Two Thirty

November 18, 2011
It was 2:30.
The whiteness of the hospital room wall rebounded off my eyes and ears. October blew winds through the cracked window and I shivered as the blows scaled up my spine. The sickly blue plastic robe barely covered my bare chest.
“I knew I should have skipped breakfast,” I murmured under my breath as I awaited my doctor’s return.
My whole body felt heavier, suddenly. Pounds and pounds of flesh were being added to the sides of my face and my back.
My heart froze for a moment as the doorknob fell and the hinges twisted open. My doctor strode into the room and my father stepped in, right behind her. I was then I wondered if the sound of footsteps in a prison echoed as loudly as footsteps in a frozen hospital room.
I continued to stare at my toes and wiggled them casually as my doctor spoke. My tongue was dry and tasteless and my mouth was shut.
“What’s the number, now?” I thought. I urged myself to remain expressionless, but I knew my eyes were turning red because my glasses were beginning to fog.
“Two hundred thirty pounds…”
That was all I heard, all I allowed myself to hear.
From the corner of my eye, I glanced up at the clock again as my father stared me down and my doctor continued to prattle.
After innumerous moments, It was still only 2:30.

And now, so was I.

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