This chronicles the story of Holly as she progresses into an incurable illness and depression. These are her confessions to the people she hurt who still don't know, but will after she dies. Being ill doesn't make anyone perfect.
There are days when the drugs don’t take away the pain anymore, and I’m just left with memories of how it used to be to keep myself sane. It’s difficult to remember those times. It’s difficult to remember what it’s like to be young and pain-free, but it was there once. I’m not longer consumed by the thoughts of ‘why me?’ or ‘what did I do to deserve this?’, I have resigned myself to it. I have lost myself to it. And for that, I owe everyone an apology. That’s why I’m writing this- to apologize. Sadly enough, there are so many more things that contributed to me losing myself than just the pain. So, I suppose, more than an apology, this is a confession. A mammoth, self-destructive confession.
Part One: The Discovery
“When was the last time you ate?” Alex asked as we laid in bed together with the sun dancing through the window over our bare legs.
“Why?” he had asked a question I liked to avoid.
“You’re much thinner, Holly,” his voice was dripping with disapproval. He ran his hands over my ribs, each finger catching a little on the bones. I could imagine my ribs as a keyboard; his fingers were playing a chromatic scale. I would imagine anything to keep me from answering his questions.
“Yesterday,” it wasn’t much of a lie. I did eat, but a meal? No. How could I explain to him that it hurt to eat? His eyes narrowed suspiciously at me.
“Babe, you need to see a doctor. Are you not eating because you feel…unattractive?” I could tell he was trying to be gentle with that prodding question.
“No. Alex, I don’t want to talk about this right now. You’re hardly ever here. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?” I raked my nails down his chest in attempted seduction.
He batted my hand away, “No. We’re not doing anything until I get some straightforward answers from you. And even then, the first thing we’ll probably do is probably take you to the doctor.” I rolled away from him so he couldn’t see my face. God knows he could probably see my soul if he looked long enough with those blue eyes.
With my voice muffled in the pillow, I explained the best I could, “It…hurts. I can’t eat because it hurts. Not right away, but after a few hours…I would rather…die sometimes.” His rough hands glided over my back, again with the keyboard, only this time it was my spine. I felt his arms wrap around me securely, and his nose inhaled against my hair.
“How long has this been going on for?”
“Since shortly after Christmas,” I said with my face buried deeper into my pillow, knowing that he wouldn’t be satisfied with my answer.