The buzzer on her desk rang then, signaling the beginning of free lunch hour and the end of our session. She waved me away and I stood at measured speed. Too quickly and you look like you’re running away. Too slowly and you look frail.

Even in this hospital, where I’m supposed to be getting better, all I can do is fake it.  Maybe I just can’t be real anymore. Everything about me is formulated. The delicate dresses with the thick tights, conservative enough for my father, feminine enough for my mother.  My voice at mom’s house was steady and low, but never too low as to sound like I was mumbling. At dad’s house I didn’t speak, especially there towards the end. At school my voice was higher, but still soft, the perfect feminine pitch. I always sat with my back straight, but my ankles uncrossed. At mom’s house, my hair is tied back with a pony tail holder. At dad’s I leave it down.  Here, I’m just empty. I’ve given up, I don’t care. And I almost thought, there for a minute when I first woke up, that maybe that was a good thing. That maybe by not caring I could figure out who I was again. But I don’t think there’s anything left to figure out.

I think I’m like a tree in the rainforest, the ones wrapped in those vines. Sometimes tress get covered by these thick, interwoven vines called strangler vines. They’re called strangler vines because, well, that’s what they do. They grower bigger and bigger, and higher and higher up, and weave tighter and tighter around the tree, until all the water and nutrients that should be nourishing the tree are instead feeding these vines. And slowly but surely, the tree just dies. But even when it shrivels up, or falls over, or whatever is does exactly, you can’t tell. Because the strangler vines are there, as healthy as ever, exactly the shape the tree was before it died. They smother the life right out of it. I think maybe all my pretending smothered the life right out of me. One mask built up on top of another mask, in these endless layers of choking, superficial, personalities, all building on top of my real one. And all my energy went into keeping the masks alive, and I forgot that I was in there somewhere too.  I think that maybe Phoebe Ackerman is dead, and I’m just the shell of her body walking around, no identity, no spirit, just a beating heart, breathing lungs, growing cells and rushing blood.

When I talk like that, Calliope just looks sad, and Taylor looks at me like she pities me. Calliope understands, that’s why. She’s lost too. But she knows who she is. She’s just repressed it. Taylor doesn’t get it. Taylor can’t see that she’s lost. Her pride in herself clouds her vision too heavily. Like morphine. Maybe pride’s a drug. Maybe that’s the problem with Taylor: she’s addicted to something she isn’t even aware that she’s taking. Maybe she’ll be like me, and overdose.

Kent is different. He doesn’t get sad, he doesn’t pity me. Kent, he gets angry. He shakes his head and narrows those dark hazel eyes of his at me and shakes his head and just looks pissed as all hell.

(‘God fucking damn it, Phoebe! You have got to stop this! This isn’t fucking good for you, do you have a death wish?”
“You’re the one with the Harley who hates wearing a helmet and I have a death wish?”
“This isn’t about me!” he yelled, staring down at her. “Yeah, I’m pretty screwed up too. But this is about you.” he shook his head, running a calloused hand through his hair. “You hate yourself so damn much, and you won’t admit it. You know I hate shit like that but… you need help, Phoebe.”
“I don’t hate myself. There’s nothing fucking left of me to hate.” She tossed the empty bottle of pills into the trash, scribbling a forged note for a refill on the pre-stamped postage card to her dad’s doctor.
“That’s not fucking true and you know it. You can pull that bullshit with Callie, and Taylor, but not with me. We have been best friends since you pulled my ass out of that ditch when we were fourteen. That’s what we do. We pick up the pieces. Let me help you!”  he slammed his hand on the kitchen counter, glaring at her. She shrugged.
“I’m telling you, there are no pieces left!” she shouted back, her voice cracking. It had been a long time since she had shouted at anyone. Years, probably. Kent’s expression softened, just barely.
“See? There you are.” He smiled, slightly and reached out to rub her shoulder. She shrugged away, glowering. He shook his head slowly, turning to go. He didn’t want to, but he knew when to make an exit. They both did. They didn’t always get along, but each stood on the other’s fuse, keeping them from self destructing. They had their fights and differences, but in the end, they had to know how and when to leave. Kent and Phoebe couldn’t afford to hate each other. )
Kent kicks my ass for me, basically. Sometimes, that’s just what I need. Okay, that’s probably always what I need, but it’s not always what I want.

(It’s sunny outside, and they’re perched on the wall of Phoebe’s mom’s garden.
“Eat.” He says, handing her half of the pita pocket. She shakes her head. “Phoebe, eat.” His voice is stern, but she refuses yet again, scrunching her face up and tossing her curls. Kent sighs and reaches over, gently poking her right side, exactly where he knows it will bother her most.
“Kent!” she shrieks, stifling a laugh as she shifts away from her friend, who is trying ardently to tickle her again. “You bastard!” she slips down from the wall and heads inside, Kent follows behind her. Even though this is a year ago, he can already see the notches of her spine through the thin, just barely tanned skin of her back. Her hip bones are slowly growing sharper and sharper. Her cheek bones look higher, her eyes look hollow, and are wrung with thick, dark circles. But that also might have ben from the pills. She has a slight tan, but there’s no flush to the skin beneath it. Even her hair has lost some of it’s luster. She looks like she’s fading. Like an old photograph in the entry way, sitting and waiting while the sun slowly bleaches the color away. She slumps over the kitchen table and picks lacklusterly at an apple, taking small bites.
“You should eat real food too.”
“This is real food.”
“Protein, Phoebe. Meat, cheese, bread?” she finishes off the apple and sighs loudly.
“Make me a grilled cheese sandwich?” when she looks up at him her eyes are apologetic. He nods. )