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It's been four years, I am twenty-two. She's back, she's been back. I've stopped taking the medicine my newest psychiatrist has prescribed me. Those little white pills. She's convinced me to stop. Alcohol, she's convinced me to start. Eating, has slowly become nothing more than merely a distant memory. I can't remember the days when I thought I'd get better, even though it has been only two years. My life is divided in thirds. Before Cassie, after her death, and when she came back, a second time. I haven't told anyone. I haven't seen my parents in almost a year. They expect me to be keeping up with my internship, to remain healthy. Yet, I find it next to impossible. I am so close to perfection once more, 87.2 pounds. 85 would be more preferable, but 80 is achievable. 75 will be perfection. If my parents discovered this, they'd do anything to get me readmitted. I must stay away.
My eyes are huge, my fingers nimble, my ribs showing. This is perfection, Cassie whispers as she strokes my hair as I fall asleep at night. This, you must achieve, she says so proudly as she realigns the blades on my desk. Alright, I respond as I stare at her from the fridge, empty except for a bottle of mustard, a jar of pickles, a bag of small apples, and four bottles of Vodka. This was my life. This is my life. There is no before, no now. Simply as is.
I often think back to the days when Cassie was alive, the promise we made. She said she'd be the thinnest, I said I'd be thinner than her. But now, she is simply bones, I still have fat. Cassie teases me about this. I'm always cold now, I'm always cold. I tell Cassie this. I'm freezing, she says, not cold. I'll be more freezing than you, I tell her. I dare you, she whispers back.
I'm starving, but this is how it must be. This is how I beat Cassie.