His name was Brian and he had white and pink zebra arms, alternating bands of ivory and fuchsia.
The day room where we sat when not eating or in sessions was devided. Girls sat on one side, boys on the other.
There were lots of "awwwww''s when I told the other girls I didn't like him. They wanted to know why. In terms of Hospital Hotties, I was told he was grade A hot. Hotter than the sweat that ran down our obese daytime counselor's pink cheekjaws.
Laughing, one girl with an infected nose-ring would exclaim "She's a lesbian!" and there would be a silence.
Angel was the greatest roommate I could have hoped to have. My first roommate was a redhead with a massive spare tire that hung over her tiny legs. She was the hungriest girl I'd ever met. I scooped my macraroni and potatoes on her plate at mealtimes.
Angel was much better.
During my stay, the gates opened for her to leave several times. She came back each one, overdosed. Her shade of pale when she came back was different than the milky one I get on my light skin. Her dark complexion took on a sickly color that looked like coffee with too much cream.
In our room, we dreamt up that there was a world above us where everything was perfect and made of green jello. We made sheep noises at staff and hung upside down on our beds. We were glorious.
There was another girl who sat next to me from the day she was admitted. She asked me to draw her dozens of times. Every time, I did. Her face light up everytime I handed her a paper with her face. She'd hug it to her chest, and throw it away. She couldn't stand to keep herself, she told me. The next day, she'd ask for me to draw her again. I did.
Kimberwick was tall and skinny with blue eyes that had a ring of yellow in them. Her eyes, she told me, were the only thing she liked. She came in the night I was deamed batshit enough to have to sleep in the clear walled day room. My mattress sat in middle of the floor, a lonely island. I gripped my knees to my chest as I watched her being admitted at two am. I fluttered, waited.
Her mattress was put next to mine, two islands in a white tile sea.
We did everything together after she came in. We ate meals together. I showed her how to fool the staff. She showed me how to hide food in our underwear at meals.
At night we stayed up and made lists of food that was safe. We drew little girls with ribcages and hipbones and paper legs.
We obsessed to the night staff about asymmetrical things in the day room.
On burger day, we hid our patties behind the hard blue sofa. Three days later, when we were no longer allowed in the cafeteria and ate in the dayroom, we flung the hockey puck dry patties at each other and laughed.
When we had to each write ten things we liked about our selves, she cried. I did too. I offered her a Lite N' Fit yogurt that I had been saving. She sniffed, and said "You're offering me comfort food???", a dribble of snot on her upper lip. We laughed.
I looked for Kim's number today. I can't find it. I miss her.
I'm afraid to call Angel. I'm afraid she'll be dead.
I've spent my day opening up old wounds. Finding my old friends seems appropriate.
We're moving very soon. I reach, grasp for roots, but I'm still being dragged down into the dirt.
movingmovingmoving.
Mom says I can have a horse and that I will finally be happy because I've just been homesick for too long.
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