Tin Can

After-- Day Two

“Gooooood morning everyone!” said a deep raspy voice over the intercom.

Definitely not Ms. Cathy.

I tucked my braid into the collar of my jumpsuit and tried to make my bed a little, but it was like the blue felt-like material of my blanket just didn't want to work with me.

Walking out into the corridor, I saw I was the only one who looked at least slightly awake. I could see little Ruby rubbing her eyes and holding a sweet looking tech’s hand.

Breakfast wasn't what I expected. I thought every day the meals would be the same, as though this place was a prison.

Maybe it was.

I pushed that thought out of my mind and examined my meal.

Fruit Loops. And milk. And an apple.

I heard someone pop into the seat next to me.

“I like apples,” said the someone.

I looked up. It was Dylan. His hair was still stuck up in a mohawk, which seemed odd to me because we weren't allowed to have hair products or makeup. His eyes sparkled as he stared at me observing.

“I like apples,” he repeated.

“So I heard,” I said back under my breath.

“Can I have yours? You look like you need company anyway.” Dylan said.

I shrugged and pointed at the seat next to me. Then I rolled my apple his way.

“What are you in for?” he asked, taking a huge bite of the fruit.

I shook my head.

“That bad, huh? Well you'll get used to talking about it. You'll have to. Psychiatrists,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I'm here for my OCD. Can’t think about anything but perfecting things,” said Dylan almost lazily, as though he brought up his mental illness on a daily basis. “I've been here for six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” I asked, shocked.

“Yeah, they keep you here for a while so they know you're doing all right.”

That made sense to me. They had to make sure that we could handle ourselves in the world when we left this place.

“Well, I'll see you around, Ollie,” he said, flashing me a smile. He went back to sit with Ellie at the other table.

“Olive, would you bring your tray please?” asked a dark skinned woman with beautiful eyes and long dark hair.

I stood up and showed her my tray. She shook her head and clicked her tongue.

“You can put it back on the cart now, love,” she said.

I slid my tray on the cart and sat back down at my seat, waiting, and thinking.

My ribs hurt which only made all of this more real. If you don't feel pain, you aren't alive, and being alive is sometimes painful enough.

Ever since I was little, my father told me I needed to lose weight. That I was fat. So naturally, a little while after I turned ten, I learned about how to lose weight. I learned how to count calories and how to eat as few calories and fat as possible.

When I was twelve, I was down to ninety pounds, and Dad still bullied me over my weight. Perhaps I should keep going. Eighty-five pounds; not enough. Eighty pounds; not enough. How about seventy pounds? Still, Dad would pester me.