Une Fleure Fanée

Week 8 Part 4 (Wednesday)

     I must've fallen asleep because I see black all around me. Did I die? I start to panic, but then I open my eyes and see my Pittsburgh bedroom. You're such an idiot, Lilliana. Even a baby would've known their eyes were closed. Depression and sadness wave over me. My wrists tingle in want to cut.

     I take a breath, hoping that will clear the bad feelings, but it doesn't. The tingle is annoying and stressful and on the brink of pain. I look at the time on my phone. Four in the morning. I flop back down on the pillow, wincing in discomfort due to the tingle. I try to go back to bed, but I can't.

     Finally, I hear my Mom's light footsteps make her way to the kitchen for her coffee and my alarm goes off. At least we're not waking up early to go to Starbucks. That'd be awful to fake eat. Even though I just want to stay under the covers and not face the day ahead, I sluggishly haul my way out of bed.

     I grab the clothes that Mom put on my desk. The same ones that I wore yesterday. My leggings are loose, almost enough to go down a clothing size. But A. I still weigh too much to go down a clothing size and B. How am I going to get new clothes as a ten-year-old not really knowing any place more than the block and with no money? At least my Mom takes my measurements every week to make sure the costumes fit okay.

     I put my hair back in a low ponytail, apply some face cream and some base makeup to make me not look dead, and brush my teeth, making sure not to swallow my calorie-filled spit. I only have 200 calories, which is a lot considering I didn't eat yesterday. My scars are covered with concealer and foundation. I take my Cymbalta and Fluoxetine and then make my way back to my bedroom to grab my dance bag and phone.

     I peel back the phone case and I see my razor. I slap it back on and make my way to the kitchen. I look at the time. 6:00. I have to leave in fifteen minutes. Great. That's enough time for some breakfast. Still feeling a bit nauseous, I pick some plain, unbuttered wheat toast, which is 70 calories. For once, I'm glad Mom gets the wheat stuff because the white bread is definitely a fear food.

     The toast is bland, but it calms my stomach. You don't deserve that wheat toast, Lilliana. You haven't burned any calories yet. Isn't walking to your bedroom to your bathroom to your kitchen burning calories?

     "What's the carpool situation?" I ask, nibbling on part of the crust.

     "We're driving Hannah and Kamryn. She is in apartment 305 by the way in case you two wanted to hang out, and we're meeting up in five minutes so get your shoes on," Mom informs me and I put the now empty plate in the sink.

     It feels so weird to have something inside my stomach. But it's only 70 calories. It's a safe food, like eggs. Man, bland breakfast food for the win, am I right? But bland means fewer calories. Fewer calories means more control over how I look.

     I grab my shoes and my materials and head out the door. Hannah is already there, but Kamryn isn't. She arrives eventually and we make our way to the car. Normally when two other people are carpooling, I'm squashed in the middle because I'm the shortest. This time, I'm in a window seat because Kamryn is the shortest. You're still too short, Lilliana. You'll never be a successful dancer.

     I try to interact with the two other girls, but I find myself staring out the window. I don't want the other girls to get suspicious. I have a feeling that Elliana may be suspicious that I'm bulimic, but I'm not. I'm anorexic, but I don't really care what anybody calls it because it won't change anything. I don't want it to go. Not eating and losing weight will make your life better, Lilliana.

     "What's it like working with Ms. Abby?" Kamryn asks us and Hannah and I look at each other.

     We want to say, "She can make you seem like a perfect ballerina one minute, and then treat you like a piece of garbage ready to be incinerated." But we don't want to scare her. She seems way too excited.