Unfit

Chapter 1: Armani

The sun was the first thing that shocked me. I had forgotten how bright it was, how I had to shield my eyes when I was in its presence. Dandelions never looked so bright and inviting. Even the wilted tulips looked like they came straight from the Garden of Eden.

It's crazy what being isolated will do to you. For the past six months, I had only seen the world through a window. I'd seen the world, caught glimpses of the berry fields baking in the summer; I saw the birds, the rain splashing against the glass. But I forgot how the world felt, the sunshine on your arm, the tickling blades of grass under your feet. Maybe that was the whole point of rehabilitation. The support groups and therapy sessions were just icing on the cake, but the real thing was deprivation. You feel so sick of the place that you'll do anything to never come back. Even things that used to annoy me, like the screech of tires or the honking of horns, didn't seem as bad. Those sounds were a sign of life, proof that a world still existed beyond the walls of St. Joan's Psych Ward.

The air was sweet. I had only six precious days before summer ended. I was admitted just before Spring break; back then, snow was still thawing. That explains why I was walking out of St. Joan in my winter boots in late August. Mom had forgotten to bring me a fresh set of clothing, so I had the clothes I had worn on my first day here. The material of my brown wool sweater hung loose against my frame and the leggings sagged at the waist, further proof that I had indeed dropped a few pounds. Before Joan's, I was quite round and I still was after my release, but just not as much. My double chin was less noticeable, my thighs still stuck together, but the fat around my legs didn't jiggle as much when I walked. That's what happened when you're thrown into a ward that serves you over cooked peas, overcooked chicken breast and nasty smelling pumpkin pie on the regular. I had choked down a few plates during the first weeks, but I gave up after I realized that the food would not get better. I had developed the perfect technique of hiding my food in the pockets of my nightgown and then dumping it in the trash on the way out.

I fought the urge to turn around and stick the middle finger at the Centre. Fuck to all the flavorless pumpkin pie, rancid peas, and the sound of May Richards screaming her head off every night. Fuck. You. All.

"Armani!" my mother's voice pulled me out of my bliss. I turned my head to see her waving at me from the car. She stood at the driver's door, her hair freshly cut. I saw that she had gone even further this time. Instead of a perfectly round afro, she had cut it all the way down until she had an inch of hair left on her scalp.

I stepped down from the steps, kicking over a rock on the path leading to the parking lot. Anxiety suddenly made me jittery, and I stuffed my hand in the pockets of my sweater. The summer heat had created a puddle of sweat in my bra and my underarms itched. Or maybe it was just my nerves. The last time I saw my mother, it was when she found me in my room passed out, my wrists bleeding and oozing with blood. I faintly remember her screams, the way she struggled to get her bloody fingers to dial 911 on her cell phone. That was the last time I saw her. She was in my room, on her hands and knees, face in her palms, just wailing as the paramedics whirled me out of the room on a cot.

How to do I go up to her now? Do I say hi? Do I apologize?

My mother beat me to it. The moment I stepped foot in the parking lot, she ran up to me. Her arms were wide open as she came closer. Her arms wrapped around me, her nose settling in frizzy, braided hair. My throat swelled with emotion as I hugged her back. I wanted to say something so bad but my mouth wouldn't open. I knew that if I tried to talk, a string of blubbering nonsense accompanied by a stream of tears would follow. She wouldn't be able to hear a word of what I was saying.

The passenger door slammed shut, and I opened my eyes. Looking over my mother's shoulder I saw my little sister Harriet standing next to the passenger door. My mother let me go, securing her arm around my shoulder as we walked towards the car.

"Hey!" Harriet exclaimed as we walked to her. Her arms extended, and I entered the second hug of the day. My sister's hug was quicker, filled with high-pitch compliments and comments like, "Oh my God, you're so skinny."

I blushed at the compliment and playfully pushed her away. "Shut up."

"You got taller." I said, I look her up and down. In six months, she grew like half a foot.

She put her hands on her hips, flashing me her belly piercing, peaking from her black crop top, and rolled her eyes with a smile tugging on her lips. "Thanks."

She opened the passenger seat door, mentioning for me to sit down. "In honor of your first day back I will let you ride shotgun."

I give her a grin and hop in the front. I get in, finding that my mother had already gotten in the car as we were greeting each other. She rummages through something in the driver's console and then pulls out a Kit Kat before handing it to me.

My mouth instantly watered whilst looking at the candy bar. Oh my God, chocolate! Fuck! I forgot how much my mouth watered just by looking at the wrapper. I took the Kit Kat in my hands as if it were gold. I decided to not eat it right away; I would savor it for when I got home, after I took a long hot shower.

"Welcome home baby." My mother said, kicking the car into reverse and backing out of the lot.

"Where's dad?" I asked. It was a question I had been asking myself ever since I had gotten committed to the psych ward. My Dad hadn't made a peep, no phone calls, no letter, no visits.... dead silence. After the first few weeks it hurt, but as time went on the pain turned to into the dull feeling of being an inconvenience to people's lives.

"Dad wanted to be here, but he got stuck at the rig." Harriet said. She placed a hand on my shoulder. "Flight costs you know?"

The temperature in the car seemed to drop at the mention of my dad. My mother turned on the ignition, the sound breaking the silence that had settled in the car. She flashed a look at Harriet, a stern one, as if she had said enough. Even though I was the one who brought up Dad.

"It's okay." I told them.

On the ride home, my eyes took in the beauty of the outside world. The leaves had started changing. They littered the sidewalks, the streets, and the long trails that spiraled around the lake that ran through our town. The late afternoon sun peeked through the trees as we rolled by; my eyes squinted as the sun stabbed at my eyes. I longed for this; I longed to feel the sun, the chilly autumn air, and I longed to feel alive.

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