95

95. That was the number written all over her walls. 95. Want to know why? Because that was her goal weight. Isn't that bone chilling? A seventeen-year-old girl's goal weight is 95 pounds. I'd send her to a therapist or a guidance counselor or a parent, but I couldn't, not after knowing all I do about her. How do I know, you ask? I stole her diary. Well, I didn't completely steal it... I put it back every night before she has a chance to realize it's gone. And write in it again so I can read it tomorrow. I am reading today's entry. Here it is:

"Today sucked just as much as yesterday... Well probably worse, that's how it feels. It feels as though the days get worse and worse as they progress. I'm at 98 right now when I was at 97.8 yesterday... I just get fatter and fatter. So I went to the disgusting school bathrooms to cut. Again. It isn't a big deal, and that's why I don't need to tell anyone. Well, anyone else. I made the big mistake of telling Blake and she almost told my mom. Not that it'd make a fucking difference. She's so caught up in her fucking boyfriend she doesn't even know I exist. I told Blake if she ever told anyone I'd just kill myself. That shut her the fuck up real quick. Now she avoids me like the plague. Which is reasonable I guess. I could technically qualify as the plague I guess. Good. I didn't need to be friends with her anymore anyway. She always wanted to go out and eat and then shop. What is wrong with her? It's like she wanted me to get fat. Fatter than I already am. Fuck her and fuck everyone else. Cutting feels good so don't stop me, bitch."

How could I tell anyone? She even said if anyone told, she'd kill herself. I'm not going to jeopardize that. But what the hell can I do? I'm sure you're wondering how I even acquire her diary everyday... Well... I'm her brother. And she doesn't talk to me or tell me anything, and that's why I have to read it from her diary. I care about her so much but... there's technically nothing I can do. I'll just talk to our guidance counselor without her knowing.
"Sir, do you have a minute?"
"Of course, Jason, what is it?"
"I have a problem that cannot leave this room, ever."
"Jason, everything you say to me is confidential, just shut the door and take a seat and we can talk."
"Sure."
"Does what you have to tell me have to do with you?"
"Not really."
"Someone else?"
"Yeah."
"Someone's health?"
"Kinda."
"Is someone's life on the line?"
"Only if you tell."
"Okay, why don't you begin."
"My sister, Rachel... she's been... cutting, apparently."
"Did she tell you this, or did you see it?"
"I read it in her diary."
"Hmm. Do you know where she is harming her body?"
"Her wrists."
"Okay. Have you talked to her about it?"
"No. She would never talk to me about anything. Ever."
"Okay. Do you plan on getting her help?"
"Well, isn't that why I'm here? And she wrote that if anyone found out, she'd kill herself."
"Well I hope you know, Jason, that doing what she is doing could kill her at any moment. An intervention could prevent her from ending her life instantly, or a surprise confrontation. Just making sure she is monitored constantly."
"Thanks."

I have to do something. Maybe Mr. Carney is right. Let's check her diary one more time before confronting her.

"I cut again today. Surprised? No. It was different this time though. I stopped afterwards to think. And I realized something. I knew I had a problem when I licked the blood off my wrist then wondered how many calories I'd just consumed. What the fuck is wrong with me? I need help. I need so much help. I'm just too scared to ask. I don't know what to do. What do I do..."

Oh my god. Finally. It's my perfect window of opportunity. I have to go... I have to help her... Now, now.

"Dear diary, I've never done this before, but my sister used to. It seemed to have helped her since she felt she had no one else to turn to. I need somewhere to put my feelings since I'm so angry nowadays. She felt she had no one there for her when really I was there all along. We were both just too afraid to step up. I guess I was too late to read her diary that day, because when I realized it was my time to help her, I found her dead in the bathroom from cutting. The guy in the ER said she hit just the spot where she bled out, and it was all over. I was too late. And it's her fault. No, it's my fault. It doesn't matter now. Because she's dead. And so am I basically, without her. Even though we weren't close, and she was too afraid to talk to me, I know she truly loved me. If only she weren't so scared. I kept her diary, and I found a paragraph I think I'd like to copy here,

'Jason has been acting funny around me lately. I think he might know. He's probably seen the scars or noticed my long periods of time in the bathroom, he's not stupid. He probably doesn't care. Well... I don't blame him. I wouldn't care about my worthless, failure of a sister either. I wish I could talk to him. I miss the old days when we were young and loved each other. Now I'm alone and I think he might be, too.'

I miss those days, too, Rachel. And I miss the days I sat reading your diary when I still had the chance to save you. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Rachel. I love you. I hope you're happy, though... you were buried at 95 pounds..."