Page 37 of Bitter Truths

In the morning, she hugs me goodbye on the porch. Her eyes are red, but she’s trying to hide it and keeps her voice upbeat.

“Call me,” she says. “Every day. Even if you don’t feel like talking.”

“I will.”

“And go to therapy. Please. For me.”

“I will.”

“And please eat. You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

“I will.”

All lies, but they’re the lies she needs to hear.

I watch her drive away until the dust settles and the rental car disappears around the bend. Then I walk back into the cottage and close the door behind me.

Silence. Complete and total silence.

For the first time in a long time, I’m alone. No doctors, no nurses, no Mom hovering.

Just me and the emptiness I’ve been carrying since that day on the ridge.

I walk through the cottage like a ghost, touching surfaces, testing the reality of this place. My bedroom has a window overlooking the mountains in the distance. The rest of the cottage is what Mom has tried to make cozy and homey for me.

The idea of finding comfort in anything is laughable… not that I feel capable of laughter.

I crawl into bed and burrow underneath the blankets.

It’s supposed to be a fresh start.

But you can’t outrun what’s inside you.

7

BIANCA

Wake up.

Pills. Toast I don’t eat. Walk to Dr. Hartwell’s office. Sit. Nod. Walk home. Text Mom.

Sleep. Repeat.

Two weeks of the same shit, and I’m getting good at pretending I’m not a walking corpse.

“How are you feeling today, Bianca?”

Dr. Hartwell sits across from me in her flowery office that smells like a grandma. Her pen’s ready like she’s going to write down something important.

“Fine.”

She does that head tilt thing. “Just fine?”

I shrug. Don’t have anything else to say.

“You seem different today. More...” She searches for a word. “Present.”

Present. Right. Because staring at her ceiling instead of her wall means I’m making progress.