A/N: I don't really know where this idea came from. This is going to be a difficult story for me to write, for many reasons. But I'm going to try and stick with it, because far too many stories on this subject glamorize depression, anorexia, cutting. I want to write something different, something closer to the truth. So this was my idea. I'm no therapist or doctor, I know only what I see and experience, and what I learn from others like me. There are very many people out there who hate the topics I'm going to introduce, because some are very controversial. I guess I just want to tell another side to the story, what it's like on the other side of the fence. I'm sick of seeing my friends getting abused – yes, abused – by idiots who don't know a thing, who speak without thinking, who preach what they know nothing about. My hope is that, after reading this, some of you will have a better idea of the reality of ED's and cutting, and an understanding of why some people with eating disorders do the things they do.
Eighty-six. The number flashes eerily through my mind, my corneas burning with the digits that scorned their surface not 15 minutes ago.
Eighty-six. Two neon green numbers glaring me in the face, glowing, frightening in their intensity. Almost as if they were taunting me. A testament to the fact that I've fucked up, yet again. Only this time, my mistakes have led to devastating consequences.
It's my fault, really. I can't blame him, however much I want to. He hid it well, but still... I should have said something. It's not as if I didn't notice. I did. I saw how his normally form-hugging clothing grew daily, how his already naturally thin frame shrunk, in contrast, as the days went by – the fabric now hanging off of his frail frame, striking a remarkable (and disturbing) resemblance to clothes hanging off of a wire hanger. I watched the bags under his eyes grow darker and darker, the bones on the sides of his pale face becoming more pronounced, now the predominant features on his face. I want to blame him... But I can't.
Eighty-six.
I shiver, not so much from any real lack of heat but more an internal chill, and pull my down comforter a little tighter around my body, curling into myself, making my body into a tight ball. I clench and re-clench my fists, my overgrown nails digging painfully into flesh, as I bite my lip and blink against the tears threatening to break. The metallic tang of blood in my mouth prompts me to release some of the pressure, and I let out a shuddery sigh, no longer fighting against the welling behind my eyelids.
I should have known. At first, I believed his lies, his excuses, his dismissals. Maybe... Maybe I was trying to convince myself just as desperately as he was that his words were the truth. That he really was just sick with a cold, or feeling a bit run down. That he'd already grabbed a bite at Quatre's, or that he was going out to dinner with Wufei later that night. I doubted, I feared, I suspected... But I never asked for confirmation from the others if these excuses were just that: Excuses.
Eighty-six.
As time went by though, I began to see his words for what they really were. I began picking up on the small things that I had failed to notice before – how he would take a sip of water after each miniscule bite, and the fact that his after-dinner "showers" grew in length as the weeks went by. The situation was spiraling out of control, and fast, and for the first time in my life... I could not come up with an easy solution. There was no equation that would solve this problem. I could not just type out the components on my laptop and within minutes come up with hundreds of results, dozens of ways in which to right the wrongs.
I pride myself on my intellect, my ability to solve problems, spot solutions and fix tribulations before they grow out of control. What went wrong this time? How could I have overlooked this? It was the pink elephant that I did not want to acknowledge.
Eighty-six.
He sleeps now, peacefully, in his room. An unconscious rest, the result of too many skipped meals, too many nights spent tossing and turning, the product of hunger-induced insomnia. I fear now that it may be too late for him, for me... for us. I try hard not to look back on my mistakes though, try not to focus too much on the "what if"'s. The solutions don't lie in the past, but rather in the future. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow he has agreed to pay a visit to Sally's clinic on L2. Tomorrow we will look together for the answers to questions we have yet to ask. But for now... For now, I can only rest, and wait. I'll wait forever. This is a promise I make to myself right here and now. I know that we have a long journey ahead of us, a long, twisting path of tears, screams, anger, regret, and misery. But it is one path that I refuse to stray from. I will be here with him now, forever. And together, somehow, some way... we will pull through.