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Piggy, pig, pig.
I pinch harder, shutting my eyes, and trying to silence the incessant noises. I pinch so hard it takes my breath away and drills the pins and needles deeper. I start to cry from the pain, but I know she's still there, waiting for the perfect moment to fuck me up some more and strike. Tears stream in tiny rivulets down my pale cheeks, and I'm not sure how long I stand there, pinching myself, trying to see the real me.
I don't know exactly how long I'm there, but I know it's until I don't have any tears left, and it feels like I have cried myself into dehydration.
I'm back in my bedroom on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, when a female guard lets herself inside my room. She didn't even knock, but I'm still in my bra and underwear. I find that I don't care, though. Maybe I should. It's an invasion of the little privacy I have, but I don't. My mother probably killed off what's left of my feelings this morning.
"Headmistress asked that we escort you to dinner," she tells me, her gaze lingering on the dark bruises on my sides, black and blue from my fingers. "Get dressed."
Oh great.
I guess my father isn't happy with my lack of progress. He could just pull me out of here and send me somewhere new, but apparently, he's going to make me work for it this time.
I stand, walk over to my closet, and get dressed, half-ass tucking in my white button-down shirt and not bothering to brush my hair.
The guard waits for me before she escorts me down the hall to join other female students in line, and I guess my father paid good money for this place, but not quite well enough, not enough to earn me another personal escort at least.
I assess the situation. I recognize the other girls. I've caught at least one of them purging five minutes after dinner like a fucking moron who wants to get caught. I've seen another flat-out refuse to eat and be sent to the hole.
They're making all the anorexics and bulimics eat together now.
Lucky me.
We exit the girl's dormitory, take the stairs to the first floor, and walk to the dining hall. I don't mind being put into this new fucked-up club, though. When I get to the cafeteria and she steers us to all sit at one long table, I catch eyes with the pyromaniac. He looks up from his table, his confusion switching quickly to annoyed and then escalating to pissed off. It feels like a win in this game we've been playing. He tries to save me, tocontrolme, and I try to let the rest of me wither and die like the grass beneath the snow outside.
I tell myself I don't want to be saved.
Not by him. Not by anyone.
He may be king of the castle but even the king reports to God. I guess Headmistress is who we all kneel before here.
We sit at a long white table, all of the students with eating disorders. We stare at each other, the table, the guards, at anything before food is delivered. A tray is dropped on the table in front of me, and I assess it.
Mashed potatoes, peas, a chicken-looking thing that looks like they triple fried it in peanut oil, and a chocolate shake that I know just from looking at it tastes like it's been mixed with sand. The other girls and guys at the table poke at their food, and I haven't even touched mine yet because I am listing off the calorie counts in my head.
One hundred calories for the hefty helping of peas.
Two hundred fifty for the mashed potatoes with butter.
Five hundred at least for the extra crispy fried chicken.
And I bet the shake's another three hundred at a minimum since it appears to be one of those nutrient-dense, not-really-chocolate-flavored ones that is capable of making you hate your life even more.
I stab a singular pea with my fork and force it into my mouth.
I eat one after another and then another until I've eaten them all.
The guy across the table from me takes some of his food, coughs, definitely spits it into his hand, the amateur, and drops it below the table. Three seconds later, he's brought to standing by a guard who hisses, "Think you can fool me, you little prick?"
The guard shoves the guy away from him and at another guard, who already has the wrist restraints ready.
"Take him to the hole," the first guard says, and the guy starts to cry, thick tears running down his hollow face. Across the dining hall, the king of the asylum stares at me, his hair the color of coffee beans and eyes as black as night and starts to laugh.
9
GABE
I'm on my way to the cafeteria, playing with my lighter in my pocket. I roll the wheel and hit the button in one fluid motion, keeping the nozzle for the flame pressed against the underside of my finger. It's barely audible, but I hear the click, over and over again, as the flame starts, only to be immediately suffocated by my flesh. I've done this thousands of times, yet it still starts to hurt as the metal heats and burns the bottom of my finger.
