Fat. Fatty. Fat. Fat.
The single word echoed around in the man's mind, as he stared at the food on his plate. It was a skimpy meal at best, but as he stared at it, he could only see every single calorie it contained. If he ate it, he would be fat…fatter, he was already fat. No, he couldn't eat this; he didn't want to be considered fat anymore. If he ate it, they would all point at him and laugh, asking him if he wanted to die of heart failure. Telling him that he would need one of those chairs for the people that can't walk, he could already hear their haunting voices.
Shuddering, the man shoved the plate of food away, feeling as though he was going to throw up. Shoving his chair out of the way, the man ran to the bathroom, and barely had enough time to put the rim of the toilet up, before he emptied his stomach. Not that was anything to empty; he hadn't eaten at all today. Bile was the only thing he threw up today, but as he sat up and glanced into the toilet, he couldn't help but feel better about himself.
Plus, it had gotten rid of the hungry feeling that had been gnawing at his stomach when he had been staring down at that plate of food. Slowly wiping his mouth, the man sank back so he was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, panting slightly. Was he skinny yet? He didn't feel skinny. There was so much fat on his body, he was so fat…they all said so. And if everyone said it was true, then, well, it wasn't a lie, was it?
Shakily grabbing the counter, the man hauled himself up, catching his reflection in the mirror. To anyone else, it would have seemed incredibly unhealthy, his cheekbones even more prominent in the low light, his hair dry and rough. His eyes had a listless look to him; in fact, the man seemed to be nothing more than skin and bones. His clothes seemed to hang off of him, swallowing up his skinny frame. If you had looked under his shirt, you would have seen rib bones protruding, skin stretching taunt over the bones.
The man saw something completely different though, as he stared into the mirror, he saw chubby cheeks, greasy hair, and a protruding stomach. He saw someone who was obese and only getting fatter. Once a healthy two hundred pounds, the man had shrunk down to about one hundred over the past couple of months. He looked old, when in reality; he was only nineteen years old.
Shuddering at the face in the mirror, the man swayed slightly, hands tightening on the counter as another dizzy spell struck him. They were getting more and more frequent, but nobody noticed. As long as he seemed like he was fine, the other countries didn't care, after all, he was the Hero after all, and the Hero never fell. They didn't even give him a second look these days…aside from England.
For a moment, a stir went through America, as he thought about his bushy eyed friend…well, he supposed he could call him a friend. The two had been at odds for the longest time, it was only recently (before this) that they had started talking to each other again. Sometimes he caught England staring at him in a concerned manner, though the other man looked away as soon as America caught him staring. He had considered telling England about what was going on, he knew he had a problem, but if he did that…if he did that he might look at him as if he was a freak. No, he couldn't tell anyone about what was going on. Not until he was skinny. Maybe they would like him if he was skinny. Carefully making his way out of the bathroom, America returned to the kitchen, putting his dinner in the trash. He wasn't going to eat this; he wasn't hungry anyway (despite the loud growling of his stomach).
Shakily making his way out of the kitchen, America sat down on the couch, and turned on the television, staring blankly at the TV, watching the static. His cable had gone out the other day…he supposed he should have it repaired, but he didn't want anyone to see him when he was so fat. It was bad enough going to the meetings, where he could see them all staring at him, judging him. He could imagine what they were saying…
He's so fat, has he like, put on another hundred pounds?
Oui, America certainly has put on a lot of weight. I do hope he knows fatness is not a turn on.
Why do I care if America has put on weight? He has nothing to do with me anymore, I don't care!
Nobody cared, he thought numbly as he stared at the TV. He was completely alone, because he was an obese freak. Nobody could care about an obese freak, and he wasn't about to blame them. Still, being so alone…a sob threatened to choke the man. With his thin shoulders shaking, America curled up on the couch, his bomber jacket fitting him like a blanket. Yeah, the heating was out too, but he wasn't about to call someone to fix that either. Because if he did that, then they would laugh at him too, like they did at the supermarket: he couldn't go there anymore either.
With shaking hands, America reached into the pocket of his jacket, tears sliding out from closed eyes. From an inner pocket in his jacket, he withdrew a razorblade, finger gently brushing its edge, wincing slightly as it cut open the tip of his finger. The pain was familiar, the pain was reassuring. It meant that he was still alive, that he could eventually fix this. He could become skinny. And then, maybe he could actually go out and do things with the other countries. Maybe they would finally invite him to do things with them. He had spent so many nights alone…
Shuddering, America sat up, lifting up his shirt. With a practiced hand, he slid down his pants a bit too, revealing a scarred hip. It had been a while since he had felt this bad, and for a moment, he hesitated, thinking about how England would react if he learned about this addiction.
England doesn't care! Some voice yelled at him, making him flinch in surprise, the blade slicing into his hip. Giving a gasp of pain, America bit back a whimper. It hadn't hurt so much last time, he thought as his hands started to shake. Over and over again, he brought down the razorblade, watching as he blood started to flow. Yes, he thought mutely, he deserved this. They were all right, he was obese. He was a freak, which was why they never invited him anywhere. Once he fixed himself though, they would all love him. That was why he could do this; this was why it was right. He would be skinny soon; he just had to hold out a bit longer. He had forgotten what a hamburger tasted like anyway, he didn't miss the grease filled things. England had been right all along, they were disgusting.
Slowly, America stopped, pulling his pants back up, wincing when the rough material of his jeans rubbed against the still bleeding cuts. Setting the razor down on the table, he carefully laid down on the couch, closing his eyes. He was so tired…giving a slight sigh, he found himself drifting off.
He was going to a world where he was skinny, where he was finally wanted…perhaps even to where he was needed.