inspired by the "i barely eat." clip from what's good
title from basic instinct by the acid
warnings for eating disorders, suicide ideation, vomiting
every day started the same for simon. he'd lay awake, alarm bleating in his ear. he'd give himself sixty seconds before forcing himself to move, and in those sixty seconds his mind was clear - he was self aware - just for a moment. he'd take a step back in his own mind and ask himself why. why are you doing this to yourself? and then he'd blink the thought away, throw the covers off of himself and put on his meticulously crafted person suit; an act that would keep the real him with the real thoughts and feelings locked in the back of his mind.
simon longed for something different.
breakfast was never a hard meal to skip. talia was usually busy or on her way out in the mornings which made it that much easier to lie to her (he never wanted to - his chest stung every time). simon could get ready for a shoot and tell her he'd grab something to eat on the way. he never did.
and when he arrived to a shoot, sometimes his person suit would slip a little. his friends. he could tell them - tell one, even - but then they'd know. and if people knew, it became real, it became a problem. it was easier this way. this way he could ignore it, tell himself it was just in his head. they wouldn't understand. he told himself. because he was simon minter. he didn't ask for help. he barely accepted it when offered. any help he'd ever received had been forced upon him. he could be drowning and still not ask to be thrown a rope. maybe he was drowning now.
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he thought some of his friends might suffer the same ways he did sometime. any conversations they had regarding food would normal leave a bitter taste in his mouth, he could often recognise some of his own bad habits in the other guys. the way harry would flip the box around of anything before he ate it - straight to the calorie stats - and would then place it back down without taking a bite, he'd scan the room for witnesses an walk away. simon knew that feeling.
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simon did eat. maybe only once a day, and maybe some days he didn't. but he ate, and if anyone asked about it he'd tell them to look at how thin he used to be.
no one ever asked, though.
he wasn't stupid enough to give anyone the idea that something was wrong. he ate what talia made him, and he ate in videos (he still hated calorie videos. he was so proud of himself when they did the first one and managed to get out of it by saying he was sick) but those were the only times he needed to eat - he could just live off of energy drinks otherwise. and sometimes, someone would even make a comment on how much he ate and ask how he's not fat. simon would laugh it off and try to discard the comment.
try to.
he never quite could. maybe he could delay the effect a little, a day or two sometimes, but eventually he'd stare at himself in the mirror for too long as he brushed his teeth and that would sell it. he'd spit out the toothpaste, turn the toothbrush the other way and jam it towards the back of his throat. he'd empty his stomach into the toilet and brush his teeth again when he was done.
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clarity would occasionally cloud his judgment. or clear it. he'd purposefully say something mildly concerning, just to see if anyone noticed. it was a game he played with himself, it was also a weak attempt of asking for help - the strongest attempt he could muster up. a casual 'i haven't eaten today.' as he arrived to a shoot was normally the extent of it. someone would ask him 'why', simon would shrug his shoulders, and they'd point him to the food table with a 'eat something.' and that was that. they didn't even check up on him most of the time (not that he needed - or wanted - someone to check on him. he was a grown man) he'd started to say things on videos and streams too. that's where he would get more attention than any of his other attempts, but it was never quite concerning enough to make it back to people that could really help him.
there was a particularly pathetic attempt that he would often ruminate on that lingered in the back of simon's mind. it was perhaps the furthest his person suit had ever slipped. an episode of the podcast with randolph, an hour or so in, they were talking about food . simon hated talking about food, but it was late into the podcast, and the day. no one would be paying attention. not the audience, not his friends.
"what do you eat?" randolph asked him. a pitiful laugh punched it's way out before simon had even decided what to answer.
"i don't," the pathetic attempt of a laugh sounded forced even to his own ears. "i don't, i barely eat." he took in a breath, no one replied, and he couldn't stop himself from continuing. "i literally have like one big meal a day and that's it."
a moment passed. a second.
"mad. that's crazy." and they moved on the next topic. simon didn't know why he bothered.
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at another shoot, simon found himself distanced from the pack. he stood on a cliff edge, staring down into the rocky water, whilst waiting for the cameras to be set up. he was stood an inch or two closer than was probably acceptable, but no one noticed. no one ever did. he wondered what the waves that crashed against the cliffside would feel like against his skin.
"the call of the void." harry appeared next to him. simon barely managed to pull his eyes away from the water.
"what?" simon hardly looked at harry for a second before turning back to the waves.
"the urge to jump," harry replied. he stared into the water too. "you don't really want to do it, it's like an impulsive thought." simon looked at harry easier this time. he blinked at him, tempted to ask how sure he was of that.
"familiar with the void, are you?" he settled on. he could see harry have the same internal fight to get himself looking away from the water.
"something like that." they looked at each other for awhile, stood in silence together, and then they looked out at the water until they were called back to film.
the void called for simon throughout the day.
maybe it always had.
simon realised that he'd spent his whole life stood on a cliff, looking down into the void, not brave enough to step off but not brave enough to step away. constantly on the edge. never quite decisive enough to make a step.
it'd been thirty two years on this cliff now, one day he'd have to move his feet.
