We ripped the cake apart with our bare hands.
The clock struck a soft 7pm on Sunday and there were dozens of us hunched over a cafeteria table. Grit clinging to the edges of the metal folds of the folding chairs we used to sit on during therapy.
I was the youngest there. 17 in a place made for people in their 30s. And now it was my birthday. I was becoming an adult.
The gravity of it would hit me that night, and with that, the tears would too. A soft sob caught in my throat while I tried to grasp what was so fundamentally wrong about my existence in that cell. Alone. Rooms that stunk of vomit and human waste. The smell barged into your nose like an unwanted guest.
The worst part is that I knew who it belonged to by name. I’d have lunch with them that day - if they were well enough.
We asked for a knife to cut the cake. A brief look of confusion washed over us before we remembered where we were.
We dug our fists in instead.
Tearing chunks of the creamy chocolate dessert and jamming them onto plates. We didn’t care much for hygiene. We were all well acquainted with each other - and what disgusts most people doesn’t disgust you quite the same when you live in a building where the smell of urine, feces and vomit mix into an omnipotent presence.
I snapped back into my seat when a hand slapped down on my shoulder.
read the full memoir here:>! https://open.substack.com/pub/edenexempt/p/if-theyre-well-enough?r=6y0wvg&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true!<