TW: Eating disorder/depression/self-harm/suicide

When I woke the next morning, I was alone in the bed and my first thought was that last night had been some sort of fucked up dream and Ambrose hadn't been there at all. For a few minutes, I lay with my eyes on the ceiling, trying to find reason to get up. If it had been a dream, there was no reason. 

I closed my eyes, listened to the silence of the house, opened them at the sound of a door closing. So, it hadn't been a dream. 

That or I was being robbed by a very lousy burglar. 

Getting out of bed, I lifted my shirt over my head and dropped it on the duvet. I caught myself in the mirror of my closed wardrobe before I could away. It was clear then how unused to proper amounts of food my body was, how much I had ruined my digestive system. 

I prodded at my stomach. Even the tattoos couldn't make me see it as anything but fucking ugly. I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and bit down until it hurt, my hands pressing against my ribs and hips. 

It wasn't right. There shouldn't have been that much food in me. It felt illegal. I wished someone had stopped me from eating it. I wished I had stopped me from eating it. How had I been so fucking stupid? 

There was a gentle knock on the closed door and Ambrose called, "You awake?" 

I barely acknowledged the fact he was asking me a question, turned in the mirror and poked at my stomach again. My hands had started to shake. 

"Andy?" Ambrose asked. 

How is it that the simplest thing such as feeding your body can become so fucking traumatic? 

I threw my fist at my hip bone so that both my knuckle and my hip were overcome with a sudden pain. Bone hitting bone. Sharply, I gasped, then did it again. "Shit," I muttered. "Shit, shit, shit." My hands wouldn't stop shaking. 

Ambrose must have heard, because he opened the door and for a moment, halted. I lifted my arm to do it for a third time and he caught my hand, held me so my back was against his chest. 

Staring at the mirror, my eyes blurred and my legs gave way. I started to sob as Ambrose sat on the ground with me. "You let me eat," I stuttered. "Why-why did you-why-" 

"Andy, hey. It's okay. It's okay. Shh. Breathe. Listen to me, breathe. It's okay." 

I shook my head and cried, "I didn't - I wasn't supposed to - why - why did you let me - why would you let me eat?" 

"Turn around, come on," he said. 

I continued to stare at myself in the mirror even though I knew it wasn't helping. There's something entrancing about knowing what you're doing is making everything worse and doing it anyway. Like a child being told not touch something and so they doit simply to break the rules. 

"Andy," Ambrose said. "Darling, listen to me. Turn around." 

"No, I - why - why did you - why did you let me eat? Why would you - why'd you do that?" 

"Because you're allowed to eat. Just like I'm allowed to eat; you are, too. You'd never tell me not to, would you?" 

"No. No, no, no. But - but I'm - I'm not supposed to, I - I - fuck!" Yanking my hand from his, I threw my fist at my hip again. Any control I'd had was gone. It was supposed to be fun, losing control, but all I felt was dread. I yelled, "Fuck!" and Ambrose took both my hands and wouldn't let me pull away. 

"Listen to me," he said in a level voice. "You don't need to hurt yourself. You're hurting enough without that. Shh, just breathe." As he spoke, I tried again to free my hands.  "Andy, Andy, hey. It's okay. Darling, it's okay. Stop fighting. It's okay."

"It's not, it's not, it's not," I insisted, struggling through breaths. Everything felt wrong and I didn't know how to make it feel right. All I knew was that I had eaten the night before and I shouldn't have. There wasn't enough air in the world to breathe. "I don't - I can't - I - I - " 

"I know. Darling, listen to me. I know. I know it's so hard right now and I know you're so tired, but I promise you, you absolutely deserve to feel better, and you will. I promise you." 

"I won't, I won't." 

"Yes, you will." So certain did he sound that I found myself trying to believe him. "Turn around, let me hug you properly." 

I did. It was the first time he had seen me without a shirt on. I was too tired to care. 

His hands were warm against my skin which seemed always to be cold. I folded myself into him and he whispered, "It's okay. Just breathe. I got you." He held my head to his shoulder and circled his fingers over my shoulder blade. "There we go. You got it." 

My heart was pounding in my chest and I mumbled, "I don't want this anymore." 

"I know. We'll get through it, I promise. I won't let you suffer alone anymore." 

"It would just be easier if I wasn't alive." 

"Then who would I paint?" 

"Literally anyone would be better that I am." 

"Now, that's just not true. I chose you for a reason." 

"To paint or to kiss?" 

"Both," he said, and kissed the top of my head. "Both, chicken." 

"Shush." Releasing a shaky breath. "I'm just so tired of all this." 

"I know. I'm sorry you have to deal with it. It will get easier." 

"What if it doesn't? What if I spend the rest of my life feeling this way?" 

"You won't." 

"I want to believe you." 

"You should. I'm right." 

I sniffled. 

Ambrose kissed my head. 

It was going to be a long day, I could tell.