The autumn morning air is crisp, and the leaves are transitioning from lush green to vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges. Dew clings to blades of grass, and the delicate charming flowers of Summer and Spring are beginning to wilt. The rose-pink light of dawn is a stunning sight, and I crave to be as beautiful…

My room is as cold as an icebox, so I curl up beneath the layers of my fluffy, white throw blanket and cozy, lavender comforter. Still a little bit chilly, I tug a faded navy blue Abercrombie sweatshirt over my head, slide on a pair of well-worn black Hollister sweatpants, and slip on my favorite pair of fuzzy turquoise socks. My mom calls from the kitchen, “Aza! Breakfast!”

My house is one story, because it is just me and my mom. Dad has been six feet under since I was fourteen. He was at work and then he just dropped to the ground. Someone tried to listen for a heartbeat. Another employee frantically called 911 for an ambulance. But, by the time they reached the factory he was as dead as a coffinnail.

Anyway, I have no siblings, and so having a small house is ideal. I mean, it isn’t too expensive, and we do have a spare room for guests for the rare occasion we actually have one. My room is quaint with powder blue walls, but some of the paint is peeling off. I keep Christmas lights up all year, and my dresser stands in front of my bed with a television on top. I don’t have a closet, or pictures with friends hanging on thread from clothespins, or shelves displaying any sports trophies. My mom’s room is right down the hall from mine. Her room is a little larger, but that is expected. Our house is extremely organized, and not one speck of dust is living amongst one bit of it. It just may be the most immaculate home you will ever see. That is my humble-abode in a nutshell, I suppose.

I creek open my bedroom door and realize my entire house has been invaded by the warm, welcoming aroma of waffles. The scent makes my mouth water, but the thought of eating makes my stomach turn. I walk into the kitchen, unnoticed, and sit down on a stool at the island. My mom is leaning on the countertop by the waffle iron. “Hey.”

“Oh! Hi, hon. You want to eat?” My mom yawns. She works two jobs. History teacher by day and waitress at Applebee’s by night. Five grueling days a week. I do not see her much; she picks up several extra shifts a week for her waitressing occupation. Mom is only forty, but all the late hours of working has aged her a good ten years.

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Aza...you haven’t been hungry for a year now…”

I frown. Ever since Dad passed away, and Mom and I had to pack our bags and move, I started eating less and less. Eventually I stopped eating, but then I would shove as much food as I could down my throat; then I would throw it all back up before my body could think to digest it. All the vomiting made my cheeks swollen, though, so I decided to go back to practically starving. No. Not practically. I was starving.

“Aza…”

“I know! Okay?! I know! I have this under control! I know what I’m doing!” My mom winced at the sudden burst of ire. I didn’t realize I had gotten off the stool, and my fists were clenched, and my breathing was heavy. I relaxed myself, but now guilt washed over me with an intensity. “Mom. I-I…”

“I’m sending you to a treatment center...You will be with girls like you. Girls who need help like you. I just...You’re dying right in front of me! My daughter...My only daughter, the only person I have left, is nearly a skeleton!” She choked on her own tears and crumpled to the floor.

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy, of course not, but I wasn’t nervous either. I was completely numb. I thought I had this under control. I thought that by starving myself I could be as gorgeous as the sunrise this morning. I yearned to be as gorgeous as that sunrise, as the colorful leaves, as the water droplets on the grass, but when I looked into the mirror this time, out of the million times before, I saw a monster. I was my own demise, and I didn’t realize it until someone got hurt.

Then again, I presume that I did always know, because I worked exceptionally hard to hide it. All the baggy clothes and makeup to distract curious eyes. I was extremely gaunt, and there was so much excessive arm hair, because that was my body’s way of keeping itself warm. My rosy freckled cheeks and icy blue eyes were sunken in. I lifted my sweatshirt and the baggy T-shirt under it only to see my rib cage piercing through my pale skin. What have I become? My dangerously shaky legs were equivalent to those of a chicken and my furry arms matched. My spine poked through my dry, scaly flesh...I was not pretty...I was not normal...I was not in control...I broke down crying, and curled up in a ball on my bedroom floor. I was helpless, weak, ugly, and, most of all, famished from days, and weeks, and months worth of starving.

After the few minutes that felt like hours of sobbing on the hard wooden floor I sat up. Still quivering, I swiped tears off my cheeks with the cuff of my hoodie, pulled my chestnut hair into a messy top-knot, and stood up to walk out of my room again. Quietly, I peeked into the kitchen; my mom still sat against the cupboards silently weeping. I crept over, slid down, and sat beside her. She glanced up, eyes bloodshot, confused. I quickly wrapped her in an embrace. “I’m sorry...I thought…” Now I was crying for the second time today with not as much as a minute intermission. I rested my head on her lap.

“I want to understand, but I can’t unless you help me, sweetie.” She caressed the back of my head. “I still have to send you to that group home. They can help you more than I can, but don’t doubt it when I say that I will never have a day that goes by that I won’t miss you.”

“Okay…” A serene silence engulfed the two of us. Just the rhythm of our breathing breaking it. “Can I have a waffle?”

Shock. That was the only expression spread across my mother’s face. “Of course. Are you sure?” I nodded. I was done with being hungry all the time. I wanted to eat.

Delicious. Melted chocolate flooded my taste buds. I thought that the waffles were just regular waffles, but, no, there were scrumptious chocolate chips baked inside. “Mmm…” I peered across the table at my mom, and we both laughed. The first genuine laugh, the first actual meal, the first typical mother-daughter experience we had shared in a very long.