Une Fleure Fanée

Week 8 Part 5 (Thursday)

     When I wake up, my hands are tied to the rails with zip ties. I tug, but I'm too weak to try to escape anyway. The feeding tube is back in. Great. I start to cry again, succumbing to my fate here.

     "Lilly?" I hear someone whisper at the foot of my bed.

~~~~~

     I wake up sweating, my eyes damp with tears, the skin surrounding it itchy. I can move my wrists. I'm in my bed. It's just a nightmare. I look at the clock. Four in the morning. No use going to sleep. Might as well wake up early. You're such a baby for having these night terrors, Lilliana. Grow the hell up!

     100 calorie limit today. I stand up from my bed, and I get tunnel vision. I grip onto my headboard and my vision comes back. I stumble to the dresser and choose a black sports bra and legging combo over a dance long-sleeved purple t-shirt.

     I do my skincare and spend the rest of the hour covering my cuts. All twenty-two of them. I almost start crying just looking at them. The cuts are so ugly, Lilliana. You look like your dogs had a field day on your wrists. The urges tell me to cut, but then they shame me for it. What do they want?

     I put my hair in a high ponytail, add a little blush to make me look less dead and pale, a little lip gloss to hide my chapped lips. They sting, but it's tolerable. By now it's 5:30, so about half an hour before I have to take my medicine. My anxiety is sky-high.

     My leg is shaking in nervousness about me and Pressley's duet. What if Pressley doesn't want to be my friend after this? What if I put too much emotion into this and I have a mental breakdown? You don't deserve friends, Lilliana. Why should you care? Pressley isn't gonna be your friend anyway after this. She probably was never your friend, and she's just a faker. Who would be friends with you in the first place?

     I want to cry, get back in bed, and not go to dance, my brain overfilling with bad thoughts. Ill thoughts. But alas, Ms. Abby will kill me if I miss a day of dance if I'm not physically sick. And I'm not sick in the body, I'm sicker in the head. It doesn't count.

     I stumble slowly to the kitchen, trying to drag out the time in between as long as possible, praying for an Ensure day. Luckily, I forgot my phone and my dance stuff in my room, so it was a double trip. I also take my medicine, which just adds time.

     "Lilly! Stop dilly-dallying! Grab an Ensure and go find Pressley! We're carpooling with her in her car," Mom shouts as I search for my phone.

     I find it under my bed, and by the look of the time, it's an Ensure day. Banana nut. Yuck. Good thing I won't be drinking it. I put on my shoes, snatch the Ensure from the fridge, and I head out the door. I go down the stairs while Mom uses the elevator. I'm faster, of course.

     I "chug" my Ensure long enough so Mom can see that I'm "drinking" it. Of course, it goes in the trash with all the other liquids. I find Pressley's car and she's already in it. She unlocks the car door and I slip in. She gives me a look and pats the seat next to her. I buckle my seatbelt next to her.

     "You look sick. Do you feel nauseous or anything?" she whispers in my ear and she examines my face once again.

     I hesitantly nod. Truth is, I'm not feeling very well. My vision keeps coming in and out, and my head feels like it's being squished, it's being pressurized. She wraps her arm around her, pulling me in.

     "I gotta get a photo for Instagram. Lilly, Pressley, smile!" Mom tells me, and we smile big, bringing color to my face.

     My smile goes flat once she puts her phone away and my face goes pale again. She pushes my face against her side and I slowly close my eyes, falling asleep on the half-hour car ride.