EAT.

SIX

THE PHANTOM TOMORROW IS SO GOOD ALSO I GOT A BVB TATTOO!!!

Trigger warnings: Disordered eating, anxiety, depression

It's almost seven. Andy is sitting in his car with a strange and annoyingly unnerving sense of accomplishment.

He skipped breakfast. Not intentionally, mind. He woke late and didn't have time to have anything, but the fact still stands. He skipped breakfast and now he sits in the car wondering secretly what it would be like if he were to, perhaps, accidentally, skip lunch, too. Would it feel good? Would he sit here on their lunch break with pride because of his strong will power? Or would he just be even more anxious and stressed than usual?

Andy shakes his head. That's a terrible idea, he can't do such as thing as deny himself the very thing he needs to survive. It'd be counterproductive, trying to get everything done while running on an empty stomach and a weary brain, and yet, something about the idea of it resonates with him, sinks into his mind and swims about so he has no choice but to pay attention to it, to keep it from drowning.

But no, wouldn't it be unhealthy? He can't possibly expect to exercise efficiently if he were to be hungry. God knows he'd only pass out, and what good would that do him? What good, other than the lost weight and the feelings of self-accomplishment?

Yes, what good?

Again, he shakes his head. These thoughts, they shouldn't be inside his brain, plaguing him and his busy life. He's done nothing to deserve such mean things, and no less such mean things about him, by him. Self-bullying or something? He doesn't know, and he doesn't like it, and he doesn't understand how to stop it.

And then there's that part of him screaming that he should do everything these mean things tell him to, that if he did, he'd feel so much better. About himself and about everything.

As soon as the clock clunks over to seven o'clock, Andy sighs, opens the door, and gets out. He slams the door with a force that suggests repressed anger, perhaps sadness, and walks into the building with hands stuffed into his pocket, and those mean things nagging constantly in the back of his almost-overflowing head. All he can hope to do is push them down into the darkness with all the other unwelcome things until he at least is alone.

He's the last in the studio. The others are sitting around on couches laughing about something. They cheerfully greet their frontman. Andy returns the greeting while dumping his coat over the back of a chair and his phone on the side. "I thought we'd go over the interlude," he tells them. "And then the transition between the last two songs." They agree, beginning to stand up and collect their instruments and plectrums and drumsticks. Andy busies himself plugging in the amplifiers to the many wires and checking the microphone is working to his satisfaction. Then they begin, and all goes smoothly.

That is, until lunch time, when Andy returns, conflicted, to the safety of his car. His car, in which he can suffer quietly alone.

His lunch is in his lap - he kept it in the fridge in the studio - and he taps his fingers incessantly on the plastic of the lid, boring his eyes into his tattoos to avoid what he knows he has to address at some point before this horrible hour is over. Theoretically, he should just eat it. He missed breakfast, he's hungry, he should eat it. That would be the healthy thing to do, wouldn't it? To just eat the goddamn food like a normal person. Yes, Andy, eat the goddamn fucking food. Anyone else would, why don't you? What's wrong with you, Andy?

Now, he unclips the lid from the box, puts it on the passenger seat, and sighs. It's just a box of fucking rice for God's sake, get a hold of yourself! You're being ridiculous! Alarmingly, his hand is shaking. At the realisation, he clenches his fist and opens it in a hope that it will have subsided, but it hasn't and it doesn't make sense. It's some fucking rice, you're not stood on the edge of a fucking cliff. Though maybe the edge of a cliff does have a certain beauty to it.

Frustrated with his own sensitivity, he violently grabs the fork and scoops up a good amount of the rice, drenched in soy sauce. It feels almost like a sin when he swallows the food and even more so once he's shamefully finished it. And yes, in theory, eating was the right thing, but what's the use of doing the right thing if it feels so fucking wrong?

He rubs his eyes. They're tearing up. Why, he couldn't say. Because of what he's done? Or because of what he hasn't just done? If he had kept the lid securely on the box, would he be feeling any better right now? Or would he still feel this same sense of dread at the end of it all, because no matter what he does, it will never be the right thing? Because, after all, what even is the right thing? To eat and be ashamed or to do the opposite?

Andy thinks back to before he saw every meal as a big deal. He remembers the simplicity of picking up food on the way home, eating it in front of the television, dusting his hands off and going to sleep happy. He thinks back and he wonders what happened in such a short amount of time.

When he goes back inside after lunch, he's pre-occupied. Those mean things nag at him relentlessly and, multiple times, he has to swallow his regret with his tears so they don't notice, because if they were to notice, it would only make things worse. He snaps at them for the slightest issues, requests the restart songs when either he or them make any unnoticeable mistake or shake to the notes. A mistake that no one in any audience would notice or care about, but he notices it all. It's easier to pay attention to that than to what's going on inside. The mean things hitting hammer to nail, sculpting the stone of his brain into a thing such as them. A mean thing that won't rest until it gets what it wants from him. A bully, one might say. The insane attacking the sane. The insecure attacking the secure.

The mind attacking the body.