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The bottles in front of him are daunting.
He knows he has to drink them, he’s losing weight alarmingly fast, but it’s not his fault everything tastes so goddamn bland. The nurse in front of him looks at him with a smile, and it feels like she's mocking him. No staff in this shithole believe him when he says he doesn’t have a sense of taste. They don’t believe him when he says he’d rather die than eat anything other than a lemon, and then they don’t give him any lemons. Lemons have calories, why can’t they just provide him with a lemon farm or something, at least he’d actually eat them.
He stares at the bottles and wraps his hand around one, his thin, sickly, hand where the veins are popping out, but he just holds it there and doesn’t make a move to drink it, he just… stares. “That’s progress.” The nurse says softly and he’s sure his eyebrow twitches. “If I wanted to drink it, I’d have done so already.” “I know you don’t want it, but you’re going to die without it.” He frowns. Would it really be such a bad thing to die? Especially with his lack of taste. He wouldn’t miss it, that’s for sure.
He brings the bottle to his mouth slowly, making sure not to tilt it until he opens his mouth, and then pours some inside. He tastes the grim flavor immediately and spits it back into the bottle, coughing and hacking away, trying to get every bit out of his mouth. He hates this.
The nurse looks at him with a sad smile. “I’m not going to drink it.” “Honey-” “Don’t call me that-” “You’re earning yourself a longer stay.” Vincent frowns. “I know. But it’s already been a month. No residentials are taking me. Give up.” She nods. “We’ll be staying in the cafeteria until you drink your Ensure or it’s lights out.” He groans.
Vincent wishes his weight would kill him already.