Who I am {Phil Lester}

chapter 11.

A/N: some mild mentions of eating disorders, self harm and suicide in this chapter, just a warning. Also (spoilers...sorta) crucial chapter and a very very VERY big cliffhanger at the end. Dun dun dunnn ^.^

INDIE'S POV;

"Kyle! Lunch's ready!" I yelled from the gloomy kitchen as I closed the warm bread lid on the melted gooey cheese sprinkled with tiny slices of ham.

I flung the wooden beech cupboard doors open and carefully grasped hold of two clear glasses, placing them down on the counter next to the two plates topped with a steaming hot panini.

I wandered over to the fridge and pulled the orange juice carton out, shutting the fridge with the side of my hip as I continued back towards the lunch. Pouring the smooth orange liquid into the glasses I called out for Kyle again.

"KYLE DONAVON!"

Still no reply. I sighed and strode over towards the open wooden doorframe waiting for his reply. I impatiently tapped my fingers against the frame.

"LUNCH, KYLE," I screeched. Sudden realisation slapping me in the face.

He was probably sleeping, as he didn't sleep at all last night due to lack of sleeping pills that I forgot to pick up from the chemist.

I flopped my arms down my sides and walked over to where the two plates were. I opened the microwave door and carelessly shoved one of them in. I quickly tore a bright yellow sticky note off the fridge and scrawled a message on it, forcefully slamming it onto the front of the microwave.

'Lunch is in here. Just heat up whenever
-Indie'

The only reason I have to take care of my older brother is because his therapist advises him to have company 24/7. As we don't have parents, I was burdened with the 'oh so many joys' of Kyle when I turned 18.

-flashback-

His cold motionless body lay onto of the plain simple duvet scrunched beneath him. His pale green eyes focused on the ceiling, whilst his messy wavy hair hung in thick strands down his forehead and along his prominent cheekbones.

"Kyle, dinner's ready," I impatiently leant against the door waiting for his usual reply of 'I ate earlier' or 'I'm not hungry right now I'll have sometime later' or even 'fuck off Indigo'.

No reply, he didn't even blink.

"Kyle," I sternly dragged the word out, bored of waiting.

Still no reply. I sighed and wandered timidly over to his bed, waiting for him to throw a pillow at me or an old school book. Because of this, I was surprised when I managed to carefully perch on the end of the bed.

"You haven't eaten in the whole time you've been here. I'm getting worried," I said, my voice softening.

His porcelain pale eyelids flickered, his dull green eyes greeting my own brown ones coldly before rolling them upwards towards the ceiling again, tilting his head back slightly as he did so.

"You're like a stick. All the colour in your skin has gone and we don't talk like we used to."

He stayed focused on the plain simple ceiling.

"I know what your therapist has said about you, Kyle," I finally spoke up, sighing.

This brought his attention back to me.

"He says that you have bulimia Kyle. I don't understand it though. You were a perfect weight and.. .oh, I don't know. But just think about what you're putting others through as well. Think about who you're hurting when you do this."