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wilbur is so sick. he realises this as he curls up in bed, body wracking with sobs as he shivers under three blankets. something is terribly wrong with him and he wants to stop so badly but he’s not ready to, not yet. he is so unwell but not physically, not yet, so he must keep going.
before wilbur sees his girlfriend sally, he fasts for a week - just in case. when sally makes wilbur insecure and want to scream for her nonchalance when she knows wilbur needs love, he sobs alone. more often than not, however, wilbur’s go-to thing is to vomit his fucking guts out. it doesn’t always work, especially when he’s pushed himself to the point of everything hurting, but sometimes it’s worth it.
it scares wilbur to no end - how much he needs it.
wilbur is very anxious about his habits - about being found out. wilbur swears he can smell smoke on his nails and vomit in the air of the bathroom floor he is sitting on. he’s scrubbed at the floor with bleach and a sponge, hands rubbed raw. he’s also sprayed about half a bottle of febreeze into the small, confined space. and he’s panicked now because he doesn’t know what else to do to clean up this mess that he’s made of this small bathroom and himself. he swears the smell of vomit is still lingering and he doesn’t know what to do.
his throat hurts. and so do his lungs. and he’s so scared of ruining himself beyond all help. and yet he can’t fucking stop. not even when he coughs up blood. or when his lungs hurt after a cigarette. or as he almost passes out walking down the stairs. or— the point is, he’s killing himself - albeit slowly - and he is terrified of dying.
wilbur decides he needs a new purge playlist. he’s purged to every loud, popular band you can think of and now he needs new material. (he blasts the music because he’s anxious someone will hear him, no matter how quiet he’s learned to purge).
wilbur thinks he’s fucked up this time. this is a common occurence when he purges but right now, he genuinely thinks he’s fucked up for good. stomach acid fully burns his throat this time - worse than ever before. he is crying real tears, they’re streaming down his cheeks and his throat is screaming at him to stop. he turns up the killers to drown his vomit and thoughts out. he doesn’t think they’re healing him anymore. his throat continues to ache dully as he swallows dryly around supposedly lodged food. perhaps it's nothing.
he thanks whatever's out there that at least this time, the food didn't end up coming out of his nose.
wilbur swears this is the last time - he knows this is a lie. it had been the first time he said it, the second, the third - hell, just yesterday he swore it was the final time. he rarely ever feels better after purging anymore. at first it was amazing, the feeling of being empty after a meal or binged mistake. now, it is nothing more than exhausting, than a punishment when he doesn’t quite follow his meal plan.
he is so tired but he can’t die until he’s pretty enough.
wilbur is a hypochondriac - most people know this about him. he researches his symptoms after a purge, fearing that he’s finally done it, finally torn his esophagus. wilbur’s current fear is that he has acid reflux so he takes his omeprazole and calls it a day, just in case. wilbur takes the medicine even though he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to - it was prescribed a long time ago and he doesn’t know how or when to take it.
he gets headaches after he purges but if he drinks enough water he can pretend they’re not there anymore, he can pretend that the water is helping. wilbur uses water to solve everything. whenever he feels like he’s going to pass out, he remedies it with water. stomachache? water. headache? water. nauseous? water.
wilbur gets so hungry after he purges - naturally. he tries his best to have self-control over himself, especially when it’s ten o’clock at night, but sometimes - very rarely - he slips up and lets himself have a bite of food. when it hurts going down, he reminds himself why he’s stopped letting himself do that.
wilbur is sixteen - almost seventeen - and by his seventeenth birthday he swears to be 30 lbs lower than his current weight. he has four months to lose the weight, which isn’t hard at all. he knows he can do this, he just has to have more self-discipline. this will be easy for wilbur.
wilbur doesn't think it's a big deal. so what, he has an 'eating disorder?' it's not doing it's job, he's not sick enough - it's not noticeable so he's alright. why is it a big deal that he likes the feeling of being hungry? that he is constantly wracked with cold or constantly bodychecking and faint. good. he wants it to get worse - wants it to be noticeable to others. he wants to continue watching the number get lower, wants to trail his fingers over his ribcage and be able to feel each ridge. he wants people to worry about him - because he is selfish.
he loves the validation he gets when people comment on his weight loss. he just hoped sally would say something about it - maybe he needs to get lower, maybe when he gets to his ugw, it’ll be noticeable. just maybe. so he'll wait a little longer, work a little harder, have a little more self control so the results will show eventually.
wilbur is nothing if not patient.