Inside Madeleine

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I DON’T WANT TO JUMP OUT ANY WINDOW. I just want to breathe something that makes me feel like living. They pump the air in here out of machines. It stinks like Play-Doh. Open a window, please — I won’t jump — I’m not a suicide patient. I just don’t eat.

My neighbors don’t eat either. Eye socket girls. Nurses drag them with their IVs to the scale. Some girls get weighed once a day, others, two or three times. Liquids pump into our bodies through plastic tubing, adding pounds to our emaciated frames. We don’t like the pounds. We look voraciously at one another. We envy the protruding bones of someone who is that much closer to not being here at all.

You may think that I don’t know I’m emaciated. I know every curve and angle of my rib cage. I know my breasts have disappeared completely and my nipples lay flat against my chest. I am aware that the new girl has hair growing out of her face. This girl’s body sprouts hair like moss on a tree stump, everywhere, to keep itself warm, to protect itself. I know about these things. I’m aware of the effects of my disease.

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