TW: Bulimia/self harm. I apologize in advance.
Biting Off Butterfly Wings
He was a lie, he was a pest. He was a fat pig that no one would love, unless he was skinny, unless he was fit, unless he was beautiful.
And when Alaska emptied his stomach into the porcelain bowl, he swore to his oath, and accepted this mantra.
It was getting colder. The winter blues had set in.
Alaska continued on his trek to salvation. The voice in his ear whispering things, promising him that he would be loved if he did as he was told. No food. Food is the enemy. Food will put ugly calories into your body and make you fat, and undesirable. That's why no one loves you.
The mirror became his friend and worst enemy, as did the scale. One christened, 'My Love' and the other, 'Russia' he continued down his strenuous path, believing it to be the only way to be loved.
Texas was skinny. New York was skinny. Cali was skinny. Louisiana was skinny. He admired his siblings, wondering how they attained their beauty and honor.
They were American.
He was a prisoner in his own household, the walls were resonating the same dank, dreary personality that he had, multiplying it and shooting it straight at him, ripping through him and dripping his blood onto the floor. Hunger was a constant state of mind, with it screaming like a child who hadn't gotten their way, and gnawing at his stomach with worn, ugly yellow teeth.
He had lost sight of what he wanted to be skinny for. Only he needed to lose weight.
The pantry was his biggest enemy. With its colorful, fizzy drinks of many flavors, and shiny foils that glinted in the sun. Packages and boxes of many different things, fruits and vegetables sat waiting in earnest for him, expecting to be eaten. It was their sole purpose and job.
He was lying on his bed when it kicked off, starting an awful chain of events.
A lone muscle stuck its way out of parched, cracked lips, bringing with it a small, thin, gooey phlegm, trying to moisten his lips, to no avail. His lips were ruined pieces to flesh and muscle glued to his face by tendons, refusing to move.
Hunger flickered in his stomach, begging for something, anything. It began to cry, scream, throw a temper tantrum, pounding its fists into his skull, screaming for the enemy: food.
Alaska couldn't take it anymore, heaving his burden of a vessel off of the bed and out of the room that confined him, he started the trek to his pantry. The voice screamed at him, telling him it was wrong, he would be worthless if he did it. Russia and his Love would be disappointed.
Alaska no longer cared as he wretched open the doors of the sanction of food. Saliva appeared in his mouth again, flecking his ugly lips with its moisture and allowing his tongue more freedom. His stomach whined again.
He tore foil like flesh, ripped boxes tapped shut with his greedy fingers, swallowing whatever was inside. Salt stuck to his lips and stung them, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't taste the food. He was drowning in his own little sea of apathy, caring less about anything in the world, just letting his mind go on autopilot.
Eventually coming down from his high, he marveled not at the awful mess he had made, but at what he had done. He had eaten. It was almost a sin to eat.
To eat was to give in to his body's awful desire, to be ugly, to be unwanted.
Alaska raced to the bathroom, not stopping in front of His Love to inspect the damage, just to fling himself before the goddess, to wiggle his appendages in his throat to coax a reaction.
Salmon liquid splattered into the bowl. Some foods had retained their color and form when they came up. Fruit loops floated in the bowl, but their colors ran, making it appear almost like a rainbow. Alaska grimaced and gagged, hacking up a biscuit that he hadn't sufficiently chewed, and the chunk dropped into the disgusting mixture with a 'plop'.
He finished when the mucus dripped from his mouth and tears from his eyes, feeling hot flashes and vertigo from the purge. Falling to the side onto cool tile, he glanced down.
The ball of flesh that was his stomach horrified him. He touched it, to make sure it was really attached, digging his fingernails into it, fistfuls of his flesh, trying to rip it off of his body, to reveal his glorious true body.
He stopped, leaving the angry red wounds on his stomach, bringing his hands up to his face to sob. He lay sobbing, his own emotions betraying him, leaving him in an awful state of confusion, unable to figure out what to do.
"Lex?" A small, familiar voice from the doorway asked.
Turning his head to look, slim legs, flip-flops, tan, smooth skin, a frilly, white dress, long, shiny black hair, almond eyes, a vibrant pop of color surprised his eyes in the girl's hair: a native Hawaiian flower.
Hawaii.
~fin~