I readjust my narrow legs on the window ledge which I’m currently burdening with my weight. The sleeve of my old jacket has a ring of condensation around where it touches the rain-stained window. The jacket hangs loosely around my shoulders, and it hardly rises when I breathe. My sweatpants are rolled several times to keep from dropping off my waist that used to be a healthy 34 inches.

It seems that my size has deteriorated with the weather. Summer was only three months ago, but it was enough time to realize something more important than that I couldn’t fit into last year’s bikini. I was losing myself.
I’d been desperate to be normal – to be like my friends. My friends that hadn’t been with me at the hospital when my mom died two weeks ago. My friends that hadn’t been with me at the hospital when I was told that my stomach had decreased to the size of a peach due to chronic anorexia. My friends that haven’t talked to me since a month ago when I last ate. My friends that aren’t staring out the window, crying with me like the rain is.
My dad has given up on salvaging his family, so he rests in his recliner downstairs, drowning away in alcoholic ignorance. The tears collect and fall to my jacket sleeve as my fourteen year-old heart stops beating while the rain cries on. My name is Lucy, and all seventy-one pounds and seventy-two inches of me rests alone on this ledge today. Today, the day I died.