Eating Disorder- Ryden

13

  It had to have been over 70 degrees, but despite that he was drowning in an oversized hoodie and buried beneath a heap of blankets, muscles aching due to the multiple sets of situps he'd followed through with. He was too afraid to ask someone to turn the heat up. It was rediculous, fearing the thought of asking his friends for a simple favor, that he knew, but there was never anything he'd ever been able to do about it. While moderate, the temperature seemed frigid, and all that he could do was tremble and curl in on himself. He'd differentiate between resting and laying partially awake, eyes fixated on the wall directly in front of him. Music should have been his primary focus. The tour only had a few more shows scheduled; four to be exact. After that, they'd have to improvise. In the time that he could have used to his advantage by writing lyrics, he was either sleeping or internally criticizing himself.

Crying wasn't an option. The emotional aspect was definitely there, patiently waiting to surface, but even that seemed to require the energy that he could hardly fathom. When he wasn't asleep, he was torn between being freezing or overwhelmed by thought. Something as simple as sleep brought stress; the dreams hadn't ceased. His mind seemed to enjoy tormenting him with sexual scenarios including his best friend. Nightmares caused anguish, but he preferred them over sex dreams. Sex dreams only confused him, and in contradiction to desire, he lacked confidence.

  He pulled the blanket up to his cheek, sighing heavily and shutting his eyes again, determined to get a few more hours in. No matter how many hours of sleep he would get, he was exhausted, and by midday, all that he would find himself looking forward to would be collapsing into bed, staring at the wall, and over-complicating every thought or insecurity that had so much as crossed his mind until he'd fall asleep.

"Ryan."

Slowly, he opened his eyes, sleep beckoning him, both his muscles and his mind may as well have been already half-asleep.

Had he fallen asleep? Worriedly, he jolted upright from his position on the couch, movements stilling completely, doe eyed and resembling that of the deer-in-headlights effect. Almost immediately, the sound of his father's car pulling into the driveway, complete with the bright headlights, caused him to flinch. Cautiously, he looked with only his eyes, first towards the living room. The warmth of his pulse was in his throat, fear multiplying and hitting him in waves so drastically that it caused him to shake. In attempt to remain calm, he slowly pulled in a breath. Slowly, fragmentation of the day prior conjoined, sending self-control into an increasingly feral spiral, composure a virtue long forgotten. The room was absolutely corroded, papers and books and magazines and condiments scattered everywhere.

   Now he wanted to move. He had to. Maybe he could rush to straighten up the room and the consequences wouldn't be as bad. Maybe--

"Ryan."

He hadn't even heard the creak of the door opening. That door always creaked, it was so old that it could barely stay attached to the hinges, the paint was chipping, the metal hinges rusted and unreliable- there was no way-

"Ryan," his father repeated more sternly, standing across from him, arms crossed, the calm expression etched across his face a contradiction to the context clues sheathed within his solemn tone of voice.

Meekly, Ryan dared to look up, eyes searching that of his father's askingly.

"I'm gonna need an answer, boy?"

"Yeah?" He nearly whispered.

His father merely continued to stare, his eyes so lacking in sympathy that it frightened him. He should have been used to it.