Phil Brooks, better known his ring name CM Punk, slithered back into the hotel room he had occupying for the night. Sadly, he didn't need for that much-not for sleep, not for reading, and definitely not for eating. He sighed and rubbed his icy fingers over the buzz cut he had, and threw his bags on the semi-large bed. His withered olive eyes searched the dry area of his room, not seeing anything he actually liked about it. It wasn't fancy-not that he expected that-it wasn't small either-not that he wanted bigger. He really didn't want anything, but to lie down and close his eyes, dreaming for sleep.

But somehow he knew that wouldn't happen. Phil actually hadn't been sleeping for the past two days, much to his chagrin-even taking a small nap wouldn't come along. He took an elongated breath, before feeling his empty stomach reach. He let his cold hand creep over the flatness of his belly-feeling nothing underneath it. His gaze slid to the right, spotting the dusty mini-fridge to the side, and it suddenly made his insides-what was left of them-churn deeply.

Phil scooted back from the fridge, hoping to satisfy his nauseating feeling. He peeled off his jacket, and sat himself down on the bed, his body almost sinking inwards. "Fuck…" He grumbled underneath his breath, feeling a headache start to emerge from his cranium. He sighed and used the palm of his hand to press against his forehead, trying to get the pain to dissipate. But, like always, the pain didn't subside. It was there for the ride until he finally decided to take Ibuprofen to kill the throbbing noise. Phil leaned forward on his haunches, groaning deeply as his stomach gave off a loud howl.

Phil didn't want to eat anything. He hadn't been eating hardly anything in over a week. He knew he should have-just to keep himself in shape in case Ryan Reeves decided to tear his ass a new one-again for the second time in a night. But he just couldn't help himself. Ever since he suffered a miscarriage at the hands of Ryan Reeves, he didn't want to consume anything-or even drink that much either. The overwhelming pain of losing his child settled in and took control over his body, not wanting him to eat.

The only thing he had today was a can of Diet Pepsi, with his trainer being an over-eco healthy nut that he should've eaten something by now. But everything his olive eyes passed at Pizza, Chicken, or just a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich, he wanted to puke. His stomach would somehow snap shut and closed off any entrance where food would want in. His body was slowing down hastily from the lack of protein he didn't have, making him seem weaker everything he competed in a ring.

Phil was pulled from his thoughts when something flashed in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head towards the right, seeing someone-or something crawl into the room. He opened and closed his pretty eyes for a moment, thinking his mind was fucking with him. But as he continued to stare, the 'something' continued to stare back. It was ugly-whatever it was. Covered in dirty black hair, eyes the color of a horrific topaz, teeth jagged and stained brown for god knows what. 'The fuck…' He thought and leaned forward towards it, and the thing moved closer, not even moving, more like slithering towards.

It had a bad smell. Like rotten tomatoes, or anything that made Phil sick. He immediately pulled back when the strong stench found its way into his system. Not being able to control the building fluids begging to come out, Phil hastily snatched the small waste basket from the floor, and spilled his bile into it. He choked on it afterwards, using his bare hand to wipe the mushy, green vomit from his mouth. He set the canister down, and looked back to see the 'something' had disappeared, leaving him alone in the room once again. Already knowing the creature had been gone, Phil continued to look for it. At the same time, he felt his stomach clench, signaling him that the rest of its contents were about to come out.

Phil hurriedly tried to catch the waste basket, but fell down on his hands and knees, emptying his stomach completely of its insides. He hurled everything-and everything out, until his throat hurt and his abdomen was sore. He used the same hand to wipe his mouth, but saw that red fluid was on his skin. He immediately knew it was blood, and felt the sickening feeling come back, only knowing his guts had nothing more to offer. "Fuck, Oh shit…." He spoke lowly, getting a sudden aftertaste in his mouth. It made him grimace, and he looked around for something drink.

Spotting the mini-fridge he tried to get up, but in his state of mind, tripped over several suitcases, his ankle catching the plug to the lamp, taking it with him. The lamp struck the bare floor hard, the bulb cracking and taking out the only light source in the room. Phil didn't think much of it and opened the fridge, using his frigid hands to grab anything. The first bottle his fingers touched, he pulled out. Snapping the top off, Phil didn't bother reading it as he put the nose to his dry lips, taking in as much as he could. Almost emptying the bottle, he set it down beside him, the nasty puke taste out of his mouth.

But another feeling emerged. And it wasn't anything he had been used to. His insides were now wheels turning, and he grew lightheaded. His throat constricted and he could barely stand, let alone sit, before he fell over onto his back. The empty bottle caught the impact and rolled back over towards Phil, touching his hand. His whole body was on fire, his gaze blurry as he tried to see what the label said-only a gold shimmer to his vision.

…

Phil's eyes flickered open, and quickly closed again. A fluorescent light panel glowed on the ceiling directly above him, something that he found quite confusing. Phil certainly didn't remember there being fluorescent lights in his hotel room – especially not a crap-job hotel like the one he was staying in. So why was there one now, all of a sudden? Again he opened his olive eyes, and squinted, allowing his pupils to become fully accustomed to the cold light. It was when he began to turn his head and look around the room when he realized he was not in his shitty hotel room, nor was he wearing the vomit-covered jeans and GTS T-shirt.

Phil was almost did a double take as he discovered that he was lying in a hospital bed, dressed in nothing but lose slacks. But what on earth was he doing here? He cringed as he tried to move his inked arms, but felt something stick in the crook of his elbows. With the poor vision he had, Phil could see both arms were tightly taped in dark brown straps-also going across his bare chest and lower thighs. He figured this was coming sooner or later.

Phil had been suffering from Anorexia, Bohemia, and Schizophrenia. It wasn't a large case with the Schizo; he was however-heavily grounded under the feelings of being fat, chubby, or having the smallest trace of fat on his body. He hadn't eaten anything in days, and since the day he had lost his unborn child-he didn't care to eat. Ryan Reeves was a terrifying man; one that Phil didn't want didn't want to be involved with. He was big, bulky and smelled terribly. He threatened Nick Nemeth that if he ever wanted a child, he'd have to find it with someone else. Afterwards, Phil was thrown forcibly into Nemeth in the parking lot, killing hi unborn child. Nemeth seemed to blame Phil for everything and split with him, not wanting anything to do with him. It was a disgusting feeling-you're precious love hurting you, wishing you'd never been born-blaming you for being an unfit father.

Phil wasn't on even grounds. He hadn't been for a long time, he was dying inside.

As Phil turned to see the white room occupied by two nurses, he had another feeling. His stomach wasn't feeling withered or dry, like he had been eating. But that couldn't be, Phil didn't eat, he never ate. He felt a snap of pain in his neck when he tried to move, and another in his head. He couldn't move his arms to rub his temples, and he felt constricted, and wrongly accused. He looked around at the white wash walls, spotting one small window, and several posters.

'Cutting doesn't help, it only makes it worse'

"Having problems isn't your fault'

'You need to be strong'

Those didn't sound like hospital slogans. He arched to the right, seeing several white coats handing on the walls-and one of the nurses filling up a syringe, before flicking the leaking needle. His olive watched carelessly, the only thought in his mind knowing that he wasn't in a Hospital, but in an Inpatient Facility. The nurse fixed her latex gloves before walking over to the man, releasing his left arm. She tied a length or rubber around his bicep, causing his vein to bulge from beneath the porcelain skin.

Phil watched as she took his arm, and eased the tip of the syringe in his skin. He didn't feel anything as his skin was penetrated. He leaned his head back as she pulled it out, before using a gauge pad to stop the quick bleeding. She gave him a wrinkled smile as walked off with Phil's blood, and he felt the tight tenseness in his body start to decrease. He felt comfort for the first time in a while, and used his free arm to caress the loose skin that was his belly. He knew he had eaten something-he thought as he rested his hand on his pale skin. He was very cold, and tired at the same time. Phil hadn't gotten sleep in a long time, but felt it was what he needed. Slowly, Phil let his weeping eyes fall shut, and eventually fall asleep.