｡ﾟAs a younger child Ben Hanscom had prided himself in many things, such as his intelligence, sensitivity towards others, and well-suited ...adaptation of gentlemanliness. Now, the mere act of looking in a mirror was enough to provoke the urge to aggressively retch into the nearest sink. The issue wasn't with his character, personality or selfdom, no. This wasn't the problem at all, as while he was prone to the common sarcastic quip ,he was considered a nice person by those who knew him well. No, wherein this chest-wrenching feeling lied was his physique. See, puberty was hitting hard, and along with puberty became the confrontation of those hidden feelings that had been there all along...but amplified to an exaggerated 100%... While Ben had always known he didn't quite look like the rest of his peers, now...it was different. He cared far more than he had before. Before he was just chubby, he knew this but it didn't bother him, but now he had linked this with unattractive. The two words coincide with each-other in his mind.
His mind tumbled around a few choice words to describe his stature late this night, there were many, yet one stood out near his conscious...no, he refused to tap into that word. That word that of which would sting the most, the one he had now linked directly to his body. He had ….no that wasn't it...nothing sounded quite right. ... He rolled each adjective over his tongue, tasting each's individual pity, their own unique mocking flick of sound. He was of...large area, stout, fleshy, pudgy? He continued to recite the list as he lay on his bed, taking careful note of the dent in which he lay, and felt a prick in the corner of his eyes. Husky, flabby, thick. All of the morsels bitter on his tongue, burning but not scathing, cutting but not drawing blood, shoving but not pushing him over. He continued to avoid the simple phrase that would. He gently placed his hand on his face and rubbed the skin there before pinching at his cheek. He winced as flesh filled his fingertips.
He let a sigh escape his gently parted lips...how would she describe him? No, that was useless, unfruitful the simple truth being that she wouldn't. He knew that Beverly would never, could never fully answer that question, she would be around the bush about it, doing anything in her power to convince him to believe she actually didn't mind. He scoffed under his breath, and ran a shaky hand through his slightly rousy hair. She could only hang out with him through some sick form of pity...right?Of course, he wouldn't let his hopes up for anything more….any of his...own dreams and fantasies. Bev would leave, along with everyone else who grew sick of his burdening presence….his mom, he felt a brief stabbing pain in his throat...everyone. If only he could see through her to what she wanted out of him, there was no gain to accompanying him. I mean, the clown was gone, dead….she had….Bill. "So, why?" his mind frenzied into a spiral of questions,"Why would she continue to torture me with her presence? Is she mocking me? Continuously reminding me of what I can't have? That must be it….What else reason would she have for still visiting me…." There was nothing she got out of it….In fact, there were dozens more cons... She was rather pretty after all...he let his face flush for a moment as he repeated to himself….I mean, there's no use in denying it, her eyes were the gentlest and kindest shade of brilliant blue, and she almost always looked excited when she saw him...the way her face lit up as if she had been waiting for months to see him again when in reality only days, perhaps minutes had passed. Of course he couldn't deny the same feeling overcoming him, he missed seeing her when he couldn't and let thoughts and daydreams of her occupy his head when nothing else did….seeing her made him forget how disgusting he felt...almost…but she could be popular if she so chose, he was probably just hindering her. His vision started to blur, and a few hot tears streamed down his face. After all, it would be easier for her if he kid didn't have a hopeless crush on her. He didn't have a chance anyway...he wasn't good enough. Disgusting. There was the word. That word.
"Disgusting", he mumbled. The airiness of his own voice choking on his tongue, crackling, breaking the way dry chunks of dirt crumble at the slightest of pressure. Gushes of water carved pathways in his face now, dropping onto his pillow at an escalated rate, he didn't care anymore, why hide? Bens breath became more ragged, and the once calm composure he kept soon rotted away to his exposed vulnerable underneath.
The simple adjective that would forever summarise his existence. If he were to draw something, the public's first thought wouldn't be, "Oh! an artist! Let me constructively criticize this piece!" Rather,"Oh, an art-..." in which this pause would allow the person's subconscious to roll over all possible ways of describing him, the first being "fat"which would be followed by an immediate draw-back of worth. He couldn't stand that, how people don't ever have to think about it before it's already happened. How everyone is automatically judging him for his dominant features, especially compared to the rest. How in those few scraps of time every person who ever let their gaze wander over him, would automatically call him everything he had just moments ago. All subconsciously and without a pinch of effort.
He placed his fist to his wall, no-one should be able to be recorded and cataloged into sub-groups before you can help it, and so easily. Before you can tell yourself,"Oh, now that's no way to think is it?"But everyone is conditioned to notice anyhow. Even if it isn't the person's fault… God knows it wasn't his fault. It's true though, it wasn't, eating hardly anything anymore but remaining...like...like this. He took a moment to knead the flesh of his thighs, moving it around the best he could with his shaking palm. But even so it was always assumed it was his fault. Being….fat...came with all these negative depictions of character. It's paired with laziness, carelessness, greed, gluttony, and ugliness. Everyone knew that if a person was heftier they were automatically either hilarious or downright disgustingly piggish. That's only ever how they're portrayed after all. Fat is the worst thing you can be, it doesn't matter if you're mean or a complete idiot, as long as you were thin and pretty, yeah? The whole reason that people constantly tried to make themselves thinner, through diets and exercise. Wasting all that time instead of using it for other things such as reading or creating, writing and bettering yourself. Because people don't say "Oh come on you're not thattttt tall," the way they do when weight is brought up. It made him absolutely sick, even his mother thought the worst thing you could be was fat. Ben grimaced at the disappointed look his mother had made the day that that...that goddamn paper had been handed to her. Fucking genetics.
Her sobs could be heard from Ben's room upstairs. The brief sensory-filling flashes of memories flooded his head again, like it often did.
"M-mom, w-what's wrong? Why are you crying?" Ben's bottom lip quivered. He had never seen his mother...cry, and in all honesty it scared him. Her breath noticeably hitched as she turned around to face her son, mascara staining the crevices on her cheeks, smeared foundation above her cheekbones.
"Mom?"
"Yes, d-darling?"
"Wh-what's c-cona..uh h-hippo... hypothigh...sism?" Small Ben stumbled across the words so innocently, like a child of his age would. Congenital Hypothyroidism. Of twelve percent of the population, four percent of people under twenty, hell it was even more common in women! Her son was diagnosed...she had to remember how she felt, and know that he would feel the same. Ben watched as she winced.
"N-nothing honey, just go...just go back to bed." Nothing, of course she was lying, what else could she do to protect him? She would tell him, eventually...but not now. She had hoped it would skip him, that maybe Ben's dad's genes would help eliminate the chance. Ben's dad… Arlene paused, pursing her lips in an attempt to hold back the sobs that tore at the back of her throat. She was alone, she'd have to help him….on her own.
"O-okay Mom...uh...I-I love you," Ben whimpered, and started to make his way back up the stairs from whence he came.
"l-love you t-too d-dear." near inaudible words passed through her slightly chapped lips, contorted and twisted like coil,tarnished with hidden yet thick animalistic cries. Ben lay in his bed, silent tears fell onto his sheep plush, squished to the point of bursting. Knuckles gleamed white through pasty skin, squeezing the life out of the poor stuffed animal. He was nearly suffocating on his pillow trying to drown out the noises that scraped and leaked from his throat. He could still hear his mother downstairs.
Now, nearly fifteen years later, Ben had found out first-hand what hypothyroidism was… Not that he hadn't noticed before but now… now it had a name and that made everything worse. Giving a name to something is the final straw, it implied it was some sort of disease. He flinched at it. No, he'd much rather just be called fat. Memory dripped back to his consciousness, his mother's choked screams, his own hot tears.
He couldn't stand himself and he saw no reason anyone else would be able to. Afterall all that mattered in this world was based off of superficiality. But...Beverly….she didn't think that, she was kind and cared for him. Right? The last bit lingered on his mind, stinging his eyes with freshly found welps of salty water. She couldn't care, no, she didn't. He wouldn't give himself the satisfaction of thinking otherwise. He punched himself, a newfound ritual he found himself repeating around 4 times a day, covering his torso in tight clusters of bruises. He didn't know how or when this started, or why he did it….there was no real reason. All he knew is that it hurt the one part of himself that he longed to detach from. Although it was a risky reliever. People nearly seeing when he changed in the gym locker-rooms, the doctor nearly seeing when he goes in for checkups….he always refuses to take off his shirt though, wouldn't want his mother to be blamed and what type of person would assume he did it himself. Punch himself? Why? That was crazy right? Never mind that though, it was just a daily routine anyhow. Doubt anyone would feel sympathy. He turned on his side, cuddling up to his pillow. Nearly allowing himself the daydream of being with Beverly before he drifted off to sleep.
A smile played across his lips as he tightened his grip on the pillow. Deeply inhaling and kissing the surface of it, believing it was really her for a brief second before the illusion was ripped from his head. The feeling of her skin faded with the drowsiness of sleep. He let his arms fall limp and he slightly frowned at reality, wanting nothing more than to go back to his blissful ignorance. Warmth was scarce, cold swirling around in thick gallops. The early morning mist hung like thick spoonfuls of syrup to the ground. Stray leaves scattered the ground in large wet globs stuck to the concrete. Gusts of wind whispered through the air, their calls becoming entangled and warped in the trees.
Arlene woke up to the sound of her alarm as always. She stretched and shifted beneath the steel drag of the morning. Turning over with the same hope she always held in her morning-self. She knew he wouldn't be there but some part of her wanted to believe that it was all a bad dream. A very, very long bad dream. This morning was just like the rest, letting herself think that she would look over to see herself awoken from the dream, and her husband would be sat up in bed like he always was: cup of coffee in one hand, and a book in the other as he waited for her to roll over and cling to his side. She almost didn't want to open her eyes, to just preserve the thought. But alas, chores had to be done. Might as well get it over with, she opened her eyes to the forever empty side of the bed. She sighed and sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, before standing up and making her way downstairs.
The same-old pajamas clung to her waist as she began the normal routine. It was Tuesday after all, and per tradition Tuesdays called for cinnamon rolls. She honestly didn't know why she ever bothered, she would eat one, maybe two before trotting off to work and the rest would become stale and hard on the counter before being discarded of. Ben used to eat some, take the rest to his friends, but now they just crumbled in the garbage. Maybe she still did it out of habit, or maybe a gleam of hope that things would go back. Nevertheless, Arlene shoved the pan in the oven and went upstairs to dress for work. DIC didn't cover everything.
Ben stirred beneath his covers, the utter sulk of mornings still lingering like a bad cold. The faint smell of cinnamon rolls lulled about, probably the entity that had awoken him in the first place. Tuesday, his mother only made cinnamon buns on Tuesdays. He mentally groaned realising that his week was far from even halfway over. Slowly regaining consciousness he realised that his pillow was damp, re-awaring him of last nights activities. He had cried himself asleep again that night, discarding his array of papers askew across the floor. He would regret that later on, but not now for he was too tired to care. He turned over and faced the ceiling, "Thank God we're on break." He contemplated laying there for the rest of the day, just breathing in the faint smell of old books on his quilt. Early sun danced through his curtains, playing upon them and glistening like small drops of honey glazed the movement. Slow and calm, as most mornings were. He thought back to what he did most when he was bored, what'd it feel to have Beverly in his arms right now. Holding her and relishing in her warmth, stroking her hair and talking in nuzzles."OH FUCK WAIT, BEVERLY ShhIIITTTTT" He said this a little louder than he had expected, still this didn't stall him from jolting upright out of bed, tugging on his floor-discarded trousers and sprinting out his door in a rush of panic. He had promised to meet her at the library, and now he had gone and fucked it up.
Arlene jumped as she heard the door slam suddenly. Ben. She chuckled to herself, knowing exactly who he was off to see in such a hurry. She smiled, her boy was in love. She glanced over to the freshly-baked cinnamon rolls she had prepared. A feeling of disheartenment flushed over her. "I just wish…" she mumbled to herself. She remembered how there used to be a flurry of loud steps that echoed throughout the house every Tuesday mornings. She closed her eyes and she could see him. She could see Ben smiling as he eyed the treats, so enthusiastic and ready for the day. Now, Arlene huffed through her nose as she glanced at the neglected breakfast, every morning was the same. She couldn't look forward to Tuesdays anymore, he wouldn't eat, she wouldnt see her husband, all was grey. Months blurred together in undefining nights and days. She bitterly stuffed half of a cinnamon roll in her mouth and grunted before grabbing her keys and looking for her shoes. What was she holding on to?
'...8:26' Beverly noted the time on her phone….again. She contemplated sending Ben a text, opening his contact, which was fittingly a picture of a euphoric-looking grizzly bear, but decided that twenty-six minutes wasn't enough time to bother him with a reminder. She'd wait another four, then...maybe, text him. She grabbed her thermal mug of tea and sipped, slightly shivering in anticipation of whether or not he'd come. She smiled calmly though, the refreshing feeling of the comfortably warm flooding her senses comforting….. warm….just like him. Bev no no no, you cant think that. Quickly disregarding this thought she lolled her head back in boredom. Impatient, she flipped her head back towards the table, blowing the few strands of bangs from her eyes. Her fingers drummed at the table before her. "Hmm….what to do….what to doooo…" Beverly hummed and clicked a pen against her teeth a few times.
Tea had always had some way of calming her nerves, perhaps it's because it in some primitive way mimicked what she longed for. Warmth and fulfillment, like nothing in the world mattered but that little sensation for a short while. It felt like the beverage form of his hugs. No, what was she thinking….hugs, just hugs...not specifics….. althouughhhh…..though she'd never admit it to him,his hugs always did have that extra….special quality. Soft and warm, like a nice hot bath after a day in the snow, like home. He was gentle with her, not in that 'I'm afraid I'll break you sense, but almost like he was analysing every touch. Like he simply enjoyed holding her...but that was probably just a reflection of what she herself was doing. Bev jolted upright in shock as a hand was placed on her shoulder….rather suddenly but still with the same gingerness that she could tell it was him. She spun around to see a very….very disheveled Ben.
"Haha, hey Bev! I made it! AndImsososososorryforbeinglateisleptinandididntevenshowerandohmygodwhatifismellgrossandjustohmygodimsosoincrediblysorry-"
The boy rambled on, indistinguishable mumbles pouring out his mouth at an alarming rate. Beverly sat, a tad stunned at how stunning he could look...even as messy and unkempt as he was, but instead of disgusted or embarrassed she felt...Intrigued? How could someone so stupendously focused on keeping good-appearances and being presentable even in the most casual of scenarios...look so absolutely breathtaking when let go from all that? His button-up shirt was slightly wrinkled, and had been hastily buttoned as two of the top buttons had been left untouched. Bev felt her cheeks begin to ignite as she stared….a single drop of sweat running down from his forehead….onto his neck and chest…..trailing down. Beverly let her eyes follow it until long after it was no longer visible. Wishing her tongue could take the same trail unt-,"U-uh Bev? A-are you okay?" She felt her face flare up at her name, quickly adjusting her stare to her mug of tea. "Haha, y-yeah of course! G-good morning bEN," sweating nervously and smiling, she awkwardly laughs and bites her lip. "Th-this isn'tt like me" she contemplated, taking a drawn-out sip.
"Fuckfuckfuck I didn't even brush my hair, I'm a mess, I'm such a mess. Oh my god, I probably look utterly disgustingly like trash right now don't I, that's nice. Absolutely wonderful she's over there with that ...perfect smile...oh look at the way her cheeks have those little dimples that puncture in, I want to touch them, touch her. Oh what I wouldn't give to lightly cradle her cheek in my palm, to feel her lean down back into it. Ben. oh. my. god. get your thoughts in check, she would never like you." Ben took great note of her eyes shifting away, and it stung a little.. the way her gaze shifted….the way she was biting her lip trying not to comment. He felt absolutely repulsive. He feels his heart sink a little bit but tried his best to not let himself be discouraged too obviously….at best outwardly. "I-i I apologize for the way I look right now I know I'm a mess, haha.'' He stares sheepishly into her eyes, the captivating blue sticking to his very core and seeming to set him ablaze with just a glance."N-no Ben...you look ...nice" She tilted her head down in embarrassment. "Y-you can't mean that,"Ben stumbled over his words trying to calm down the sudden change in mood. "I really do," She looked up at him and brightly gleamed. Ben did his best to contain his smile and move on, but rather said," fuck it" to himself and flashed her a squinty-eyed, tight-faced grin, the best kind.