The Broken Children
-Hugo-
There's a plate of food set before him, steaming and piled high with all his favourites, causing his mouth to water at the tantalising aroma which invades his nostrils.
Despite this, he picks at his meal, nibbling at a slice of carrot and trying to avoid the hawk-like gaze of his mother. Across the table, his father doesn't seem to care, choosing instead to stare at his paper whilst devouring his chicken drumsticks, gnawing at the bones like a starving animal.
It disgusts him, the way in which his family sometimes eats, especially the men. His mum eats daintily, taking elegant bites and seeming to savour each bite as if it is to be her last. Judging by the amount of food she's eating, slowly though, as if to deceive herself, she's like to die soon anyway.
He'll live though – he's not fat like they are.
It's strange that everyone else comments that his mother is a rare beauty, telling her that she's grown into her crooked teeth and bushy hair. She isn't beautiful, not to him, she's just fat and lazy like the rest of them.
"May I be excused?" he asks primly, once his carrot slice is done with and he's vanished all he could without making his mother suspicious.
"You've hardly eaten," murmurs Hermione, shaking her head at the half-full plate before him.
"I swear, you never bothered Rose half as much as you bother me," he mumbles under his breath, and of course, both his parents hear him. He's forgotten – he forgets a lot of things these days – that his sister is a taboo topic in their household.
There's a sound of glass shattering as his father's cup breaks in his burly hands. His mother squeaks and hides her face, but then they surprise him by sharing a glance and shaking their heads. Perhaps, after all these years, they've finally stopped deluding themselves that Rose is just troubled and misunderstood.
She's a freaking psychopath is what she is.
Hugo scoffs as he leaves the table, barely able to stand on his own two feet as his world swims around him. It doesn't matter . . . he's beautiful, or halfway there at any rate. If only he could be just a little thinner then perhaps he'll finally be perfect.
He feels tired, so he decides to call it an early night. Maybe if he rests early tonight he can get up earlier to go for his morning run – he's halfway there and he just needs to lose a few more pounds to be perfect.
Stopping in the bathroom to shower, he strips off and glares at his reflection in the mirror. When did he get so large? It must be the carrots he's just eaten.
(He doesn't see the ribs jutting out from his chest, skin stretched thin as parchment or the way his spine ran like a ridge along his back)
Flicking his wand at the door to make sure it's locked, he shoves his toothbrush down his throat as far back as it can go. He gags . . . and then he does it again . . . and again . . . and again until he's bent over the toilet, splattering the porcelain with a runny mixture of orange and red.
Strange, he doesn't remember eating anything that with give off such a crimson hue.
Shrugging it off, he gargles with some minty mouthwash to get rid of the bitter taste of bile upon his tongue before slipping into his pyjamas and hurrying off to bed, his head throbbing and his chest heaving for breath.
It's just because he's fat and quite out-of-shape, he reasons as he pulls the blankets to his chin, shivering despite the unseasonable warmth of the night. He closes his eyes and drifts to sleep, never hearing his mother slide against the other side of his bedroom door with her head between her knees, whispering:
"Where did we go wrong?"