I peered through the gap in her bedroom door, my eyes were cloudy and out of focus. Her white blonde hair was like a waterfall, flooding onto the laced bed covers. Her piercing blue eyes staring directly at me, widened with every breath. I had never seen anything like Ana Palais. She was somehow romantic in the way in which she gazed, very dreamlike and mysterious. I wanted to touch her silky hair, to stoke her soft skin, but I couldn't.
"Excuse me, my dear. I need to give her her medication."
A nurse pushed past me and entered Ana's chamber. The screaming began. Ana tried to pull away but her arms were tied. She didn't take an eye from me. I loved Ana Palais from the day I arrived at Rose House.
Everyone knew that I didn’t belong there; a self-harm victim with no excuses other than loneliness. I was a sad excuse for a mental patient; in fact, I wasn’t ‘mental’ at all. I was the only one who knew what they were doing in Rose House. I knew exactly what I wanted, and the only way I could see Ana every day was to act like a f**king crazy b**ch, so I did. I’d scream and shout if the nurses tried to feed me, though I’d really want to eat my dinner - most days. I never cared about being weirdly thin like the rest of the girls, but an anorexic cutter was a pretty safe bet. They’d never release me without my meals. Little did they know however, that I was sneaking into Molly’s room every night and eating her supper. Molly Collins was a genuine anorexic. She refused to eat any of her meals, and if I didn’t eat her supper she’d only crush it under her mattress until the early morning when she would sneak out and feed it to a cat from down the road (named Eric), who returned every morning at 5 o’clock without fail ever since Molly arrived at Rose House. I always really liked Molly. She was pretty insane, no doubt about it, but she was nice enough. She was a painter, and a pretty good one too. I’d sometimes walk past her room on the way to the toilet in the night and she’d always have her light on, painting away. She once gave me a painting of Eric the cat. Why she chose to paint me a cat of all things, I do not know.
I never told anyone about my sexuality at Rose House. I wasn’t ashamed; I just didn’t see the point. I didn’t have time for homophobic crazies, and I spent most of the time writing in my room, minding my own business. I would write about Ana for hours on end. I loved to sit outside her room when writing and she’d watch me, smiling. I was the only one in the house that felt safe around Ana. She liked me. I could tell. I liked her too.