Une Fleure Fanée

Week 8 Part 1 (Sunday)

Razorblade warning from here to now on

***lilly***

     Nightmares all night. I don't think I screamed, though. Nobody woke me up. I didn't scream. It doesn't change that you're an ugly, fat, disgusting, worthless slut. You're the reason you didn't win, Lilliana. You should just die. Great. It's seven in the morning, and I'm already on the verge of tears.

     I don't want to open my eyes. I just want to stay in this empty darkness. Reality can't crush me there. But I need to open them. The bus must've stopped because I don't feel any motion. I open my eyes and I'm met with Pressley sleeping in a bunk bed.

     They must've moved me. I must've fallen asleep on the bus. GiaNina and Sarah are up, but they don't notice. I carefully reach under my pillow where I placed my pills last night. I silently swallow the two pills.

     I don't wanna be awake anymore, so I turn to face the wall where my bunk bed is and I try to fall back asleep. But once I'm up, I'm up. I try to sleep for ten more minutes before I give up, scrolling on social media.

     "You should just get an eating disorder and die." "Slit your wrists in the tub." Social media is a bitch. I'm not slitting my wrists, but that would be a convenient way to die. I'll keep it in mind. And I already had an eating disorder, and now I have a different eating disorder.

     A silent tear slides down my face, but I quickly wipe it up. Crybaby, Lilliana. You're such a crybaby. A wave of self-hatred and depression courses through. It's actually kinda funny, and I chuckle to myself quietly.

     The urges send a bunch of emotions my way, none of them positive emotions. When I got really sick, I learned to ignore them, and eventually, they turned into thoughts. Then, I got triggered so much that they decided to turn back into urges. It's hard to explain. It sounds like me, but it's not me. But maybe it's me.

     It doesn't make sense, but I can see so clearly that this will help. The urges, despite shaming me, are going to help me. I have a 250 calorie limit today. I decide to finally get up and get dressed. Today's the one day I don't wear dance clothes.

     A simple brown batwing sweatshirt and a brown and beige plaid skirt that goes down to my mid-calves. The skirt is a little tight, and it gives me a lot of dysmorphia. Why didn't I pack sweatpants? You look so fat, Lilliana. It's disgusting to think you look even mildly presentable. Look at your stomach and your legs and your ribs. You can't even see your spine. My stomach looks so big, my thighs barely have a gap, I can't see my ribs through my sweatshirt, and I can only see my spine a little. It's awful.

     I brush my teeth, put on a bit of face cream, brush my hair and slip on some black sneakers. I get out of the bathroom and return back to my bedroom. I see Elliana walk by me, scanning me up and down, smiling. She thinks you're so fat, Lilliana. Your skirt is too tight.

     I tug my skirt up to cover my stomach as I snap my hair tie on my wrist, wanting the sadness to go away. It doesn't work. It's not working anymore. I need to find a new coping mechanism.

***elliana***

     As I change into my Rolling Stones leopard tee and palazzo trousers, I can't help to reflect on how Lilly looks. Her stomach's flat, which isn't concerning, but I can see her spine a lot through her sweatshirt. Her arms and legs are a little skinnier than usual, enough that her tight skirt is hanging a little loose. It looks like she should be down a size in clothes. Her clothes are already small enough.

    The average person would say she's just skinny, and that's she lucky. We all know something else is wrong. Hannah said she weighs like, ten pounds less. She can't sleep peacefully at night. She asked me if she looked ugly. She eats so little. It's all red flags just going off in my head that point to an eating disorder.