EAT.

EIGHTEEN

Trigger warning: Eating disorder, anxiety, depression, self harm

At home, after having had the tube taken out, Andy isn't quite sure how he should be feeling. Relieved because he's free of it all, or scared, because now he's entirely responsible for not ending up back there? It's been two weeks since the tube was removed. He only got home yesterday, driven by Jinxx, who stayed for an hour or so to make sure he'd be okay. They had him eating every day in hospital, a little more each time, and it became a routine for Jinxx to come in and have lunch with him. But now he's home, he can't expect that, not anymore. They gave him the all clear, the green light. It's time to be a functioning adult again. 

He doesn't know what to do with himself now he's out, doesn't know whether to celebrate or dread the coming days, whether to smile or cry, again, for the millionth time. 

Breakfast this morning was surprisingly okay. As okay as it could possibly be, all things considered. All of it was eaten, which he considered a win, and then he desperately found things to do in order to not think about it for too long. Lunch happened, too. He made food, he ate it, he kept himself busy, it was okay. The sort of okay that's verging on not okay, on 'I might die if I have to do this again.'   

And now, dinner. AKA the last meal of the day. AKA the one that brings the calorie count up to the limit. AKA the dreaded one. 

Andy opens and closes the fridge at least nine times trying to figure out what to make. He gets things out then puts them back in, boils the kettle but doesn't do anything with the water, puts a pan on the stove without turning the heat on. Does everything apart from what he's supposed to be doing, and by the time he's decided on something he'll make that won't take too long, he's begun to question whether he even should make anything, that he's already eaten twice today, isn't that enough? It feels like enough. It adds up to enough. Hell, it adds up to more than triple enough, if enough is three hundred calories. Which it is, at least in his mind. 

He arranges the ingredients on the side, looks at them, moves them about to occupy himself, then pulls out a chair and sits in it in defeat. What's one skipped meal, anyway? He'll have three tomorrow, he's sure he will. It's just one time, while he adjusts to living at home again. Just one time, Andy, that's how it all begins. He puts his head in his hands. How is it that he's not even been back for forty-eight hours and he's already failing? 

* * * 

Much later, he answers the phone to Jinxx, says, "Hey, what's up?" As though he doesn't know why the man is calling. 

"Hey, man," Jinxx says. "I just wanted to check in, make sure you're doing okay, that you've eaten enough today." 

Andy cringes inwardly. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have. Thanks for checking." 

"You're the world's worst liar, Biersack." 

"I tried," Andy insists. 

"Buddy, I appreciate that it's difficult, but you know what the doctors said. You need to have three meals and three snacks every day." 

"I know, I know. I'm not deaf." 

"What have you had today?" 

"I don't know, Jinxx. I don't keep notes." Like he'll believe that. "I swear, tomorrow, I'll eat more, I just...I need time." 

"I get that, I do, but if you don't have enough today, you'll have less tomorrow, and it'll just get worse again. And I don't want that for you." 

"It's hard, Jinxx."

"I know, man, but your body needs looking after and that means giving it enough food, y'know?" 

Andy sighs loudly. 

"Look, why don't you come over and I'll eat with you? I'd come there, but Lennon's asleep and Alice is out until late." 

"It's fine, really. I don't want to impose. I'll...I'll have something, I will." 

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes?" 

"I said - we said we'd help you. It's not imposing at all, I'd rather you have dinner with me over here than for you to have nothing over there."

"It's fine." 

"Biersack-" 

"Thanks, I appreciate that you care, but I'm fine, it's fine. I'm handling it. See you." Andy hangs up. Then he shakes his head and, because he knows Jinxx is right, gets up and begins for the kitchen. In there, he opens the fridge and stares mindlessly at the contents, sighing again, and heavily, before reaching in and picking up what he needs to make soup. With the various vegetables on the side, he collects a knife and a chopping board, then turning the knife over in his hand and running a slim finger lightly down the blade. Something inside - those mean things - whisper that he should press down harder. He quickly pulls his hand away and begins chopping up an onion. 

When the soup is ready and all that's left is to actually eat it, Andy can't bear to even pick up the ladle. He turns the stove off and for some time just looks at the orange liquid in the pan, hoping that with some miraculous sort of magic, he could make it disappear. He can't, of course, and it seems the longer he stares, the more of it there is. He eventually turns away and tells himself that if he can't see it, it isn't there, and if it isn't there, he doesn't need to eat it. And if he doesn't need to eat it, then...

Then you'll be pretty again. Remember what it was like to be pretty, Andy, before they ruined it? Before you ruined it? Remember how good it felt? 

Andy puts a hand to the back of a chair to steady himself, alarmed at the sudden return of those bullies in his mind. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, tries to reassure himself; he has to eat, that's the only way he'll survive. 

Are you sure you want to survive if you have to eat to do that, Andy? Wouldn't you rather be pretty and dying? Wouldn't that feel so satisfying? Wouldn't it, Andy? 

"Fucking hell," he says under his breath, pulling the chair out from under the table and sitting in it.

Don't you dare get up again. Don't go near that food. You're better off without it. You know you are. You don't need it, Andy, and you can't listen to anyone who says you do. You're better of without it.

Troubled, he pushes a hand through his hair, then leans his elbow on the table and his head on his hand. "It's just food," he whispers. "It's just food, you need it, it's just food." He closes his eyes again. 

It's not just food, Andy, it's a way for them to make you ugly. Don't go near it, you know you'll only regret it. You don't need it. You don't need it, Andy!

He's beginning to breathe heavily now. With the hand in his lap, he feels for bones through his clothes. Hips and ribs, none as sharp as he'd like. The discovery makes him angry and the heavy breaths become choked ones. And he's crying, and perhaps if he'd just accepted the help from Jinxx, this wouldn't be happening.