All My Old Writing.

Chapter Two

Chapter  Two

"Leia? Sweetie?" Mom called from the hallway.

"Yeah." I said, walking out of the bathroom and opening my door.

My mom stared at me worryingly. She always looked at me like that. Ever since I started getting skinny, she had her doubts.

Tell  her. Tell her.

My mind dais one thing but my mouth said another story.

"I'm fine, mom. Really." I said, grabbing my backpack and walked past mom.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

I stopped. This was my chance. I could reveal everything with a simple ‘no’. Be rushed to a therapist who actually has no intention of helping me and is only in it for the money. Or I could hide again. I could continue throwing up, reminding myself that every minute, every second that passed was like a hourglass.

“I told you. I’m fine.”

I blew it.

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The bus ride was the worst part of my day. No one told me anything, or at least not to my face. It was like they were scared, scared that I was contagious. I don’t blame them. I would’ve been the same way. They stared, though. All 20 people who got on the bus stared. Every day, they would look for me in the very back, slumped in the one person seat, then whisper to their friends.

The bus was always quiet. The and of quiet where you don’t want to whisper to your friends because you know everyone will hear. The silent quiet. There was no screaming or spitballs or inflatable moneys. Just silence. No one talked to me. That was the good part.  They would all push to be the first one off the bus, because no one, and I mean no one wanted to be last and have to be behind me. You’d think that it would bother me. At first it did, but I’m used to it. Just like I’m used to the stares and the teachers worried looks. I just ignore them.

My teachers like to nag me, tell me I’m too skinny, need to pack on the pounds. They make it sound lie they’re joking, but I can see through their eyes. Through the emotions they try to distribute with their eyes, like contacts that are changed every day. But I still see the short  stares they give me, frowning faces drilling into my back.

Lunch is easy. I go to the girls bathroom, and usually I force myself to throw up two times. That’s my minimum. I have  to force myself to limit my regurgitations. It hurts now. I can feel the acid crawling up my throat and afterwards I’m still spitting out saliva trying to get the horrible taste our of my mouth.

The only really problem at school is Mrs. Killvinger. Her name is a dead giveaway. Literally. She’s the school therapist. And a real problem. She’s too persistent and I’m scared that one day she’ll hit too close to home. I know she wants me to tell her exactly what’s wrong with me. But that won’t happen. Not in my life time, which by the way it’s going won’t be too long until it’s over.