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rose_tintedglasses) wrote2017-11-07 09:12 pm
rose_tintedglasses) wrote2017-11-07 09:12 pm
Entry tags:
Eating Disorder Fic 2
Warning: this scene is fairly graphic and could be triggering.
The stew was probably objectively good, but it’s hard for Niall to enjoy food anymore when he knows that it’s just going to come back up. Most things just taste like bile now, or sawdust on better days. They settle in the bottom of his esophagus, waiting to be expunged. Even now, when he’s supposed better, he can’t help it. The years of bringing up food with his fingers has given him a quick-fire gag reflex and he knows that if he doesn’t coax it out now, he’ll end up coughing it up later.
He should get better, he knows that. He’s not so far gone that he can’t tell that his ribs are far too visible or that he can’t recognize that the shivers that wrack through him at night are due to the lack of fat on his bones and not the air-con. He’s stuck, though, because he can’t eat full meals like this, but he can’t let Louis know how messed up he is either---that he can’t even eat a fucking bowl of stew without his stomach forming a vice clamp up to his throat.
And so here he is, thanking any higher power that might be listening that he has his own bathroom and doesn’t have to worry about an interruption.
He washes his hands first, looking at his reflection. His cheekbones are drawn and his eyes are sunken in. To some he may even look attractive, if not for the sallow yellow pallor of his skin that clashes slightly with his bottle-blond hair. He shuts the sink off and turns away to dry his hands, not wanting to look at himself any longer.
Then, he takes his place in front of the toilet, wine colored marks blooming on his bare knees from where they dig into the tile floor. The shower’s on even though he doesn’t need the noise, so practiced that he can make the food come up without a sound.
Except that he’s not that practiced anymore. He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t eaten enough food in one sitting to warrant this. He's tried to avoid it all costs lately, hating the mess of it. But he needs it now, can already feel his stomach churning with the urge to empty itself.
He takes a deep breath in and imagines sitting with that heavy feeling, letting the food sustain him, fill the gaps between his ribs--and then he exhales, leaning over the toilet, fingers itching at the back of his throat. He can’t move them out of the way fast enough and the initial rush of bile burns his cuticles where he’s picked away at them all day.
He strokes his throat a few more times, methodical as always, perfunctory almost. Detached. It’s easier this way, less like being sick and more like being a machine, a simple input and output function.
When he feels empty enough, he spits a final time and stands, glad the mirror is fogged over by the shower so he doesn’t have to look at his red-rimmed eyes. He climbs into the shower and pretends it washes the shame away.
<\cut>
The stew was probably objectively good, but it’s hard for Niall to enjoy food anymore when he knows that it’s just going to come back up. Most things just taste like bile now, or sawdust on better days. They settle in the bottom of his esophagus, waiting to be expunged. Even now, when he’s supposed better, he can’t help it. The years of bringing up food with his fingers has given him a quick-fire gag reflex and he knows that if he doesn’t coax it out now, he’ll end up coughing it up later.
He should get better, he knows that. He’s not so far gone that he can’t tell that his ribs are far too visible or that he can’t recognize that the shivers that wrack through him at night are due to the lack of fat on his bones and not the air-con. He’s stuck, though, because he can’t eat full meals like this, but he can’t let Louis know how messed up he is either---that he can’t even eat a fucking bowl of stew without his stomach forming a vice clamp up to his throat.
And so here he is, thanking any higher power that might be listening that he has his own bathroom and doesn’t have to worry about an interruption.
He washes his hands first, looking at his reflection. His cheekbones are drawn and his eyes are sunken in. To some he may even look attractive, if not for the sallow yellow pallor of his skin that clashes slightly with his bottle-blond hair. He shuts the sink off and turns away to dry his hands, not wanting to look at himself any longer.
Then, he takes his place in front of the toilet, wine colored marks blooming on his bare knees from where they dig into the tile floor. The shower’s on even though he doesn’t need the noise, so practiced that he can make the food come up without a sound.
Except that he’s not that practiced anymore. He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t eaten enough food in one sitting to warrant this. He's tried to avoid it all costs lately, hating the mess of it. But he needs it now, can already feel his stomach churning with the urge to empty itself.
He takes a deep breath in and imagines sitting with that heavy feeling, letting the food sustain him, fill the gaps between his ribs--and then he exhales, leaning over the toilet, fingers itching at the back of his throat. He can’t move them out of the way fast enough and the initial rush of bile burns his cuticles where he’s picked away at them all day.
He strokes his throat a few more times, methodical as always, perfunctory almost. Detached. It’s easier this way, less like being sick and more like being a machine, a simple input and output function.
When he feels empty enough, he spits a final time and stands, glad the mirror is fogged over by the shower so he doesn’t have to look at his red-rimmed eyes. He climbs into the shower and pretends it washes the shame away.
<\cut>
no subject
Detached. It’s easier this way, less like being sick and more like being a machine, a simple input and output function. also this :( what a beautiful but painful sentence.
no subject