EAT.

FIVE

Trigger warnings: mentions of weight, disordered eating, anxiety

What if I skipped lunch everyday? 

Horrified at his own thoughts, Andy tries to shake the suggestion away. It's an insane idea! He can't skip lunch everyday, he'd end up either over-compensating with breakfast and dinner or starving. Not that a little bit of starvation every now and again wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing...

No. He looks at the plastic container of vegan pasta and sauce that's in his lap - he's sitting in his car as he does every lunch time - and shakes his head. It's not how much he eats that's the issue, it's what he eats, and how much excercise he does, which clearly isn't enough as he still hasn't got enough definition to be labelled as 'fit', whatever the hell that fucking means. The fork is in his hand. He stabs a tube of pasta and holds it before him, staring blindly at it before he shakes his head again and lowers the fork in the tub, resting it there while he closes his eyes and tries to make sense of this. He goes over his breakfast in his mind; a bowl of strawberries, raspberries and melon. Surely after such a healthy breakfast, pasta isn't all that bad? But what if he thinks like that every time? Isn't that the way to make no progress whatsoever? He sighs and opens his eyes. 

Then he decides it's all stupid and picks up the fork again, begins eating. He'll just have to spend more time in the gym later to make up for it. Yes, that's a good idea. But what if it's the pasta that's stopping him from getting the body he wants? What if all he has to do is stop eating pasta? 

He puts the fork down again. 

Surely, that's ridiculous. He needs to eat! Everyone needs to fucking eat! But does he need to eat this? Does he need to eat right now? Who's to say? Is he even hungry? And if he is hungry, isn't that a good thing - it means he might actually be losing a little weight, which is all he needs. Just a little weight for the tour. Half a pound, perhaps. Just a little, to tone him up and make him look good again, as he was back in the days of Andy Sixx, when he was drunk half the time and smoking all the time. Ah, maybe that would help? A drink. Just to take the edge off for a while, while he sorts this shit out, while he makes sense of everything going through his head. A drink sounds nice. 

No, that's not the right way to deal with any of this. Not the stress, the anger, the confusion, the anxiety. Drinking only makes everything so much worse, and right now, if it were to get any worse, he fears he might simply drop dead out of sheer shame and embarrassment. Andy picks up the fork and decides he's overthinking again. It's just a box of fucking pasta, it won't kill him. He needs it. If he doesn't eat now, he'll be hungry in a few hours, and then he'll start shouting and crying again and that was so mortifying it can't happen again. Yes, he'll eat lunch as he's supposed to, and he'll enjoy it. Why shouldn't he? He deserves it. Yes. This is something he deserves. 

This is something I deserve. 

Only once the container is empty, it doesn't feel that way at all. It feels as though he just did something he shouldn't have, that the food was to look at but to resist. Like some sort of social experiment, to test of his will power, which, clearly, is weak. God, he must be so weak. He looks at the box, at the sauce on the bottom, and he sighs again. That was a mistake. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have done that at all. He's such a fucking idiot. Why did he do that? 

Why did I do that? 

He puts the lid back on. It's fine, really. It was just fucking pasta. Not poison, just pasta, for God's sake. Get a grip of yourself! No one ever died from eating a bowl of fucking pasta! 

Why did I do that? I didn't deserve to do that. 

Andy stuffs the box back into his bag. Perhaps if he can't see it, he can pretend he never did that. Yes. What you can't see won't hurt. Only he did see, and it does hurt, and now that's another thing added to the already too-long list of things to deal with today. A list he has everyday, that never seems to fucking disappear. Ah, the joys. 

Why did I do that? What did I do to deserve that? Why did I just fucking do that? 

A knock on the window startles him. He's met with Jinxx, winding down the window and waiting for him to speak. "We're waiting for you," the elder tells him. 

"You are?"

"You've been in here for an hour and a half." 

"I have? Fuck, sorry. I'm coming." 

"Everything okay?" 

"Yes, of course. I'll be right there, tell them I'm coming." Why did I fucking do that? Why did I let myself do that? Why? I didn't deserve to do that! Why would I do that?  Jinxx begins towards the entrance and Andy leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, presses them tight to push any trace of tear back down. Not now. He can't cry now. He opens the door and gets out. There are things to do, there's no time to think about it now, no matter how fucking stupid he's been. It can be thought about later, when no one's watching, when no one's there to judge. No one other than his own sorry reflection, which he's sure will torment him for this mistake. 

I'm a fucking idiot. Why did I do that? Why did I fucking do that, what the hell is wrong with me?

He slams the door behind himself and follows Jinxx inside.