It.
It never used to make him sad; because thoughts never used to turn real. It was never about the reality.
It wasn't about the way the dark refracted like dirtied pictures in a tired camera; the way the speckles flew in like birds when he breathed in and held it. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes the darkened splotches were more like ghosts tucked underneath his eye-lids, you could hide from anything for a while if you really tried after all. It wasn't the fact that he enjoyed this, this one-up of biological nature.
It wasn't about the way he'd placed mental shock-collars around every limb and tightened the belts to the final notch, shocking himself into believing that his hunger meant ecstasy- electrocuting pastes of lust into where the cracks of food belonged, oh god oh yes the emptiness.
No it wasn't even really about the people who screamed at him from behind their eyes, fat fat fat; they way they see what you order what you eat what you sustain with and judge because it's all about food, even if they don't realize it- it's always about food.
It.
It was about realizing that under the canopy of smiles and moments of happiness and the days when the tea tasted good and the rain paused for a moment that the need to stumble to the dark pavement would always return no matter how happy he was for the moment. No matter what the need to scream and splutter and drink in handfulls of laxatives and run until his knees hurt so bad that he cried when he dipped into his cold bath, or when he was so hungry that he'd chew and spit and chew and spit and chew and spit and-
It was about the fact that he'd be doomed to always hate the way the jeans felt on his skin- that he'd never be able to shake the need to go home and peel them off and wear the baggiest sweats he could find.
He was damned to be stuck in the limbo- and oh my God that was so real.
Damned to wake up every morning and wonder if it was time to start starving again or not- or maybe lose ten pounds and be done with it, fifteen, sixteentwentythirtyeighty.
"Stiles." Scott's voice is a breath to his right.
Stiles looks up from the spot he'd been staring at on his desk.
"You okay?" The werewolf asked.
"Yeah."