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Prologue

In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt.

Shame comes in waves. It’s not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeon’s hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. You see, it isn't a symptom of what I have--it's just a side effect.

The first thing to go is your happiness. Suddenly, nothing else matters--there's nothing else in the world, no one else has feelings or matters, nothing else has a point. It doesn't stop there, though--no, it's not satisfied to take away your mind and your smile. It has to take away everything else.

The next thing to go is your body. Flesh becomes a heretic to your godly soul, your body a witch you are burning. You eat yourself away, starting at the inside, working your way out. And all of a sudden, all you are is a pile of ashen bones cloaked in a limp shell of papery skin.

Then, you lose your friends. No one wants to be around you anymore when all you want is to talk about everything you're doing to lose weight. It makes them feel bad. Like they should catch up with you. But it's all for nothing. Because in the end, you are still saying, "I will be the skinniest girl in the world." But no one cares. There's always someone skinnier than you, and even when there isn't, you still hate yourself, and everyone still hates you. This realization hits you harder than anything else you've lost so far.

What comes next, however, is worse--you lose your pride. You stop thinking you're getting more beautiful--all you see is imperfections. And there's nothing, nothing you like about yourself. At first, some might take this and try to turn it outward, put it on someone else. But then you get older, and blame turns to shame.

It isn't a symptom of what I have. It's a side effect. But this morbid hunger for perfection destroys you--both the side effects and the symptoms. So in a way, it doesn't really matter.

The last thing is hardest of all to lose. You, by this point, have nothing left--you are miserable, you look like a train wreck, you have no friends, and you have nothing you like about yourself or are proud of. But once you've gotten there, it isn't long before you hit the point of no return: You lose your soul.

Part I

It's a kind of marriage and war, the closest thing
to death I've ever experienced. It was a choice--
throw yourself over the edge, or climb back up
and claim yourself again. The climb back up is painful,
and you never know what's waiting for you when you get there.
But if you fall and die, you'll never know if it was worth the fight.

CHAPTER I

The girl with the flaming-red hair is sitting next to me when we take the math test. To me, it all looks like a blob of numbers and shapes, impossible to distinguish where one equation ends and the next begins. Even though I have very little confidence in her ability with math, I sneak a glance at her paper for Question #4.

The question, a simple "Find x," is situated above a triangle, two sides labeled with numbers, the third side marked X. As I watch, the corners of her mouth flicker into a smile. She circles the X, draws an arrow, and writes, "Here it is!" with a little smiley face next to it. In spite of myself, I am on the ground within moments, laughing. The teacher sends us both to the Headmaster's office. Sitting outside, I gasp for breath, trying to squeeze the last moments of mirth from the day--it's never a good thing to be sent to the Headmaster's office, regardless of the reason.

When I finally settle down, I take a closer look at the girl. She's a short, skinny, freckle-faced waif who is all surprisingly dark brown eyes and big smiles. "Thought that was funny, didn't you?" she giggles, "It's okay, I thought so too."

"Where did you get that one?"

"The internet, duh. Where else do you get something like that?"

"I can think of a few places." I joke, "At least you got the question right...sort of."

"Ms. b***h-ell might dispute that." Redhead rolls her eyes. Then she sticks out her hand. "Tiffany. Nice ta meetcha."

"Tiffany?" I take the offered hand, but instead of shaking it, I lean down and kiss it jokingly. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madamoiselle." And then in all seriousness: "I'm Serena."