A Flash of Hope by Claire Gerber

Content Warning: Eating disorders, Anorexia

A flash fiction piece.

What? I watch her lips move. Silence. Ringing fills my ears. She's writing something down. Numbers? I hate numbers.

         Numbers have ruled my life for the past year. The numbers on my exams, my phone, my scale. My eyes drift around the room, lazily glossing over the colorful wallpaper. God, I hate the wallpaper. It features animals in a hot air balloon. It just doesn’t make sense. Then again, I'm not five. 

         I wouldn’t be as bothered if I wasn't here five times a week. I live half an hour away from the local children's hospital. I always dread the car ride here. Not a word spoken between me and my mom. Oh god, my mom.

         I turn my head to see her sobbing in her hands. The ringing stops, snapping me back into reality. My doctor is pulling up a bright image on her computer. I squint my eyes to make out an image of a childish-looking mansion, decorated in flowers and yellow paint. 

         “Residential is the most appropriate option,” she says in an almost apologetic tone. Oh no. Oh god, please no. My eyes well with tears. I try to protest, but my words turn to cries. I screech and wail, my lips trembling with anger. I am helpless. I feel like a baby throwing a tantrum. I can’t breathe. I tangle my hands in my hair. Pulling as hard as I can. I need to feel something aside from the sorrow washing over me. 

         My world is falling apart around me. I just want it to end. I just want to play soccer again. My body is useless. It's too weak to carry me, but too big to be loved.

         The past year flashes through my mind. Fainting on the soccer field. Hiding food in my now ruined jeans. Smashing my knuckles into my bathroom wall. Crying over numbers. So many numbers. 

         I tuck my knees into my chest. My breath hitching with my cries. A pair of trembling arms wrap around me. Hot breath floods the back of my neck. Hands clasp against mine, untangling them from my hair. 

         No matter how much I resent her, lie to her, or flat-out tell her how much I hate her; my mom will never give up on me. I feel like a kid again. Cradled in her arms. And then suddenly, for a split-second, I know what I want. Not the eating disorder, but me. Only for a moment, I can pull myself away from what has been eating away at me for the past year. It’s an out-of-body experience. I see how far I have let myself go. How frail and terrified I look in my mother’s arms. 

         I haven't felt this kind of fear and uncertainty in a long time. But with fear comes vulnerability, and with vulnerability comes hope. Tomorrow may be harrowing. But right now, at this moment, recovery is possible.