The space beside me in the bed is empty.

Again.

I know what that means.

Like a small child, I curl up into a tight ball under the sheets and cover my ears with my hands.

If I have to hear that sound again-

There it is.

That horrible choking and retching sound of my lover vomiting up what little food he's consumed within the past 24 hours.

Tears roll gently down my face.

Why do you do this?

You think I don't know, don't you?

I do.

And it kills me.

I hear you sobbing, spitting the last remnants out of your mouth before rinsing away the taste with tap water.

Your soft footsteps as you pad softly back to bed.

And then, when you lay back down, I watch your chest rise and fall, slower and slower, as you drift away into sleep.

The darkness hides my open eyes.

Once again, the morning comes, and I wake you with a peck on the cheek, and bump my leg against yours.

Your limbs are as cold as ice.

But I'm used to that by now.

One yellow eye cracks open, then the other, and you great me with a smile.

It's bright and happy.

Such an incredible mask you have there.

I watch as you clamber out of bed and begin to undress.

I want to look away, but I can't.

Ribs, jutting out from under you porcelain skin, and each ridge of your spine prominent and deathly.

Your knees are the widest part of your leg.

And yet, you stand in front of the mirror, glaring at your body.

"I'm disgusting", you say, whilst pinching a piece of non-existent flab.

I want to cry.

To slap you.

To hold your eyes open until you realise that the image you see in the glass is a lie.

Why can't you see it?

Liz, Patty, Maka, Black Star, Tsubaki and myself, all forced to watch, every day, as you slowly waste away.

Even all the times you've collapsed-whether it be from malnutrition, fatigue, or the two combined, you manage to come up with an excuse.

And I'm tired of hearing it.

Slowly, like a predator going in for the kill, I crawl out of bed.

You're still pinching and prodding, taking no notice of me.

Even though my image is reflected in the mirror, you don't see it.

Because you think your body takes up the whole frame.

My strong arms wrap around you waist, and you give an undignified squeak.

When you turn around to look at me, you're beaming.

Like this is some kind of fun, sick, twisted joke.

I'll let you play along.

"Get ready", I purr. "I'm gonna take you out somewhere today."

You nod, and get dressed.

I do the same.

Eventually, we're stood in the kitchen, with me holding out a blindfold.

"What's this?", you ask, the face of innocence.

"A blindfold. I don't want to ruin your surprise."

I tie it over your eyes, cutting off your vision.

"Stay here, I've just got to make some phone calls."

Before I leave, I give you a kiss on the lips.

I leave, phone in hand, and dial her number.

She picks up after three rings.

"Hiya, Soul! What's up?" the voice of my former meister rings down the phone line.

"I've got him. He's going to the hospital. He has no idea, though. Get Black Star and Tsubaki, and the Thompson sisters. He'll probably try to put up a fight."

I cut the call, and return to you.

You're humming to yourself, and tapping your fingers on the kitchen table.

I recognise the tune immediately.

It's my own composition.

I wrote it for you.

"Hey", I murmur, snaking my arms around your thin waist. "You ready to go?"

You nod, and I take your hand.

I don't have the bike anymore, I traded it in for a used car.

I set you down in the passenger seat, before sliding into the driver's side.

Key in the ignition, foot on the pedal, and we're off.

God, I feel guilty.

But I know that this is for your own good.

The hospital car park is empty

Less people.

Less waiting.

Maka, Black Star and the others are waiting in the reception.

One look at you, and their faces pale.

The elder Thompson sister alerts the hospital staff that we've arrived, and within 10 minutes, two doctors are looming over you, examining your delicate frame.

You call my name, wondering why I'm so quiet.

I stroke your hand gently.

I can feel every bone underneath.

"Take him to the eating disorders ward", one of the doctors announces.

That sets you off.

I watch as you rip off the blindfold, and try to make a break for the exit.

It takes the combined efforts of me, Black Star, Patty and a strong injection of anaesthetic to calm you down.

Nurses carry you up to the ward, and set you down in an empty bed by the window.

I sit by your bedside, staring at all the IV drips hooked into your arms.

They had to put you to sleep to get them in.

A doctor approaches me, and pats me on the back.

"Thanks for bringing him to us, son. About another six weeks, he'd have been dead."

The reality sinks in.

I'm told you only weighed 5 or 6, maybe even 4 stone.

I don't know.

I blocked the number out of my head.

And now here you are, trapped in a hospital bed, being forced to put back on the weight that you so desperately fought to lose.

Death the Kid, you have bulimia.

Have I done the right thing?

A/N: Hiya, just wanna say, eating disorders are something that are really close to home for me. Only last year did I fully get over anorexia for the second time. Yes, second. The first time I had it was when I was 7, and then I got it again when I was 11. It broke my mother down, and everything that Soul feels in this story is what she said she felt looking at me. The cold limbs? I had that. Six weeks to live? I had that too. My lowest weight was 28kg (about 4st). It was only after my father forced me to visit the doctors that I got myself sorted. I attended weekly therapy sessions and visited a dietitian every six weeks. Never once did I make myself vomit, however. It was pure starvation. Thankfully now, aged 14, I'm better, and back to a healthy weight.

I wanna thank my mum, who attended almost every single session with me, and encouraged me to carry on. Love you xxxxx