"Go away." His voice sounds raw.
I reach the last stall and push against the door. Locked. Through the gap, I can see the edge of his bent knee on the floor.
"Open the door." I barely keep my voice from shaking.
"I'm fine. Just sick from something. Probably the mystery meat from lunch."
"I'm not asking again. Open it, or I'll open it myself."
"Yeah? How do you plan to do that?"
I kick the door. Hard. The sound echoes through the bathroom. Doesn't break. Yet.
"Jeez," he whispers. The lock slides back. I push the door open.
Liam kneels on the floor, one arm braced against the toilet, the other wiping his mouth. Pale, sweating, eyes bloodshot. He looks away when our eyes meet.
"It's nothing," he says, struggling to his feet. "Food poisoning."
I step into the stall. The small space forces us close, and I can smell the acid on his breath, see the tremor in his hands.
"Don't lie to me. This isn't food poisoning. This isn't the first time either."
He gets up and tries to push past me. "I don't need a lecture."
I block his exit, arm against the stall divider. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
His eyes flash. "So what if I vomit? It's my body."
"It's my responsibility to maintain your health while you're here. You're mine." Easier than saying what's actually going on inside me. "Deliberate self-harm…"
"This isn't self-harm," he snaps. "I just don't like food, okay?"
"Listen to me." My voice is harsh, but I'm shaking. "If I catch you doing this again, if I even suspect it, you'll get another belting. And you won't like it. I'll make it hurt. Do you understand me?"
His face flushes. "You can't…!"
"I can and I will. This stops now."
I want to grab his shoulders and tell him he's killing himself. That the thought of his heart stopping from electrolyte imbalance, of him disappearing pound by pound, terrifies me more than anything in this place. That every time I see his empty chair, my chest does something too close to panic.
I don't say any of that.
"Are you done?" he asks, jaw tight, eyes bright.
"No. But we're going back to dinner, and you're eating something. I'll be watching."
"So I'm under surveillance now?"
"If that's what it takes. I thought I could trust you, so I backed off. That changes now."
He pushes past me, shoulders colliding. I let him go. Watch him stop at the sink, rinse his mouth, splash water on his face. In the mirror, our eyes meet. He's angry. More than angry. Livid.
I don't care how mad he gets, as long as he doesn't hurt himself.
But Liam doesn't stop.
A week, two weeks, and he's still doing it. I try sitting with him at meals. He eats a few bites, enough to get me off his back, then stops. The pattern continues.
