Trigger warning: Eating disorder, anxiety, depression

"Hi, mum," says Andy into the phone. For weeks, he's been putting of this phone call, because he knows once it's over, his parents won't look at him the same. 

"Oh, Andrew, hello! I haven't heard from you in a while," she replies brightly. 

Sitting in his car, he cringes. "Yeah, I know, sorry. I've, uh, I've been busy." 

"I saw you cancelled the tour. Did something happen, or..." 

"You could say that," Andy mumbles, then, raising his voice, he says, "Yes, mum, something happened. That's why I'm calling." 

"Oh, what is it? You broke your ribs again? You're not sober anymore? You've got lung cancer from all those cigarettes?" 

"What? No. I don't smoke anymore. Why on earth would I start doing it again?" Oh come on, Andy, you know that sounds tempting. He sighs. "No, none of those. It's, uh..." Another sigh. "Well, it's worse." 

"Worse?" Amy asks. "Worse, in what way? You've fallen out with someone in your band? Your record label has dropped you? You're homeless and living in your car like when you were younger?" 

"God, no. Nothing like that. My band is fine. It's nothing to do with my band. Why does everything have to be about my band?" 

"Then what is it, Andrew?" 

"If you stopped talking to me like I'm a kid, maybe I'd tell you a little sooner," he fires playfully. "It's not easy to say."

"That's not worrying at all." 

"Mother, please." 

"Alright, alright. Take your time." 

"Is dad there?" 

"No, do you want me to fetch him?" 

Andy says he does, and waits patiently while Amy calls for him. Then, when they're both present and listening, he takes a breath to prepare himself, and with obsessively twiddling fingers, says, "I've been in hospital." 

"Hospital?" Amy repeats immediately. "What for? Are you dying?" 

"Jesus, give the boy a chance to speak," Chris says.

"Sorry, Andrew. Continue." 

He's beginning to tap his foot. "I had some issues," he begins timidly. "Y'know, with tour and that situation with our bassist and everything, I was getting a little, uh, stressed, I guess is the word. Which was fine, for a while. I was handling it. Y'know, by yelling at everyone and all that, like I always do. But it was fine, it was. Until a point." He hesitates, contemplates whether he even wants them to know. "I wanted to be fit for tour, because you have to be, y'know, to sing all night long. Well, unless you want to sound like shit. I was, uh, I was working out and everything, to lose a few pounds. Not much, you know, just a little before the tour started. I was hoping to get abs, or something, I don't know." Another pause. "Then I, uh..." A heavy sigh to stall what he knows he has to say. "Then I stopped eating." 

For an agonizingly long few seconds, his parents are silent on the other end of the phone. Andy wants to hang up, to pretend he never told them, that he's still their perfect, famous son. He closes his eyes tight in an anxious wait. Then his father speaks. "You stopped eating," he says. He seems to be in a daze of some sort, thrown into shock at what he's learnt. 

"Yes," Andy says, with a mind to turn his phone off and never speak to them again. 

"For how long?" 

"Dad, please." 

"Why would you do that?" Amy asks. Andy thinks she sounds close to tears. The thought makes his insides turn. 

"I don't know." 

"You don't know? You stopped eating for no reason?" 

"No, I...No matter how much I lost, it wasn't...it wasn't...enough." 

"You stopped eating, Andrew!" His mother exclaims suddenly. 

"Yes," he repeats. "I stopped eating. I stopped eating, alright?" 

"No, it's not alright. Why in hell would you do that?" 

He inhales sharply. "I don't know. If I knew, I might not have done it. But I don't, and here we are." 

"You must have a reason, Andrew. You wouldn't stop eating without a reason." 

"Mother, please," he tries. 

"Are you eating again now?" Chris asks. 

"Uh..." 

"Andrew-" 

"Oh, for God's sake, I've had enough of that patronizing tone already. I'm not a kid, I just wanted you to know because I thought you might be interested into what your son is up to, but you know what, forget it." 

"I just don't understand why you would do that," Amy says. 

"Because I'm anorexic!" Andy shouts. "Because I'm anorexic, alright? Is that good enough for you? Can you accept that, or would you like it in writing?" 

A pause, then, "You're...Oh, darling, that's awful." 

"You're telling me." 

"Are you getting treatment for it?" 

"I have a therapist," he tells her. "He's a cunt, but yes." 

"But you're still not eating?" Asks his father. 

Andy groans. "I'm trying," he insists. 

"But not doing?"

"I'm trying," he repeats. 

"Does your band know?" 

"It's why we postponed the tour, so yes, they know. They were the first to know." 

"Are they helping you?" 

"They're doing what they can, dad, but they have wives and kids and their own shit. I'm hardly the priority, am I? Besides, as much as I love them, what help are they, really? All they do is tell me I need to eat, which I bloody know. And I'm fucking sick of hearing the same shit over and over like I'm at fucking school again. I'm an adult, I don't want lecturing on the importance of food." 

"So what? You're at home on your own starving yourself and they're doing fuck all about it?" 

"Jesus, you make them sound like monsters. Look, to be honest, every time they try and help, I tell them not to, so..."

"Why?" 

"Because I don't want help and, like I said, even if I did, no one fucking understands that just repeating how important food is doesn't fucking help. If it was that easy, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, for God's sake. Is that all?" 

"You can't push them away for trying to help, Andrew." 

"No? Watch me." He hangs up and puts his head in his hands. Then he gets off the bed and decides that going for a drive with make him feel better, so he gets in his car and drives out of town and sits on the bonnet overlooking a field for half an hour.