Chapter 2 (Rough Draft) - "Beneath the Ashes"

II.
Home alas. Well, it doesn’t quite feel like a home should feel, however, there is a sign in the entry way that reads, "There’s no place like home," so it must be home. It must be.
My family came into the house rather quietly. Something wasn’t the same. Then again, do I expect it to be the same? Spending a night in a hospital for reasons beyond my parents’ control is enough to put a damper on a family.
Too much surprise, yet almost no surprise at all actually, I walk into the kitchen to see Marshall sitting at the island with a notepad in front of him and a pen in hand. This was the usual for him. He was a writer. Marshall is my best friend, somewhat similar to a brother. We became friends in fourth grade when he moved to our little town to live with a new family. I was his first friend, and we have been inseparable ever since.

“Well, hello there stranger,” said Marshall, in a very even-toned voice, not bothering to glance up from his notebook.
“Hi Marshall,” I replied.
“Where have you been? I called you last night but you didn’t answer!”
“Hospital.”

Marshall dropped his pen on the island and ran and embraced me, tightly. I left my hands by my sides, allowing him to hug me, but being slightly resentful of the gesture. Sometimes, people hugging me made me feel weak and pathetic. He knew that, so he wasn’t very offended.

“Why the hell were you in the hospital, Ace?!”

Ace was the nickname Marshall gave me when we were kids. It doesn’t have a real meaning, actually. Whenever someone asks why he calls me that, he usually tells a different story. I’ve learned to just smile and nod and act like I know what the heck he’s talking about.

“I collapsed.”
“Again? Lauren! Are you eating okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I don’t believe it. How is that the truth when you collapsed and went to the hospital… again? Something is obviously wrong. I know you, Lauren. You don’t open up, you don’t TRY and get better.”
“Let’s go for a run. I don’t want to talk about this.”

Marshall stopped talking, as was my wish. Deep down, I didn’t want him to stop. I just didn’t know how to WANT to talk. That’s all. I wish I had the words to say, the tears to cry, the emotions to express. I was numb. I want to cry, but the tears just won’t come. I want to talk, but I can’t find the words. My emotions are gone, which I would like to blame on the pill that is forced down my raw, damaged throat every morning for my “depression”.
I excused myself to my bedroom, where I proceeded to throw my hair up in a ponytail and put on my running shorts and baggy “Rink Rats” t-shirt. I glanced at myself in the mirror, the self-esteem being shredded from my very being. I cared, but not enough to change. I went into the bathroom across the hall, falling slowly to my knees in front of the toilet. Then, the tears started to reveal themselves as I stared into the crystal clear, freshly scrubbed toilet bowl. I began to think about what I had eaten today and adding the calories up one by one in my head. That was enough to make me gag. I slowly forced my finger down my throat, today’s intake fogging up the water, and my tears falling on the seat. I then buried my head in my hands and tried to cry. Hard. This was unsuccessful. I needed to cry, but was incapable.
A slight knock on the door interrupted my efforts, and I quickly stood up and said, “Yes?”
“Can I come in?” questioned Marshall, through the door, after a slight pause.
“No. I’m not dressed,” I lied.
“Well, it just started raining outside. Want to take a rain check on the run?”
“Um, sure.”
“Let’s go to town and get a movie and candy. Does that sound okay?”
“I guess. But, I’m not very hungry. I ate at the hospital.”
“Pfft. That’s not food, that’s rubber crap that prisoners eat.”

I didn’t reply to that last little remark from Marshall. I just brushed my teeth to remove any evidence that I had just broken my 2-week stroke of being a “non-bulimic” and rinsed my face off in the black, marble sink. Palms resting on the sides of the bathroom countertop, I inhaled slowly and then let out all of the air that was intoxicating my lungs.
I smiled when I opened the door to see Marshall sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom, talking to a magic eight ball about his future. He somehow could always bring a look of enthusiasm to my tan, broken face. He could always ignite the light sparkle in my eye, even if only for a split second.

“Ace! The magic eight ball just told me that I am going to marry a beautiful girl from France, become rich, and live in a mansion in Paris!” exclaimed Marshall, in a slightly immature voice.

I just shook my head and reached my hand down to grab his, slowly pulling him up off the floor. He put his arm around my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and said, “Let’s go get that movie, Ace.”