Manorexic

Chapter Three

//author's note// Hello! The last two chapters have been TOTALLY re-edited! You will need to reread them, because it totally changes how the story develops.//

The anxiety running through Cameron's veins sent blood rushing to his face. To his disdain, his face was already flushed red with nervousness. Each one of his mother's footsteps seemed to resonate, the crunch of the gravel echoing in the living room. He could almost feel her hand on the doorknob.

Do I really want to do this? Cameron thought, his chest tightening. What he was about to do, was totally give himself away. All the hard work he'd put into his hallow insides would soon be demolished, filled with the heavy cement of food. The doorknob twisted and the door swung in.

"Cam? Where are you?" His mother called, slipping her boots off in the entry way, just a corner away from Cameron being able to see her. He breathed inaudibly, the seconds ticking by like years. "Cam?" she yelled again, rounding the corner and stopping as soon as her eyes collided with his.

"Oh, Cameron," she said, her heart to her chest, "you scared me!" Won't be the last time today, he thought, staring up at his mother. "What's all of this?" She waved her hand in front of her, gesturing to the boxes.

"Mom... I'm going to need you to sit down." Cameron said, his eyes hardened with seriousness. "I-it's important.." Her brow combed together, her eyes floating in worry. She made her way to the couch, sitting on it with her hands in her lap.

"What is it?" Those words marked the end of Cameron's self destruction. For, it was with these words that the lids of the boxes were flipped off, resting on the table beside them, and Cameron's shirt was taken off. In the boxes, the one on the left was filled to the brim with a colorful arrangements of pills, big and small. The one on the right, once unlided, displayed the dozens of razor blades Cameron possessed, and in front of the two stood a near-alien looking boy, shirtless, displaying every ridge of his ribs. The worry in his mother's eyes spilled out, and her hands cupped where it came from.

**A DEFINITION**
Failure /noun/
To disappoint, typically one you care deeply about

For a moment, Cameron's mother didn't say anything. She just sat, sobbing on their couch. This had been one of his greater worries. Disappointing his mother. He stood there a while, just looking down at the woman who'd supported him since the moment his father had left them, even though it was she who needed the support. Cameron slipped his tear stained tee shirt back over his frame, closing the distance between his mother and himself. It was now, after the punch had been thrown, that Cameron held his mother. Together, the two cried over the last year in silence. There wasn't a need for words, it was a time to mourn.

But soon, the mourning was over.
And there was hell to pay.

"Cameron," his mother said in a whisper, "what does this mean?" Cameron cleared his throat, pulling back from her embrace.

"It means, mother, that I am very sick." The next hour and a half was spent full of explanations and tears. Why had he done this to himself? He didn't really know... What did this mean now? It meant getting help.

The knot in Cameron's throat returned. This meant getting help, and getting help meant hospitals, and hospitals meant gaining weight, and that meant Cameron would face his biggest fears.

Weight.

Discussions flew back and forth between the two, do they check him into a rehabilitation center, since its like an addiction? No, they check him into a psych ward, since it's a mental illness. Do they check him into the hospital in his home town or take him to the more trained professionals three towns away? To the trained professionals, if they want anything to change. What about school? Politely, fuck school.

So, it was settled, they'd make the trip to the big city, they'd check him into Saint Ritás and finally get the help he'd been needing. With it being figured, his mother went to gather the necessities (social security cards, insurance numbers, the like) while Cameron wrapped the two shoe boxes in duct tape and went to pack a few bags (inevitably, it was going to be a rather long stay). Halfway through the packing, as he was pulling socks from his dresser he eyed his phone.

Together or not, Ariel needed to know. He dragged his finger across the glass of the touch screen, and sent her a text message. Please call me when you can, its a very important matter concerning me. Three minutes after his finger left the send key, his phone began ringing.

He'd nearly missed it.

"Hello?" He asked the phone speaker.

"Hi..." She said, had she been crying?

"Is everything alright?" He sighed, the lump in his throat growing.

"No," he said, and spent the next forty minutes tossing socks and other clothes into his suitcase, telling Ariel the days woes, about the secret contents in the boxes and the decision to go to Saint Ritás. At some point, Ariel's throat had cracked and he knew she was crying.

"Can I come?" She asked, voice shaking. He nodded, and when he realized she couldn't see his head move, replied audibly.

"Yes." After Cameron's mother was informed of Ariel tagging along, they waited together in the driveway, suitcase separating them, staring. When Ariel's car dragged up their driveway, Cameron clutched the suitcase handle and watched her emerge from the door.

Gorgeous as ever, even after crying. It wasn't Cameron she hugged, but his mother and together, they cried again. Ariel hide her face in the nape of his mothers neck mumbling softly for her to hear.

"I know, I know.." The woman trailed softly. A harsh sob emitted from Ariel's throat.

"I'm just so sorry I couldn't take better care of him for you." The girl sobbed against the woman and she patted her back.

"I haven't done a very good job, either." At these words, Cameron wrapped two boney arms around the both of them, his heart breaking. Though it was his decision when and when not to eat, the two most important people in his life stood infront of him, a disheveled mess, blaming themselves. He wanted to tell them to stop, to explain everything to them, how the eating disorder was to blame, not any of them. He couldn't bring any words to the surface of himself, so they stood together in the drive way.

One abandoned.
One broken.
One starving.

The three broke apart, recovering their hidden selves, putting on the faux strong front, and forcing a smile.

The conditions couldn't of gotten any worse.

Or could they?