Eric stepped from the cold tilled floor onto the scales. This was a routine now. Every Sunday, he'd step onto the familiar plastic, and glance down at the numbers he knew would make him feel terrible. Every time, he would look at the digits and place a hand on his stomach. Every time, he would look in the mirror and feel like melting all the fat off. Every time he would cry.
Eric couldn't remember when he had first started this painful routine. It was some months ago when he decided to finally find out how much he weighed. He had been dreading it for years, but the insults that day had at last pushed him to the edge. The words 'fatass' and 'tubby' echoed in his mind and he couldn't think of anything else. Images of Kyle's smug smile ran through his thoughts. That stupid fucking Jew. Why couldn't he just leave Eric alone?
He opened his eyes, the ones he didn't realise were forced shut, and looked at the number for the first time that week.
"What the fuck?" he whispered, dumbfounded.
The numbers have risen.
"No," Eric shook his head, "that can't be right."
He stepped off the scales and waiting for the numbers to reset. He ran his fingers over his jacket covered stomach and bit his lip. That can't possibly be right. The scales must have just fucked up. That's all. That's all it was.
He climbed back on, and too his despair, the numbers stayed exactly the same.
Eric's hands curled into fists and he closed his eyes once again. Fuck…
He could feel the tears welling in his eyes again. He was so used to it now. He used to fight it. He used to tell himself to stop being such a pussy. But he let it happen now. His tears stained his chubby cheeks. They rolled off his face and splattered onto the floor beside the dreaded scales. Those fucking scales. They ruin everything.
Once the tears had resided, Eric leant on the wall and looked around his small bathroom. The laughing and the name calling ran through his mind again, and the tears threatened to pour out for the second time. He breathed in deeply and tried to settle his trembling hands.
For the past few weeks, his eyes had been wondering to the razer his mother kept in the shower for shaving her legs. The light that shone on the blades made it seem so tempting. So gorgeous… So…
"You're not a fucking emo," Eric growled to himself, looking away. But the blade kept his attention. It seemed like it was calling to him; begging him to use it.
Eric stood up, and turned to the door, desperately fighting the urge that was building inside him. He couldn't bring himself to walk out. He couldn't go to his room, and forget that these few moments had even happened like he always did.
I'll try it just once, he decided. Only once. That's it. No more than this one time.
He closed the bathroom door behind him and locked it. The calling of the razor was even stronger now, and he couldn't shake it off.
He pulled apart the cheap plastic and removed the blades. The cold air of the small mountain town froze his fingertips, making his hands shake.
He pulled back the sleeve of his worn, red jumper, exposing his wrist. He pressed the metal to his skin. It was so easy. Just push, and drag. It didn't hurt, it didn't upset him. It made him feel better.
The few trickles of blood ran down his wrist and down his arm. He looked at the words he had calved into himself and smiled.
'Fat.'