“Mrs. Morrison, this type of situation is extremely serious. We have to take precautions to ensure it never happens again.”

“Happen again? No, he won’t do it again. We talked about it. He’s better.”

Mom turns to me, offering a slight smile before turning back to Dr. Garza. “I’ll take care of him. He’s my son.”

“Okay. I’ve prescribed some medication that Thomas needs to take every day. I’ll see you two next week, right?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mom shakes Dr. Garza’s hand before grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the building. “I honestly don’t understand, Tommy,” she says as we walk to the car.

I don’t say anything back. I don’t understand either. I don’t understand anything.

“Will you be okay to stay home alone? Do I need to stay with you? I have to go to work, you know that,” she tells me. “I shouldn’t have to look after you like a child.”

I want to tell her that it’s her job to look after me—that I’m still a child, her child—but instead, I just say, “I’m sorry.”

As we drive home, the familiar surroundings make me nauseous. “You’ve been taking care of Tabby, right, Mom?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve been taking care of Tabby. She’s getting fatter; I think she needs a diet.”

“She doesn’t need a diet. You must be feeding her too much.”

“I don’t feed her too much. She must be getting into the cat food while I’m at work.”

I don’t bother arguing because I know I’ll always lose.

When we pull into the driveway, the neighbors are outside their house with pans of food, flowers, and gifts. You’d think someone had died. As soon as I step out of the car, they all rush toward me.

“Thomas! I made you some lasagna.”

“Elizabeth, I’m so sorry.”

“Do you need anything?”

“I’d be glad to babysit while you work.”

“Did you really try to kill yourself, Thomas?”

The last comment catches me off guard, but before I can respond, my mom speaks for me.

“No, of course not! He was just ill. He’s much better now.” She flashes her model smile, or as I call it, her fake smile.

“Thank you, guys,” I say, pushing past the crowd and into the house without grabbing any of the gifts or waiting for Mom. Once I’m inside, I shut the door and close the curtains. “Tabitha? Tabby?” I call out. Immediately, she comes running toward me.

“I missed you so much. I’ll never leave you again.” I pick her up and kiss her orange fur. Then, I walk upstairs and into my room. It’s exactly as I left it. Nothing has changed.

I set Tabitha on my bed and sit on the floor. The sweater I was wearing on the day I left is still there by the bed. I can’t stand looking at everything; there’s no way I can stay here, surrounded by these reminders. I get up and start gathering all the clothes off the floor, along with my sheets and covers.

“What are you doing, Tommy?” Mom asks, stepping into the room.

“I’m cleaning,” I reply.

“What are you cleaning?”

“Everything. This place is rotting with awful memories.”

“You don’t really think that. You grew up here,” she says as she helps me pick up some clothes.

“I’m getting rid of everything. I’ll probably move my room to the basement. You can change this room into a guest room or something. I can’t stay—” I’m rambling when she cuts me off.

“Tommy, look at me,” she says, stopping me in my tracks and gently lifting my chin. “Calm down. You need to relax. I’ll help you change your room when I get back.”

I take a deep breath and nod. “Okay.”

“Mr. Campbell offered to watch you while I’m gone. Just open the door when he knocks.”

“What? I don’t need to be ‘watched.’ I’m fifteen. I can stay home alone for five hours,” I scoff.

“Actually, I’ll be gone for a day or two. I got a call—my agent booked me a photoshoot for a major brand, but it’s far away, so I’ll be staying in a hotel.”

My heart sinks when I hear that. Even though I don’t want to admit it, I know I can’t last a day on my own. “Oh... okay. I guess it’ll be fine if Mr. Campbell comes over.”

“Okay, Tommy. I love you lots, and I’ll see you soon.” She kisses my head, and before I can say goodbye, she’s out the door.

I sigh and toss my laundry into the washer. Then I go back to my room and change out of the too-small clothes they gave me at the hospital. I put on gray sweats and the sweater I got for Christmas when I was eight. It was too big back then, and it’s still too big now. Just as I finish changing, there’s a knock at the door.

“Coming!” I shout, hopping down the stairs. When I open the door, Mr. Campbell is standing there with his son, Elias. We’ve been in the same grade since kindergarten, but we don’t talk. He’s kind of... strange, which is saying something, coming from me.

“Hey, Thomas. Hope you don’t mind, but I brought Elias along. He needs to socialize with actual people.” Mr. Campbell says as he walks in and makes himself at home, laying down on the couch.

“Hi, Thomas. I’m really glad you’re back,” Elias says with an awkward smile, holding out his hand. I shake it, feeling even more awkward.

I hope nobody at school knows what happened. Kids are brutal, and I don’t have time to be made fun of. “Uh, are you guys thirsty?” I ask.

“Yes, glad you asked. Got any beer? No, of course you don’t. I’ll just take wine.” Mr. Campbell replies. Elias shakes his head.

I smile politely and head to the kitchen. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Campbell is a great guy. I’ve known him my whole life, but he’s... wild. There’s no nicer way to describe him. Elias looks exactly like him, except for his hair. He dyed it white in the eighth grade, and it’s stayed that way ever since.

You’d think white hair on a fifteen-year-old wouldn’t work, but somehow, it suits him.

I return from the kitchen with a wine glass and a bottle of my mom’s fancy wine—the kind she never drinks. When I walk back into the living room, Mr. Campbell and Elias are sitting on the floor, flipping through a photo album.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Ah, look at this! I remember when Thomas was this tiny.”

I cringe, feeling dread creep over me.

“What’s this?” Elias asks, squinting at the album as he holds it close to his face.

“Let me see!” Mr. Campbell snatches the album and reads aloud, “Tommy Pony?”

The words send a shiver down my spine. I almost drop the wine but manage to set it down on the coffee table before freaking out and snatching the album from them. “What? No!”

They both look at me, confused.

“I remember that nickname! Man, time sure flies. Why did your mom ever stop calling you that?” Mr. Campbell chuckles.

I worked so hard to erase that nickname. I begged my mom to stop calling me that, got rid of everything that had it engraved on it. And now, a stupid photo album has ruined all that work.

I want to say all of this, but instead, I laugh nervously and shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Tommy Pony, huh? Nice.” Elias grins.

I shove the photo album under my arm and excuse myself to my room. I would burn the stupid thing if I were allowed to be around fire. Instead, I hide it under my bed and sit on the floor with my back against it. Tabby jumps into my lap.

“Tommy Pony.” I mutter under my breath. “I hate that name.”

I waved goodbye to the hospital bed as if it were a person. Well, I had called it “home” for seven months now as I healed from the fall. Walking away, out of that room, felt surreal, as if I didn’t know what was waiting for me on the other side of the doors - the doors to the room and the doors leading to the world - although I had of course been outside before. Just not in seven months. The room I was staying in often had the windows sealed and shut tight with blinds, anyway. I preferred the dark over what glory might be thriving outside, leaving me out.

That first day was rough. My legs still ached, my breathing was irregular, and my arm strength was so bad that I could barely lift a fork. I knew it would get better with physical therapy, but to feel so helpless after being catered to month after month was a shock. I had a caretaker that came twice a day, but inbetween those visits I had to take care of myself. Something that was now new to me.

As I watched TV on the third night, I saw an interview with somebody speaking about their independence. How great it felt, they said, to not have to rely on anybody else for their health or their habits. I couldn’t relate. I realized what I needed to do.

I would jump again.

The moment I stood up, I vomited and collapsed onto the floor. The nurses huddled around me with concerned looks on their faces, asking if I was okay. I wasn't, but I said I was, and was assisted back to my bed. I would need to use a wheelchair for the foreseeable future, the nurses had said. But I wanted to walk. Of course I did, any sane person would. And my legs still worked, it just hurt like hell to use them. But I had tried anyway, every day for the last year. Every morning the nurses would find me lying on the floor, covered in vomit, urine, or blood on my really bad days. They would scold me, sometimes yelling, but the next morning they came into the same sight. Even if they put a nurse in my room to watch me overnight, I would still try to walk when she wasn't looking. My legs worked, I demanded, they just needed exercise. I'd been bedridden for over a year, anyone would have atrophied legs after a year in bed. I guess my excuses just go to show that doctors make the worst patients.

As a virologist studying extraplanetary diseases, I was in no place to make excuses for myself, given that whatever had begun to ail me over the past year was most likely not of terrestrial origin. I was, however, as the world's leading expert in my field, in a unique position to act as my own physician, giving the nurses instruction on how to treat my curious ailment while running tests remotely from my bed, dictating cocktails of antibiotics and drugs for my lab team to mix up.

My initial excitement over discovering a new disease soon subsided, however, turning into despair and extreme boredom. The testing soon stopped and I gave up entirely but for my vain morning ambulatory attempts. I grew to resent everyone around me who could still walk, the nurses, the doctors, the friends who came to visit me, who I slowly pushed away out of depression, shame, and pride. I secluded myself behind a wall of feigned apathy, too hurt to reach out to those who would help.

But now I was finally leaving, my condition having been determined untreatable but non life threatening. I was not relieved, however, and as the nurse wheeled me out into my newly purchased wheelchair accessible van, a deep and profound sense of despair sunk my heart into my stomach.

To my further humiliation, I found out I'd been provided a caretaker, Daniel. He would drive me around to my appointments and aid me in completing everyday tasks. Daniel was a young man of about twenty-one and he could walk. I envied him from the moment he slid into the driver's seat of the van to take me home from the hospital with that cursed empathetic smile on his face. How dare he pity me! No, I didn't envy him, I hated him.

"So, Mr. Weathers," Daniel began as he pulled out of the hospital parking garage, "I bet you're excited to be going home."

I turned my head towards him and laughed flatly and bitterly.

We rode on in silence until we reached my home. Daniel wheeled me out of the van and lifted my chair up the steps to the house, "We'll need to get you a ramp soon." He noted breathily, wiping a few beads of sweat from his blond head. He continued, "I'll be staying with you for the time being until we can figure out if you can live independently or not, or until your condition improves."

I stayed silent, rage building up inside of me.

"I have some stuff of mine for tonight in the van. I'm going to go bring it in, then we can figure out sleeping arrangements."

"Sleep outside," My words came out as a rasping noise, at first, so I repeated myself, much to the young man's discomfort, "Sleep outside."

Daniel stared at me, obviously having never encountered this type of hostility from anyone he had been a caregiver to before. Or, perhaps I was his first ever patient. "I- I can't sleep outside, Mr. Weathers, I have to be able to attend to you if you need something in the night."

"You heard what I said," I rasped louder, "Sleep outside! Or you can leave if you'd like. I'd actually prefer that."

Daniel laughed awkwardly, "That's a joke, right, Mr. Weathers?"

In a blind rage I rose from my wheelchair, which rolled backwards, and losing my balance I toppled backwards, hitting my head against the hardwood floor. Darkness, like a curtain, was drawn over my sight, and my mind was snuffed out in an instant.

When I came to, my entire body hurt like hell. I was in the hospital again, but this time I couldn't move anything. A whirlwind of panic stirred inside of me. I was paralyzed. I tried to move my head, and that was the only thing that I was able to move. I noticed a doctor next to me, who had begun to explain what had happened, but I had already figured it out by then, my fall had caused an acute subdural hematoma and Daniel, being inexperienced, had failed to get me to the hospital in time.

For the first time in over a year, I blamed myself.

I tell myself I’m grateful for the life I have, regardless of my circumstances. The major attachment issues, the crippling anxiety, gosh even the constant isolating feeling that poisons my heart more and more as the days grow longer.

I am grateful, but at what cost?

The unfairness that justifies itself as the bare minimum. The lack of empathy normalised behind the words “at least…”. “My marriage is falling apart….at least you had a marriage” “My dad passed away….at least you knew him” “My life is falling apart….at least you get to live your life”

Ever since the accident I have felt useless, incapable, unworthy, pathetic even. I can’t hold a pen without feeling a sharp pain strike up my forearm. Every time I gaze into the mirror there’s a stranger staring back at me mirroring my movements.

What use to be skin and tissue that shielded my insecurities are now just bone and eschar. All put on display for the world to see my broken, damaged self. I know how the world perceives me, hell I agree with them.

I pity myself, as they do. I avoid eye contact with myself, as they do. I judge myself, as they do.

I notice the pity stares that watch from afar, the heads that turn as I walk by. It’s ironic really, craving attention your whole life just to be left disappointed as it wasn’t at all what you hoped it’d be.

Yet I’m grateful, not for surviving, because that’s what society expects us to be. I mean you can’t grieve without being sent gifts, you can’t mope around without being an attention seeker, you can only take what you get. No matter how shitty or cruel it is, life is unfair and you can only dream of the life you could’ve had. Hope it’s the life to come, no matter the difficulties anchoring you down, pulling you in anticipation to only watch you drown.

I am grateful but only because I am hopeful.

“Elaina!” a voice snaps.

Elaina flinches and drops the lighter she has been twirling between her fingers. She’s been toying with the idea of using it again but she hides it in her dresser as her father barges in.

‘P i c t u r e, p i c t u r e S m i l e f o r t h e p i c t u r e’

Her father looks her over with a look of utter disdain.

“The press is here. Put a smile on that filthy face of yours and don’t you dare forget the cover up story for your absence. Let slip even the slightest clue that you’ve been in the nuthouse and I’ll fry your brains out.” He spits out the last sentence before slamming the door on his way out.

‘P o s e w i t h y o u r b r o t h e r w o n ’t y o u b e a g o o d s i s t e r’

She stands up shakily. The last thing she wants to do is go out there and have everyone stare at her. She looks down at her tights. She knows her legs are covered and there’s no way they’ll see the evidence but she still has to double check.

‘E v e r y o n e, t h i n k s t h a t w e ‘r e p e r f e c t’

She walks over to her room door and opens it with a shaky hand. It leads to the hallway and at the far end stands a large bronze door. She can hear the cameras clicking and the shouts of the paparazzi coming through from the other side.

‘P l e a s e d o n ‘t l e t t h e m l o o k t h r o u g h t h e c u r t a i n s’

Every step she takes feels like wading through cement and she can feel her heart start to race. All too soon she’s standing in front of the big bronze door.

‘D - O - L - L - H - O - U - S - E’

Her father’s words ring in her head and she turns to look at the tall mirror on the right wall of the hall. She stares at her reflection for a moment then plasters on her biggest, sweetest, fakest smile and steps through the door.

‘I s e e t h i n g s t h a t n o b o d y e l s e s e e s’

No I can’t be what they are As they are beautiful as the night sky They are one in a million They can never be replaced As they hold the key in their hands Even if I never see them again They will forever live on

stop asking me if I’m alright stop staring at me like an exotic animal stop whispering to your friends

stop.

don’t question if I’m acting weird don’t pretend to care about me don’t offer to carry around my stuff

don’t.

no, I don’t have a headache no, I don’t need to go home early no, I can walk by myself

no.

I’m not a fragile toy that’s broken I’m not shattered from the inside I don’t need you to help me at all and I don’t want to be pitied.

(Um, this is something I’m considering writing about for an assignment, and I was wondering, if anyone sees it, if they could give their feedback on what I have so far. I would really appreciate that. I know I suck at describing setting, but any advice at all would be helpful).

(This is the first draft).

Sarah sighed with contempt as she heard her parent’s car door shut. Repositioning her crutches, she hobbled down the smooth cement and into the doors of her school. She didn’t like having a broken leg, she knew that much, but what she hated even more was her parents forcing her back into her confinement. Bent forward slightly, she struggled through the long, wide hallways, looking for her locker. After some searching, she found it next to her friend James’ bright blue box. Having to use both fingers to pry it open, her crutches clattered to the floor. Sarah pulled out her science textbook before realising she had no way to carry all the others.

“Hey! Sarah!” Called an energetic voice from across the hall.

Turning as gracefully as she could, which was not very graceful at all, Sarah was met with the bubbling image of James, his hands flailing in wild greeting, walking quickly towards her.

“You’re back!” He said, bending down to pick up her crutches.

“Yeah,” Sarah grimaced. “I’m back.”

“You looked terrible in the hospital.” James commented, handing Sarah her props.

“Wow, thanks, James.” Sarah replied.

“No, I just meant-“ he was interrupted by the loud slam of a locker door. A few feet away stood Sarah’s other friend, Chloe. She stared at the pair of them, mouth open in shock, before rushing over.

“Sarah! You’re back!” Chloe squealed, bouncing on her feet.

“Yeah, I love being here already.” Sarah said, trying to balance on her uninjured leg.

“You’ve missed a lot of homework,” James squeezed past Sarah and digged around in her locker.

“Yeah, I know.” Sarah hopped once, lurching forward, hoping to make it to her classroom’s door. Chloe moved and pressed her shoulders against Sarah’s, offering support. Slowly, with James trailing behind, carrying Sarah’s books, they made it to her class.

“Thanks, Chloe. Thanks, James.” Sarah leaned against the Science room’s door, shuffling so other students could get by.

“D’you want me to place these down for you?” James asked, nodding to the books.

“No,” Sarah said. “I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure, Sarah?” Chloe looked her friend up and down, concerned. Sarah couldn’t blame her for it, with her short blonde hair only half-combed, her awkward foot brace, and her sunken, sleep-deprived eyes, she was sure she looked terrible.

Sarah nodded, and her two friends slipped away. Crutching over to her seat, Sarah sat down and waited for her teacher. Getting lost in the mechanical process of class, Sarah’s thoughts wandered back to her accident. She had been walking home from school, mind far away, when all of a sudden, she placed her foot down and heard a shattering crack. There was a sharp pain, and Sarah had felt as if she had stepped on millions of fragments of glass.

Mama always says it would be okay. That when I’m let out of the hospital, It will all be same. My name is Amber chickberry. I’m 16 years old. I broke my Collarbone about two years ago. And my leg, And my arm, And my nose, And my small tailbone. So I had to stay, in the hospital. for about A year and a half now. And I’m finally being let out, For the world to see. And I’m scared, I must say. But I’m also exited, To see the world, At full play.

TW EATING DISORDERS

They’ll never know the nightmares I had every night of a feeding tube being shoved down my throat.

They’ll never know the look on my mom’s face when the nurse who was trying to draw my blood said that she couldn’t find my veins and that I should probably have some water or juice.

Probably juice because that has calories, carbs and glucose.

They’ll never know the restless nights when every fifteen minutes a nurse would check in on me to make sure I’m not purging or exercising.

They’ll never know the true function of the calorie counter that permanently lives in my brain,

And they’ll never know how hard it is to put on the smile that they see on my face.