Chapter 15. Ethan
Things have been good for a while. A few weeks where I almost believe he's getting better. Then the chair starts being empty again. Mealtime is a nightmare, thanks to Liam.
I never loved the cafeteria. Loud, messy, fights breaking out, guards putting everyone on lockdown.
But I'd take that a million times over watching Liam not eat.
And he loves to do just that. Even when everything seems fine, even when nothing bad is happening.
At least not externally. Who knows what goes on in his head.
Dinner. His seat is empty. I wait five minutes by the door. Sometimes he's late, usually on purpose. But fifteen minutes pass and there's no sign of him. I catch Jack's eye from across the room.
"Where's Marsal?" I mouth.
Jack shrugs. Not good. Jack almost always knows where Liam is.
I check our room first. Empty. I know where to check next. The communal bathroom down the hall. The knot in my stomach tightens.
The bathroom door swings open silently. No water running, no movement. Then I hear it: the unmistakable sound of someone being sick, followed by a ragged breath. Last stall.
"Liam?" I call out.
The retching stops. Silence.
I walk down the row. "I know you're in there, Marsal."
"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.
Dinner again. My eyes find his usual spot. Empty. The knot tightens, worse than ever. I'd warned him. Told him I'd be watching. And here we are. I glance at my untouched tray. Appetite gone.
Jack catches my eye. Doesn't know where Liam is either. He looks worried.
This time, I skip the dormitory. If he's avoiding me, he won't go somewhere predictable. Library first. Empty except for a couple of students over textbooks. Recreation room. Nothing. My pace quickens. Each empty space makes it worse.
I'm heading toward the admin wing when I spot Miles coming out of the supply closet. Working, as always.
"Have you seen Marsal?"
He studies me for a moment. Silence. Then: "Computer lab. Said he had a project due."
I nod and change direction. The computer lab is at the end of the academic wing, isolated enough to be a good hiding place during meals. The door is partially open, blue glow of monitors.
Liam is in the far corner, staring at a blank document. Not even pretending to work. When I push the door closed, he looks up, startled.
"What part of 'dinner is mandatory' don't you understand?"
He rolls his eyes. "I have a paper due tomorrow. Ms. Rivera gave me permission."
"No, she didn't." I lean against the desk, crossing my arms. "You're skipping meals again."
"I'm not hungry. Not everyone follows the feeding schedule like cattle."
"This isn't about schedules, and you know it. We talked about this."
"No, you threatened me. There's a difference."
I take a deep breath. "I'm concerned about your health, Liam."
"Bullshit." He stands, chair rolling back. "You're concerned about me making you look bad. If I'm not the perfect little project, following all the rules, it reflects on your precious leader record."
"That's not fair." My voice is tight. "I've covered for you more times than I can count. How can you think this is about my record? I care about you."
"I never asked you to!" Now he’s almost yelling. "I never asked to be your charity case!"
"Is that what you think this is? You think I'm being nice out of pity?"
"I think you get off on control." He spits it out. "Big, strong Ethan, saving the troubled kid from himself. Makes you feel important, doesn't it?"
My fists are balling at my sides. That’s so ridiculous, and I know he knows it. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" There’s a bitter laugh. I've never seen him this angry. "I don't need your help. Just leave me alone. I'm not broken."
"Really?" I say, harsher than I intend. "So throwing up your meals, starving yourself. That's not broken? That's a healthy lifestyle choice?"
The words are out before I can stop them. I know I've crossed a line. His face floods with humiliation and rage.
"Fuck you." His voice is low like I’ve never heard it before. "You don't know the first thing about me."
"I know you're killing yourself!" I'm shouting now. Me, who believes in control above everything. "I know you think you're alone here, but you're not. I'm right here, trying to help, and you're too stubborn to see it!"
"Help me?" And there’s a mocking laugh. "Save it. I'm done with you pretending to care when all you want is to feel superior."
"I do care." It bursts out. Word by word. I can't stop it. "Damn it, Liam, I care more than I should."
"Well, stop." He puts his backpack over one shoulder. "I don't want your care, your concern, or your supervision. I want you to leave me alone."
"That's not how this works. I'm responsible for you whether you like it or not."
"Move." He says, ice cold.
"Not until we resolve this."
"There's nothing to resolve!" He shoves past me. "I never want to see or speak to you again. Stay the hell away from me."
"Liam…" I reach for his arm. He jerks away.
"Don't touch me." His eyes are bright. Might be tears. "Just... don't."
We stand there. He's too angry to talk.
"Fine," I say, stepping aside. "Have it your way. But when you end up in the infirmary because your heart stopped from not eating, don't expect me to visit."
Cruel. I regret it immediately. He looks at me like I've slapped him.
"Trust me," he says, quiet now. "If I'm dying, you'll be the last person I'd want to see."
He walks out. Door slamming behind him.
I stand there, breathing hard, hands shaking. Adrenaline, fear, loss.
I slam my fist against the wall. The pain helps.
How did I let it get this bad?
Two days pass. We don't speak. We share a room, share meals, share a routine, and we don't speak. He turns away when I walk in. I pretend not to notice.
MMA is the one part of my day that still works. Technique, repetition, control. No talking required.
Griff stands at the edge of the mats, arms crossed, watching as I demonstrate a takedown for the newer students. He calls on me to help teach sometimes. I like it. I could see myself doing this one day.
My eyes find Liam in the second row. Sitting cross-legged, paying attention.
"Remember," I say, circling Jack, who's volunteered as my partner, "it's all about leverage, not strength. Even someone smaller can execute this with proper technique."
I drop my center of gravity, sweep Jack's leg, bring him down. Jack slaps the mat. Perfect partner.
"Good," Griff says. "Ethan's right about leverage. Size helps, but technique wins fights."
I help Jack up, then address the group. "Partner up and practice. Control is everything. Defense, not offense."
The kids disperse. Liam pairs with a newer kid, someone fresh enough to still flinch at loud noises. I notice Liam slowing his movements for him. Getting better every day.
I move on. Focus.
Griff calls for a rotation. Ground defense. I'm demonstrating an escape from a mounted position when I notice Liam whispering something to Jack. Both grinning.
"Something you'd like to share with the class, Marsal?" Griff's voice cuts through.
Liam straightens. "No, sir."
"Then pay attention." Griff turns back to me. "Continue, Ethan."
I resume the demonstration. When I call for practice, Griff approaches me.