Eat My Heart Out

I can't leave him.

It's not that I won't; it's that I literally can't. I can't get him out of my head. I can't get his pain out of my body. I can't leave him.

I'll help him. I'll get him through this. He helped me with my drinking problem when I had my first relapse, so I'll help him with his first relapse. It's only fair. It's how it's meant to be. It's how it has to be and it's how it will be.

I refuse to leave him.

First, I need to get him to eat again. He needs to know that it's okay – that we all do it and it's needed. He needs to eat in order to survive.

I need to get him to realize that he doesn't need to look in the mirror to see himself. He just needs to look down. The mirror changes the way he sees things, so he needs to know he doesn't need it.

Lastly, I need to help him realize how loved he is. My parents love him to death. Mikey loves him to pieces. He needs to realize that he's always got a loving home to go to.

He needs to go home. And I have to help him get there. I must make him smile again.

I have to show him that it doesn't matter what he looks like, he's still perfect. His personality is like a sun to me, and that sun is starting to fade. It's starting to die. It's not just hiding behind a dark cloud anymore.

That's why I failed him – until now: he's been hiding behind a dark cloud. My drinking was a dark cloud. He didn't mean to hide behind it. I didn't mean to hide him away behind it. It just happened. It just hid him. And during the time I couldn't see him – during the time I wasn't there for him – he started to fade. He started to die.

But now I see him. I see him clearer than perhaps ever before, and now, he's dying. He's dying in front of my eyes!

He needs to go home and be safe again. He needs to get out of this place that keeps him locked up like a mental case, and he needs to feel loved again.

I have to get him out of here.

I will help him get out of here.

-----

I take too much food. We aren't allowed to take food from the table and bring it to others. Everyone are supposed to take their own food, but Frank hasn't taken anything but a juice box.

I grab a juice box without even looking and walk across the room. It isn't a very big dining hall, but it's not like more space is needed. There's barely anyone down here, which is quite normal. Most kids get their food delivered to their rooms, because they're too troubled to socialize.

I sit down in front of Frank. He doesn't look up at me, probably because he thinks I'm one of the nurses.

He's forced to be down here. I'm sure he wouldn't be here if it weren't for the fact that the nurses and doctors thinks it's clever to force him to sit in a room filled with food.

It's a dumb idea.

I place a sandwich in front of him. Cucumber and celery between two slices of dark bread. No butter. No mustard. No dressing.

He looks up at me, not the sandwich.

I just stare at him. I feel like crying and screaming and kissing him and hugging him and everything else to show him that I love him like I've never loved anything or anyone before, and probably never will, but all I do is stare at him.

All he does is stare right back.

I feel my stomach turn with nerves and my chest tighten with fear. What if he doesn't take the sandwich? What if he thinks I'm the biggest jerk for trying to make him eat and what if he then runs out of my life to go and starve himself to death, all because I didn't see the clear signs of-

He takes the sandwich and starts picking at the soft crust of the bread.

I didn't even notice he looked down.

I look down at my own sandwich, tear a piece of the crust off and carefully place it in my mouth. I don't look at Frank while I eat my sandwich slowly. I don't look up to see if the tiny pieces of bread that disappear from the table go into his mouth or over his shoulder. I just stare at my own sandwich, eat it and trust that he's copying me the best that he can.