Summer
The summer, a dry, dreary, useless time of year; especially where Felix lives. If it is hotter, than he sweats more, if he sweats more, he has to drink more, if he drinks more, he must eat more. He hates to eat. He hates putting anything inside his mouth, anything that will slip down and contract his stomach, which could be no bigger than a crabapple.
Felix looked over at the window from his position on the desk, a ballpoint pen hanging limply in his bony, claw of a hand. From here, he could see the children playing out on the street, screaming at each other, playing foolish games. He seethed with a sort of jealousy and busied himself once more with his paperwork. Mundane business, the paper work, sign here, sign there, let me rip you apart with my utter dullness. A few strands of hair fell onto his face, blocking his vision from the umpteenth document he was to sign. He brushed it away, a single strand fell.
The single strand, bleached blonde and as malnourished as he, floated towards the desk in a lazy passion that resembled that of summer. Summer. He hated summer. The last time he had eaten was the morning before, and then it was only a piece of low-fat cheese, as to curb the gnawing hunger that ate him with such fierce teeth that it ripped apart his senses until he grew blind with rage and tossed the vase upon the floor, shattering it into a billion pieces, and of those pieces once comes up and slices his face. He returns to normal. The slow trickling of crimson down his face soothes him. He touches the blood, watches it dribble down his finger, and he wipes it grimly upon his shirt. His shirt was dotted and crusted with so much blood he was hardly sure of its original color.
His eyes, tearing themselves away from the window, turned towards the table where the vase once stood. It was a gift, for his birthday two years ago. He took it with open hands and happily laughed then. Then, he had a best friend. Then, he could eat. Then, he could think.
He felt himself swell with tears, so he looked out towards the stairs of his home. Their grey steps and grey walls were only adding to the melancholy of the home. The couches lay unused. Without him even noticing, Felix had stood up and edged closer to his living room. He pressed a hand flatly to one of the older leather couches, it gave a huff and slumped somewhat. The chairs which were once comfortable were now hard, and gave a crisp crinkling sound whence sat upon. The floor, which looked ready to give way since it has been abandoned for so long, creaked and groaned with each step.
Besides the kitchen, which was regarded upon as an arid, desert land where only the brave dared venture, the saddest, most despaired fraction of the house was the back door. The front door, which proudly opened, happy to be of service, has nothing to do with this.
The back door was where the troubles were born. It was the womb where the pain was held, and it birthed the gloom with its opening. The back door, frayed blackened nets and glass, was last opened two years ago, on Felix's birthday.
It was opened when one of his guests complained of it being too hot. The wind let in a breath of cooling, but it is then that Felix looked up and saw.
He saw the night sky, heavy lamps of light aloft in the sea of darkness, and under it, he saw his friend weep. This friend went by the name of Toris. He sat in the backyard, back against the old aspen and his hands covering his face, which was curtained with shaggy brown hair, and his shoulders shuddered with each heaving sob. The sobs, though painful to puff out, made not sound. Felix, whose smile melted in an instant, ran over.
"Toris—are you okay?" he frantically asked, placing warm hands on the nearly frozen shoulders. Toris looked up, his eyes liquid and his nose bleeding. The blood, which splattered down his shirt, was an ill omen. Felix embraced Toris warmly, holding him and nearly shouting words of consolation. He hollered for someone to call an ambulance. He held Toris's hands in both of his, looking into the green eyes that failed to see him. "Toris, shh, shh, baby, everything's going to be okay, okay sweety…" he murmured, continuing with various shushing and mumbled words that held love and gentleness for his friend.
In his delirium, Felix was almost certain that he felt an angel's wings sprout from Toris's back. He looked over, running hands along the downy feathers. He saw no wings, but he heard Toris speak softly to him. "Felix don't… " he was saying, "Felix, you know I love you. Don't—"
But Felix never got the rest of the message. Toris had hung limply in his hands, his arms grazing the grass. Felix screamed. When the ambulance got there, it was already too late. Felix thought these words to himself as the pen tightened in his grip and the couch groaned beneath him. The memories were painful, very much so. Toris had lost too much blood and purged himself to death.
Felix heard one of the children cry, he turned his head vaguely in the direction. One of the little girls, with two blond braids and a floral pink dress, had scraped her knee. Mama came rushing and picked her up, telling her that it's all okay, it's all okay.
Sadness is a potent mania. Felix lost countless days of sleep and eating due to his sadness, his constant sobbing into his pillows and his pleas, his pleas for anyone who might be listening, to bring Toris back. He hoped beyond hope that some bizarre phenomenon would occur and his best friend would be brought back.
Shortly after, as his wrists grew narrow and his cheeks sunk, it settled in.
Anorexia, a mental crisis in which one tells them that they cannot eat, that they are obese and such a problem must be solved by fasting.
Anorexia, a crisis fed by the lies of what is beauty and what is not. It was borne of prejudice.
Anorexia, a battle in which there is no one to blame by yourself, however hard you try to find a cause of the problem, it always leads to the mirror in wallowing self pity.
Anorexia, anorexia, anorexia...
It was not, however, the death of Toris that begun the war inside Felix that waged between himself and his needs. It was the death that awakened the beast.
Shortly after, all he could hear was the phantom whispers of his body weight, he grew conscious of himself, as the support (though it came from many, but was surprisingly ignored) from his best friend was dead. He became fragile. A sad thing, bound to a prison inside his heart like many before him and many that would most inevitably come after him.
The shackles and binds of dynamite, the kind that explode with an easy movement, so that you are afraid to even breathe, bound him. They gripped his neck and arms, and he held his breath.
He seized that breath for so long.
When, the pressure inside grew to maximum capacity that he grew blind with rage and snapped. That the bounds exploded and his screams echoed, he ran amuck. He threw his shoes, he tore at the bed cloths, he broke the vase…. He broke the vase. He broke his last connection with his best friend. His last connection cut his cheek. When he looked at the blood, shining upon his finger tips vainly, he recalled the blood gushing from Toris that day.
How does that song go?
We're painting the roses red, and many a tear we shed! Because we know they'll cease to grow, in fact they'll soon be dead…
Painting the skin that was perfect red.
Felix sighed and laid down on the couch, looking towards the ceiling and imagining Toris reaching for him. He held out a hand idly, it protruded above him, causing orange and yellow light from the setting summer sun to ooze through between his fingers and paint pictures upon his face.
He smiled.
He knew what Toris was about to say.
Of course, he regretted dearly that he knew before. He regretted dearly that Toris was not still with him.
Yet, was Toris so far?
His memories, yes, Toris was there.
His heart, yes, Toris was there too.
Toris was living still and playing inside his mind, telling him how lovely that pink jacket looked, telling him how much he loved to spend time with Felix. He amused himself with how Toris somehow managed to beam even when he knew he was sick.
Felix averted his eyes from his hands to see the kitchen. It was there, almost looking back at Felix. It seemed to beckon him, come on, just… Just one bite, sweetheart.
He sat up, the couch had ceased to grow as heavily. It was happy it was in use again. If couches could be happy, that is. Felix got onto his feet, swaying a little this way and that, he glided over to the refrigerator.
He opened it and peered inside. What little food sat earnestly, patiently, awaiting Felix.
Long fingers, bony and bruised, grasped around a single apple which lay around, red and shiny. Felix studied it, sniffing it and wondering how it got there. He hadn't gone grocery shopping in a long time. He shut the refrigerator and spotted a small note.
"I'm glad you found the apple" it read. Felix then, for the first time in two years, felt something swell inside him, and it was not hunger. Something wonderful and dazzling inched a smile onto his face.
He bit into the apple.
I normally refrain form author's notes at the end, but I must make an exception.
So, ever since my first "version" of this (Disturbia) it seemed there was an uproar in anorexic hetalia-esque plots. I find it curious and wonderful that I made something 'popular' more or less, I raised a sort of awareness, I could say. I hope you enjoyed this, it's become nearly a tradition for me to come and write something like this every once in a while.
-Planet of the Weeping Willow