--

"We'll be starting on solid food tomorrow, okay, Kibum-sshi?" 

I've been shifted.
From my original ward to the one for people with eating disorders, all the way at the other side of the building.
I've been labelled. Labelled as a mental person, a crazy person, one with eating disorders. And I still haven't seen my members since that day.

I want to, yet at the same time, I don't. I want to see Taemin's smiles and feel Minho's hugs, even watch as Jinki hyung trips on his way in, I miss them so, so much.
Jonghyun. I miss Jonghyun. 
I miss the feel of warm fingers pressed into my palm, the soft pressure comforting and soothing. Gentle hands brushing my hair off my forehead, adjusting the blankets, patting me and telling me that everything will be alright. 

Solid food.
Solid food means they'll be taking you off the tube soon.
It means you aren't sick enough for the tube. It means it's now temporary. You're too fat, too fat to be sick. Why are you here, you should be in a weight loss clinic instead. 

What does food even taste like, now? How will I eat it? How will I force it to go down my throat? What am I going to do?

"Don't look so horrified, we'll take it slow, okay? We can do it slowly, there's no rush. At your own pace."
The doctor comes over, adjusts the plastic tube hanging from my face. "For now, we'll be removing this, replacing it with an adjustable one, since you don't have to be on this all the time anymore. That's good progress,  Kibum. I know it's taken longer than the time we set for you but it's good progress all the same."

It took longer because I got rid of the rest. It took longer because I refused to take in all of it. It took longer, but we still got here. Now you're even fatter, too fat for the feeding tube, you have to eat food, now.
 
I have to admit, the new tube is a lot more comfortable. I can remove it at will, but I'm not supposed to. I don't see why not. I'm only a few kilos away from becoming obese, I'm sure. 

"Oh, and your manager  called earlier, they'd like to come down tomorrow, if that's okay with you?"
No, not okay. Never okay. Just give up already.
They've been doing this pretty much everyday, manager hyung calling to see if I wanted the members to come visit. The new unit has stricter visiting times, only on Fridays and weekends. Still, it doesn't stop them from calling every Thursday, but the answer is always no. No because I don't want to see them, and they don't want to see me fat. They're just doing this out of obligation. 

The management told the public that I was sick, down with a long term illness and that it would take a while for me to recover. Comeback postponed, schedules canceled. Because of stupid Kibum. They didn't tell the public the truth. Because who would want the world to know that they couldn't eat properly? I'm an embarrassment. I can't do the basic needed to survive. 

Having a disorder is so much easier than recovering from it.
I don't want to recover from it.

--

"It's not going to harm you, Kibum, slowly, just taste a little first. Not too much, you'll make yourself sick. Just go slow. Don't panic."

I can't even bring myself to touch the spoon. 

"Can you maybe just scoop a little? You don't have to eat it, just taste it with the tip of your tongue, a bit. We have a lot of time, it's okay."

Why are they treating me like a child? Why? I have my reasons for not wanting to eat. This isn't going to work. I'm not some picky kid that's not eating because they don't like the food. I don't eat because I can't. Why can't they understand that I cannot eat the food?

"A scoop, Kibum. It doesn't need to be filled." 

The spoon is heavy in my hand as I touch the porridge with the tip. Calorie laden, tasteless white mush. Unappetizing. Disgusting. Terrible.

No.
It looks good, really, it does. I want to eat it. I want to put spoonful after spoonful in my mouth until the bowl is empty. I want to taste the porridge, the slight hint of salt, the creamy, milky mix. I do. 
But I can't.

I can't eat. 

"Slowly, Kibum. It looks good, doesn't it? I promise you it tastes better than it looks. You've scooped up some already, now just a little? You'll find that it tastes wonderful. Honest."

My tongue is poking out slightly, and it touches the tip of the spoonful of porridge. I withdraw my tongue, quickly. 
How many calories were there in that ? How much weight am I gaining as I speak?

"Well done! It's good, right? A tiny mouthful now, maybe? A small one, not much. Just eat what you can."

Stop treating me like a freaking kid.

Against the voice screaming in my head I find myself nibbling a little, swallowing.
And it's good. Oh god, it is really good. 
It's soft and creamy and warm, and it's food. Legit, actual food. I've eaten.

You've eaten.

You ate, you put food in your mouth.
Who said you could? Who said you were slim enough? You aren't. Do you know how many calories were there in that mouthful? It's as good as eating an entire bowl of oil and butter. Do you see the weight appearing as you sit there? 

I cry.
I'm glad that there's only the doctor in the room, right now, no one else.
Because really, this is embarrassing, so embarrassing. And he's watching me, so closely, watching the weight appear on me as I hold the spoon and eat that mouthful like the pig that I am. 

"It's okay, do you want to stop here? We can try more tomorrow, we'll just fill up the rest with the tube, tonight. You did really well, I'm sure your members will be very proud of you, I am, too. It isn't easy, I know."

He leaves, with the bowl and spoon
He leaves and I am left alone. 

I need to get it out, get it out before the nurse comes in and puts on the tube again, get rid of the mouthful without them knowing, or they'll fill it up through the tube.
How much was in that spoonful? A thousands calories? Two thousand? Three thousand, even? It's heavy, so heavy. It's like an entire chicken in my stomach, sitting there, heavy as a rock.

Get it out before it digests.
But the door is locked, closed, it always is. There isn't a bathroom. What do I do? 

It's at times like this when I'm thankful for the fact that my room is on the first floor.
--

It's cold outside, really cold. Freezing. Hospital pajamas aren't the thickest, and the night air feels like frosty arms leaking into the buttons and collars, touching me and tickling me and grabbing me with icy fingers. I run.
Before they catch me, I run.
Bushes are close, grass, trees. The food will be fertilizer, then.

--

A/n: oh I reached over a thousand words for once!

I thought this would be a good place to address this, just in case anyone else in wondering about doing the same thing.  I understand that I have readers of this fic who follow me on tumblr, and I've been asked why I reblog pictures of food if I'm writing a story about an eating disordered person.

I quote: I think it is real disgusting, y'know? And hypocritical because you shouldn't be reblogging pictures of food if you write about what eating disorder is like and you obviously have one yourself. 

This isn't the first time, I've received another anon's message about this as well. I really don't understand this way of thinking, where is the link between writing this and reblogging pictures of food? 

I'd just like to clarify, writing a story with this content does not mean that the author definitely has an eating disorder. I'm sure there are plenty who write about things they don't experience firsthand. In my case, experience is linked to the story, but isn't an eating disorder about not eating? I still enjoy looking at pictures of food. I just may not be as fond of consuming it. 

I would really appreciate it if I don't receive messages of this sort anymore. Unfollow me if it bothers you so much, really.