༺ FORTY - NINE ༻

There goes another piece of the mirrorball.

The past minutes, I've listened to the frequent breaks. The sound is nice in my ears. Glass shattering exactly every second a half. A pattern that repeats.

I let myself fall deeper into my bed. Such soft sheets, a fresh smell... way better than how Mamma Mia felt last night.

But it's Saturday. I have ballet at two. I've got to get up.

So I open my eyes. In that one second, the breaking of the glass turns into something else.

A beep. Beep, beep, beep, every second and a half. Suddenly, it doesn't sound as nice. And once I realize that, the beeps go faster.

I force my heavy eyelids open. Then I close them again, because the bright light hurts. Since when is my room that bright?

It takes a while to get used to it, but then I can look around with ease, though my head hurts when I move it. A chair, white walls, one windows, lots of wires.

I start worrying. Did something happen to Newt again?

But then I remember I'm the one who feels the soft sheets. That the beeps are based of my heartbeat.

Bloody hell.

"Rose!" A gasp next to me. I look up, meeting Mom's eyes, which are full of tears. "Oh, love. My love.." Her arms wrap around me so fast that I'm taken aback by it, confused and everything at once.

"Don't let her suffocate," a deeper voice. It's Dad.

I'm starting to panic. "What happened? Why am I here? What's—"

"Calm down, love." Mom gives the heart monitor a glare, because the beeps are speeding up again. "Take it easy."

But I sit up. Why not? The headache is nothing new.

"What happened?" I repeat. "Why's my hand in bandages and why am I in the bloody hospital?"

Mom and Dad share a glance. Mom nods, Dad takes a breath. "We found you in the bathroom yesterday. Unconscious. The mirror was broken. The doctors said you might've punched it a few times, according to your bleeding hand."

Mirrorball. Breaking. Red. Hurting hands.

Cute.

"And I didn't wake up," I say. I don't add 'this time'. Usually, I wake up like a minute after fainting. Now I've ended up in the damn hospital.

"No," Mom says. She lies her hand on my arm. "We— we found out about your pills," she says quietly, averting her watery eyes.

No. No no no no no no— can't be happening.

"How?" I manage to keep a straight face.

Mom and Dad look at each other again. Then, Dad nods at her, so she continues. "Thomas showed up with a few of them. Said you dropped them in the restaurant. He already figured out what they were and wanted to let us know."

Bloody. Piece. Of. Shit.

I laugh through the pain of that. It's almost funny how much it hurts that Thomas snitched to my parents while we're one, broken up, and two, he was the one who said he didn't want me to go through the problems with doctors.

I bite my lip. My good hand clenches around the sheet, and I try to calm myself down. "Thomas. He told you guys," I say.

"Yes," Dad confirms. "We're glad he did. Now you're safe. No longer in danger, love. If we wouldn't known—"

"But I need them," I say.

"No you don't," Mom whispers. "It's not healthy, love. You're dehydrated. They've sucked out every bit of water in your body. And the doctors said you're underweight."

I laugh again. I feel like a psychopath doing it, but the whole situation is purely funny. "Of course I'm underweight," I say. "Wasn't that clear already?"

"Dangerously underweight," Mom corrects. "You could've died. And we were so worried," her voice breaks.

I shake my head. Shake it like I always do, to get the dizziness away. But now I'm trying to shake the confusion off. "I need my pills," I repeat. "I paid for them. They belong to me. Give them."

"The doctor has them now."

"They're mine," I say again. I'm starting to sound a little more desperate. "Mom, I need them. Now. At least one, please."

She shakes her head. "We can't."

Dad takes my good hand and runs his thumb over the back of it. "They'll be asking you a few things later to figure everything out, alright? Then you'll feel better, because they're gonna make you better."

"I'm not sick," I spit the words out.

"Love, you probably have an eati—"

"Don't," I cut her off. "Don't say it." The wires irritate me. I stare at one of them on my arm. The urge to rip it off there... "Get me out of here," I say. "I don't want to be here."

"Not yet. The more you cooperate, the faster you'll be home."

"No." I straighten my back. "Get me out of here. I wanna go home already. I hate hospitals. You're making things worse for Newt. Alby died in a hospital and now you're letting Newt get those memories again. I want to leave."

Then there's a doctor and my parents are told to leave before I even know it, and then I'm alone with Vince. Lovely.

"Rose," he starts.

But he can't continue. "Remove these." I hold my arm up. "I'll do it myself if you don't."

Vince waits for a few seconds. I hate it. "Remove them, and you'll be sent to an Help Center without any words in it."

"What?" I feel the anger rise. "I'm not going to an Help Center."

"Then keep calm, please," he requests.

I do. Man, I won't go to some bloody asylum or whatever he means with Help Center. 

"I'll explain," he then says.

And he does. He tells me they're suspecting I have an eating disorder. That I'm here to get helped. That I can choose to be treated in the hospital instead of a mental institution because Mary is a nurse in this hospital by now, except she volunteered to spend all her time in me. That I can choose when I want to answer questions to see what kind of eating disorder I have.

I don't really want any of it.

But I'll manage to get my pills. I'm sure Sonya will bring me some. And then I'll ask for a break after meals. If that doesn't work, I'll only eat the pills when Mary doesn't look.

"Fine," I say. His story was so long that I managed to calm down in the meanwhile. Now I feel the same as before. Emotionless. "Can we just do that interview right now? I want to get over with it."

He nods. "Sure."

"You don't need a notebook?"

He shakes his head. "Just answer my questions."

"Okay."

"Are you sure you want to do it right now? You only just woke up. I mean, your heartbeat is okay and you should be able to take it. Physically, at least."

"I got it."

"Alright." He gives me a small smile. "I won't tell anyone but Mary and your parents this, okay? Please answer honestly."

"I will," I promise.

"Good. So... let's start with this. How do you think all of this started?"

"With a diet."

He chuckles. "Yes, I understand that. But what was your motive?"

"Losing weight."

"What made you start?" He corrects. "Did someone tell you something? Did you get insecure in some way?"

"My ballet teacher told me to lose eight pounds," I say.

Okay... it's more difficult to say this out loud than I thought, but I'll be fine.

"So I did it. But then I started to love watching the number drop, so I continued. Feared it would go up," I say.

A big part is already said now. I got it.

"Okay. And would you tell me about your eating patterns? From the beginning to now?"

I tell him about my healthier diet, then the water fasting, the laxatives, the throwing up, more fasting, lots of laxatives, my blackouts, dizziness, and everything.

I've poured my heart out before I even realize.

And it feels good. To finally tell someone. A part of me wishes that someone would've been someone else... perhaps a certain boy, but it's alright like this, too.

He doesn't seem fazed. Well, his eyes have a hint of hurt, but he's not acting like I'm crazy or a poor little baby. I like it.

"Last question." He takes a breath. Makes eye contact. "Do you want to recover? Get into a healthy relationship with food, and be able to dance again? It's gonna take a lot, but if you really want it, you'll make it."

I think for a while. I used to love food. I loved baking. I loved the smell of food or a midnight snack with Newt.

And then I think of the number. The thought of it going up. The thought of not being good enough again. The thought of not being perfect for ballet.

But I won't be able to dance if I keep going like this either. And Janson is a bad person. Him and maybe the few girls at ballet are the only ones who've ever actually said things about my body.

I think of Thomas, too. Would he be proud of me? Happy for me? Want me back?

No. I don't want him to be proud of me, or happy for me, and if he only wants me back once I'm healthy, then he's a toxic piece of crap.

It's not shucking about Thomas.

"Yes," I eventually say, almost whispering. "But I don't know if I can do it. The fear—"

"I know," he says. "But you'll manage to get through it, alright? It's alright if you relapse or cry or get angry. It's all part of it. All for the climax, yeah?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Good." Vince gives my hand a squeeze. "I'll have to take your weight and height soon. But I suggest we do it tomorrow. You need to rest, and maybe talk to your family. They're outside."

"I don't mind weighing now," I say. "I'd like to go back to dancing as fast as possible."

And be so busy with recovering that I can't even think of Thomas.

Vince sees I'm not gonna give up on my request, so ends up nodding. "Fine. We'll do it now. Be careful as you get up."

"I got it," I tell him. I'm lightheaded, a bit dizzy, and feel unsteady on my feet once I'm standing, but I manage to follow Vince in the hospital clothes I'm wearing, after I got a pair of slippers.

We arrive in a small room. There's not much up to it. Vince just tells me to stand against the wall so he can get my height.

"Five feet nine." He notes it. "One hundred seventy five centimeters."

The scale. I think that after everything, this might be the worst. The first time someone will know how much I weight. How much I've lost. How much I've got left to gain.

Gain. Can't gain. But I'll try.

I stand on it, closing my eyes. There's a silence. Is he that stunned?

"Would it feel better if you're the one who looks and tells me?" He wonders softly. "It's whatever makes you more comfortable."

"I'll tell you," I decide.

"Perfect. Take your time, though."

I nod, looking down as if I don't already know. I swallow. I got it I got it I got it I got it—

"Seventy five," my voice cracks at saying it out loud. "—pounds." I close my eyes. "Thirty four kilograms."

The sound of his pen moving against the paper. I stand, frozen in my place and shivers everywhere.

"Is it very bad?"

"It's different for everyone," he says. "I can't compare anything. Just that your BMI isn't good. But we're going to fix that. Slowly, we will."

I take a breath. Funny how quickly things can change.

Then I nod. "Alright."