. Everyone here does. We know life can be tough, especially at your age. It's nothing to be ashamed about. But you need to get better, you understand? This will affect you for the rest of your life, but you can overcome it. Here, in this folder..." she droans on. Her smile never leaves, and suddenly I wish it was winter. The white of the snow, that's the white I love. It's a blanket, a shield. You walk down the path and see your footsteps and it hits you--you're the only one alive. It's not true though. If you were to bury under the snow, curl up in a ball with the rabbits and the other creatures, your heart would pause. It would pause, but not stop. The white covers the mistakes, and when it leaves, everything is transformed. Breaking out, blinking, it's as if you've transported yourself; the place you wake up to is not where you were.
Babies can get into all sorts of trouble. It's unwise to fall asleep under the snow.
*
Everything in my room is soft. I can feel the softness through my bones. It's more prominent to me, probably. I try to kid myself in thinking they want to make us comfortable, to make us believe that where we are is a place we can feel safe. But I have to give myself a rueful smile. The real reason is they don't want any more trouble than they have. Their hands are full, and its our fault. Everyone on my floor has messed up, but not in the complete way. I start to wonder if all the staff with their fake smiles and coveted degress realise how pointless it is. When we've fucked up this bad, when we've landed here, we're exhausted; there's nothing else we could do.
There's a knock at my door. I had been sitting on my bed, in the middle of my schedule, and I knew it was time for lunch. I sat up straighter and didn't respond, didn't even look up when the door opened and the soft voice (even the voice was soft, as if words could hurt me phsyically if spoken in too harsh a tone) told me I needed to walk with her. I kept my head bent over the pages for a minute more, perhaps to just affirm her suspicions about me. When I got up to walk with her, I saw something in her eyes. Perhaps it was fear? Did she worry that I was to attack her, to scream and cling to my bed, refusing to do? I don't know what they had seen, but I wasn't going to fall into her idea of me. I was worth more than that. I wasn't worth much, the universe would keep turning when I was gone, but still; I was something.
When we left, as I knew she would, she shut the door with a quiet click. So quiet it was almost inperceivable.
*
There is no hope without colour. Has no one every noticed that? All these walls, all the tables, even the people here are so boring. I can't stand it. The only glimpses of colour I see are in flashes as I walk past a window. The green of a tree, the orange of a flower, the red of a robin's breast. I horde those flashes. They keep me sane, although everyone already believes me to be unbalanced.
I hate it here. I know everyone says that, but it's true. People here don't know me, but they pretend they do. They think they knew what drove me to this option and how to get me out of my hole. They think they can fix me with subtle marking and posters. That therapy really will work wonders. But they're wrong. I really only need two things to get back to normal. I need the colours. And the other...
Normal isn't the right word. I am normal now. I'm not a stereotypical case. But no one can know that. I can't trust anyone. I haven't even tried, because I've watched them enough to know what would happen if I did. Even being selfish, as I've been called, I can't bear to watch it happen to another person.
The meals don't matter much, to me. I eat bits of what they want me to and I fuss like they expect, but here I'm safe. I don't fuss because my brain is screwed up; I fuss because I know that my life here is temporary. Safety is never forever. I can look around so many times before I head out of the grass to drink in the waterhole. What I won't always realise is that the tiger wasn't waiting where I expected him to be. And that will be my downfall.
*
You are probably the least amount of help. It's so annoying to have to sit here for an hour every day and listen to you chart my progress or my decline. It seems like nothing is mine anymore. It never was, but you make it painfully clear.
"You're getting better. I know you're a bit behind, but the goals we set forth are a bit eager, but we like to aim high. Hardly anyone can reach them the first week, but you're not as hard as some of the other girls." You slowly place your hand over your mouth, giving me a playful look. Do you think that I am relieved that you treat me as a friend? That by breaking a slight confidence agreement that I will trust you more? It's the opposite. I don't want to be talked about. I have been, my entire life. Shadows and doubts, kind words and hidden hands, stares and touches. It doesn't matter to me, except the lies. The speculations you have of me are worse than the views of my classmates.
There is a bowl of peanuts placed on your desk. If I wanted to, I could extend my hand and grab a few, but you're infuriating to me. What would you do if I just broke down here? If I were to stand up and scream about the tragedies I've forced upon myself, knock the bowl over and sob that I never wanted to even smell food anymore, that I'd rather kill myself than put the revolting stuff in my mouth, what would you do? I bet you'd just sit there and smile at me with your death smile, hardly even fazed. There'd be a checkbox on your clipboard for the day that I proved myself to be crazy. I can't stand that. I look at the peanuts and then I look at your face, and you're watching me intently.
"Would you like a peanut?" You ask me, and there's something in your eyes that I don't like. You know flashes through my head before I can stop it, but I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. I was not examined for anything when I came here except for the extent of my damages I had put upon myself. But when you give me a nod and continue talking, I realise that you took my shake to mean I did not want one, that I really wasn't getting better in the way you wanted me to.
*
The idea came to me later that night, long after our talk. Even though I tune you out, I can still remember stuff you said to me. I don't know how I do it, how I can be in a stupor and not take any notes and when the teacher sees me and calls me out, thinking to be sly, I can repeat the lesson almost verbatim without even realising I knew it. I've actually made a few enemies in my time because of it. People hate the truth and they hate even more knowing people that have the truth.
What if I never got better? You went over my timeline and told me, ideally, I'd be ready to be out in a couple months, as long as I continued therapy. But who says I have to go? The rooms are soundproof. As long as I don't let any superiors realise what I'm doing, I can live the double life. It wouldn't be the first time.
It's not mental. I know in your book it tells you that I need to get over my mental image. That once I can look past what I want to see I'll realise what I've done and notice everything that can be fixed, instead of thinking of what I want to break. It's not like that for me. I can see myself, I can feel myself. I know my elbows are too sharp, my ankles frail, my collarbone juts out too far. I know that my stomach shouldn't cave in like it does, and I know how many ribs I have because I can count them. I know my hair is dying and that things haven't gotten heavier, I've just gotten weaker.
It doesn't matter to me. It's not about the image I want. And that's what you'll never understand. Look around. Actually, don't even do that, because it would be unnatural. Just focus on you. It'll make my point clearer, anyway. People are selfish. They walk around in the world, looking at things, and wondering how they'll help them. How their life will be affected by events and people. They work on themselves to gain the approval of others. Everyone just wants to be noticed. Of course, there are always the exceptions, the people who are selfless and get their happiness from helping others with their selfishness. But even you, you want to help me to up your credentials. I become a success story, and it's better for you. You're afraid of me failing your plan, not for my problems, but for what it could do to your record. People are only people in their own minds. Otherwise, they're objects, having ideas and theories bounced off them. You'll ask yourself, will people really notice when I start dressing slutty? Will they notice when my eyes look red and blotchy, and I sit with my head down? Will they notice when I stop eating? It can be good things, too--not everyone is a pessimist, there wouldn't be room enough in the world for all the negative thoughts. You can also hope to be recognised as valedictorian, as being MVP of a team, of having a successful career and loving family.
People don't know how to notice messups. You can't raise your hand in greeting to a friend, because they're no longer the person you loved. If you see a stranger, lingering on them would be uncomfortable, and it could be made even weirder if they saw you staring. What would you do then? Quickly avert your gaze and pretend you didn't notice the problems of their lives? People hate having their own problems, but seeing someone that can wear them openly, in public, and walk around as if they were normal, it makes people restless. I noticed it in the beginning, when I'd get small questions that hadn't been there before-- "Abby, do you want to come out to dinner before the movie? There's a new place we all really want to try, it's got delicious burgers" --and the questions from teachers-- "Abigail, your focus on this essay is very scattered. Have you been resting and eating properly? Is everything all right?"--and when I assured everyone I was fine, that they didn't need to watch me, they had to back off. They were awkward enough raising the questions in their tentative voices, to pursue the matter would have been too rough for them to even consider.
Me, I liked the control. It was made for one reason, but it filtered over into other aspects of my life and I'd be lying if I didn't like the way I could command someone, even if they didn't realise that's what I was doing. Being with people almost became like attending my own funeral. They were afraid to upset me, afraid to make my situation worse. It was laughable but also strangely sweet that my friends thought they were my problem. It had nothing to do with them, but nobody, not even my best friend, knew it.
It's tough. I'm not saying my road was a cakewalk. It took insane amounts of determination to not give in. My stomach would rumble and conjure up pictures of the meals my mother worked so hard to perfect. At first, I would go down to please her, but it was too difficult to be there and not eat. To be in the room was always torture, but the nights I gave in were the worst, especially in the aftermath. I started saying I was ill from the stress of senior year, or that I had too much homework and go to the library, not coming home until they were asleep. I'd scoop out some of the cold leftovers and throw them away. The cold food didn't appeal to my stomach, it never had; I wouldn't heat up my own food until I was around 11--seeing it lie there, so lifeless, always turned me off to the food, no matter what kind it was. Eventually, my mother stopped asking about me. It wasn't that she was heartless, it was just that we weren't really that kind of family. She wasn't lonely and I wasn't worried about her. She was always distracted and after a while I realised how ignorant she was to every problem around her. My refusal of the food became simultaneously to push the night away as it was to see how long it would take her to notice a problem.
She never did, anyway. Not to me. Perhaps she had hinted to some of my friends that I didn't eat at home either, when I told them I did. I doubt it though. I know my best friend is the one that finally told on me, because it was after the lunch that she hardly said a word to me, but every time I looked over she quickly would blink and take a bite of her food, that the counselor came to me with a few questions. I hadn't been back at school since that day.
So--my mother never admitted it. I had control over everyone to do what I wanted, except her. I was weak, I was in danger of myself, and so people rushed to help me, to make sure I lived another day in this beautiful world. But not my mother. I knew she wouldn't notice, because she couldn't handle trouble. Once, when I was 9, there had been a mouse in our cabinets under the sink. She had tried for an hour to persuade it out of the hole so she could trap it and throw it away, but to no avail. When I walked in, I saw her on her knees, in her clothes from the day. She heard my footsteps and when I came over to see what she was doing, I was startled to see tears running down her face. She turned to me and held out her hands, a piece of cheese in one of them, and to me it seemed like she was extending a peace offering. I did not yet know this was her way of showing her helplessness.
"Oh, sweety, I just don't know what to do." To hear this statement, to see this reaction to something as trivial as an innocent, probably scared, mouse, it broke me. I took the cheese from her hands and lifted her and and led her to her bedroom, and not once did she protest. I rode my bike to the nearest grocery store and asked for a mouse trap. Instead they gave me the sticky pads and I placed them down there, not realising that it wouldn't make the problem go away completely.
As I passed the sink the next morning on the way to get some cereal, I heard frantic squeaking from under the cabinet. I opened the doors--I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't to see the mouse looking frozen, his tail and a paw twitching frantically, his nose sniffing and the continuous squeaks that doubled in speed once he saw me. I was revolted. I thought of leaving it there for someone else to clean up, but then I thought of my mother's face yesterday. I picked up the sticky pad, staying away from his mouth, and dropped him in a plastic bag that I tied up and put in our big garbage can. To this day, I hear a mouse, or even the sound of a chair on linoleum floor, and I get slightly nauseous.
My mother never even asked. If someone else took care of it, it wasn't her problem. For that, more than anything now, I resented her.
*
I wouldn't get better then, and it wouldn't be hard to follow my new plan. I didn't have the sickness they thought I did, so getting better couldn't happen either in the way they wanted it to. But if I started looking like I was stronger, that was when danger set in. I lowered myself to the floor and started my exercise plan, the one I had started when the absence of food wasn't working fast enough. I did it in silence, hardly daring to breathe. The room was soft, and I was too. Under the blanket of snow, no one could touch me. I hoped winter never ended.
I did it three times that night, and when I went to bed, I know my smile wasn't the death white I associated with you. And that made me smile even bigger.