Malley was thin. She was too thin. I knew that, but she didn’t see it. She didn’t see how her bones protruded through her skin, like some day they would break through in a bloody mess. She didn’t see how her skin was becoming pale and patchy, dry from malnutrition. She didn’t notice how lifeless her eyes had become, like she had gone to hell and back but was still there mentally. No, she didn’t notice any of it.

All she noticed was the fear that creeped into her mind as she ate.

Malley really was a pretty girl. She had curly blonde hair that I was visibly jealous of and pale blue eyes. She was the prettiest out of anyone in the hospital at the time, which wasn’t saying much considering all of us were mental patients, but said enough. But every time someone told her she was pretty, she wouldn’t believe them. “I’m not thin enough,” she said.

But it wasn’t her weight that made her pretty. It was her generosity, her caring personality, her humor. You didn’t have to know her to know that she’d do anything to make everyone in the room feel welcome. Everyone in that hospital loved that Malley. Not the ‘Thin Malley’ she so badly wanted to be. We all loved the Malley that went around the room and hugged everyone, telling them what she loved about them the day she was discharged.

We loved Kind Malley.

Funny Malley.

Tired Malley.

Sad Malley.

We even loved Manic Malley.

We loved Alive Malley.

Alive.

Something we wish she still was.