Marked Secrets

1

Warning: This story contains subject matter from beginning to end that may be too intense for some readers. This includes speaking on topics such as: Depression, Anxiety, Eating disorders, and Suicide. Please proceed with caution, and know that you are never alone in this fight. My inbox is always open to anyone who needs to talk, at any point ever.

In addition, there will be strong language, deep intimacy (nothing graphic), and some violence.

#endthestigma

Amelia

The light above my bed came alive with a loud buzz. Its brightness nearly blinding me, as I was laying in corpse position on my uncomfortable mattress. I was awake for some minutes, thinking that if I remained still enough the light would not turn on. Sleepiness tugged at my eyelids, not wanting to leave my bed. It was unfair not being able to live as I pleased.

I turned on my side, eyeing the calendar that was taped to the wall near my bed. Retrieving the red marker I had stashed under my sheets, I crossed out yet another day. Twelve more days, I told myself. Twelve more days, but it was never really over.

"Up, ladies! Up!" A female guard called from outside my cell. Yes, my cell. I had not committed a crime in my view, but I was locked in a cell.

"God dammit," I grumbled, throwing my tissue-paper-like blanket back and standing up from the bed. My toes recoiled when they came in contact with the ice cold floor.

I started making my way towards the bathroom, which was the one place I really had where I could shut the door and be alone to think. Sometimes being alone and thinking was not a good combination for me, as that's when I felt the most dejected.

Shutting the door behind myself, I stared at my haggard appearance in the smudged up mirror. My pecan brown hair fell in uneven waves, and there were even some straight pieces. My cheekbones stuck out prominently, showing off the rosiness of my skin tone while my lips were slightly chapped and flaky in the middle. My cupids bow dipped downward in a strong loop, my thin eyelashes fluttering at my own almost unrecognizable reflection.

While here, I was somebody else. I was not Amelia Bridges. I was the shell of who I was before, a jar where all of the cookies had been taken out of it. All that's left were the crumbs, the very little parts of me that I still held on to despite having nearly everything stripped away.

Shaking my head, I turned on the faucet and bent down to wash my face. The cool sensation dripping down my cheeks woke me up a bit, and I blinked my emerald eyes briskly. Just as I grabbed my toothbrush from its plain beige cup, I heard a clinking noise outside the bathroom door and soon saw the handle moving slightly.

"Ms. Bridges? Are you alright in there?" Dr. Patterson asked, sounding concerned.

She was a wonderful actress when she wanted to be. I growled under my breath, but quickly changed my attitude. "I'm fine, Dr. Patterson! Just brushing my teeth!" I could not risk being held prisoner any longer than I had to.

Not a moment of privacy around here.

"Okay, well, we need to draw blood. Then you can go have breakfast with the other girls," she replied, and I was grateful for the door being shut so she could not see my eyes roll to the back of my head.

I hated those girls. None of them were like me. They all just accepted being here, some were on their sixth or seventh time. I was only on my second, which made me seem like some sort of saint compared to them.