Lucy is a woman of great taste, though it seems to me fundamentally misguided. The first thing she did when she arrived -- or so I've been told, I got here a full two months after her arrival -- was to clip her hospital garment and tie it off to better fit her curves. But who, in here, was there to impress? When asked, she replied that a lady must always be prepared. I respect that. Her doctor does not, as Lucy's views do nothing to solve her eating problems. The lady was not prepared for me to walk in on her in the bathroom, quietly sticking a finger down her throat.
Sarah lacks the grace of a woman with bulimia, and makes up for it with all the boisterousness and crackling of an old speaker turned uncomfortably loud. A few too many cigarettes can do that to the vocal cords. A few too many more and Sarah would probably be dead. She said being dead wouldn't stop her, that she would become a ghost and keep on smoking. I never mention that the fires she started almost did the job for her. I never mention the burns.
Beth is a lonely sort. There's more age in her eyes than in her years. I've known her too long to know so little. She is slow, deliberate, and monotone. Never have I found a voice so equally soothing and infuriating. The less she speaks, the more she says.
Maggie -- Maggie saw God. That's why she's here. She said in the profoundness of the moment she lost every fiber of her being and is still putting it back together again. She says she isn't 'whole' yet. Everyone here hangs on her every word, eating it up.
I saw a visage of The Virgin Mary once. I flushed it down with the rest of my shit.