You asked for this so you better not let it flop. JK I love writing these stories regardless of the votes they get, but you know I love reading comments so spam this shit :) 

Also the original EAT is written in present tense, but Ima do this one in past because I prefer writing like that now. Hope that's cool. 

Also I recommend going back a re-reading EAT. for a reminder of the characters and plot and everything but it's up to you! I read it all last night and made myself cry hah

Trigger Warnings: Eating disorder, depression

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Following the restaurant freak out, Chris and Amy struggled to help their son. It seemed that no matter what they did or said, no matter the time they spent trying to convince him that one set back didn't mean he was useless and would never eat again, he had made up his mind.  

For the majority of the time, he stayed in bed in the dull light of drawn blinds and untouched switches, snapping at his parents when they attempted to bring up the subject of food. His voice was by then showing the signs of starvation, the usual deepness of it reduced to a breathy mumble. By the time a week had passed, he had successfully eaten almost nothing, noticing the effects on his body without caring to acknowledge the harm he was causing himself. 

The exhaustion of course got worse as the week progressed, and he could hardly bear to leave the warmth of the bed to drag himself into the bathroom. Early in the evening on the eighth day after the restaurant, he walked straight into the doorframe, vision barely there in his constant tiredness, and had little strength to handle even that small amount of pain. He sat on the ground and cried until he could finish the journey into the bathroom on his hands and knees. They bruised easily, and he had learnt to ignore the nagging ache that was consuming him. 

The next morning, he ventured carefully down the stairs, clinging to the handrail, and filled a glass with water in the kitchen. His parents were out, he didn't know where - they had told him, but he hadn't been paying attention - and the emptiness of the house without them made him feel sick. Anything could happen, and they wouldn't be there to know, to help him. There was a sick little comfort in that which Andy held onto, for comfort was not something he got a lot of lately. 

When he looked into the glass, the water seemed suddenly to leap out in a wave and pull him down, making his head swim and his heart panic. He dropped the drink, put both hands on the edge of the sink to steady himself. Even then, after two minutes, standing straight proved impossible, and on attempting, he found himself briefly blacking out and losing touch with what was around him. 

It wasn't until he hit the ground and felt the hardness of it shudder through his body that he realised he had fallen, and he pressed his eyes closed, opened them to a room that didn't exist anymore. There was a numb sort of pain working its way up his left arm, and he realised with mild alarm that his palm had been pierced by a shard of glass. Still, the pain was distant and easy. 

He dropped his head forward. He had a strange sense of not really being in the room at all. Half-conscious and dazed, he stayed, registering his parents arrival after they had entered the room with shopping bags and stopped their conversing at the scene. 

Chris abandoned the bags in his hands and rushed to his son, lifted him off the floor, forcing his eyes away from Andy's face because he didn't want to see what he'd done to himself; there was little colour left in his complexion apart from a grey tinge and a darkness around his eyes that made him appear skeletal, like his face was just bones and somebody had attached two dead eyes into the sockets. 

Helping him into the nearest chair, Chris told his wife to call an ambulance, though she already was on the phone, and wet a clump of kitchen roll to dab at the wound on Andy's palm, using his other hand to support the younger's chin. "Andy," he said, only now allowing himself to take in the sight of his son. He blinked hard. "Andy. Open your eyes. C'mon." 

Andy did. His chest was heaving, but his breaths came out shallow and wheezing. "I...I can't," he stuttered weakly. 

"You're okay. Keep your eyes open. You're gonna be fine." 

Amy put the phone down and told them the police would be there within five minutes. She got Andy a glass of water, held it to his mouth and encouraged him to take sips until it was empty. By then, he was struggling even to make himself swallow, and the sound of sirens grew loud outside.