"Gerard, I'm worried about you."
"Go away, Frankie. I'm busy," you say, irritated as you start to shut the door in my face. I hate it when you use my name like that, trying to condescend me like a child. I hate how you're always frowning these days.
You shut the door in my face without another word, and I can hear you crossing your room. This is exactly what happened yesterday, almost verbatim, and all of the of the other days I've come to your door to talk. You always shut me out. You never used to shut me out, Gee.
This makes me open your door without knocking, something I hardly do because I know you like your privacy, and I respect that. You're in the bathroom, I can see the light through the door, which you've neglected to fully close. I turn to leave because I guess you really were busy, but your voice makes me freeze in mid-step.
"Fat," you hiss from behind the bathroom door.
The insult slaps me in the face, and I'm shocked because you've never lashed out at me like this in all the years I've known you. Not even when you were on drugs and didn't know any better. I felt myself lifting up the hem of my t-shirt to check my stomach, but my speedy metabolism keeps it flat.
"You're fat and useless," you spit out angrily.
Not only am I confused as to why you would say this to me, but my feelings really are hurt. You were supposed to be my best friend. I quietly walk over to your bathroom, silently pushing open the door a little more to peer in. It's then that I notice that it isn't me you're talking to. In fact you're so busy scowling at yourself, naked aside from a pair of boxers, that you don't even notice me standing in the doorway.
"You're ugly," you whisper harshly, your voice coated in disgust, and your hands came up to pinch at the little bit of flab on your stomach.
Then it hits me -- you're talking about yourself, insulting the image that scowls back in the mirror. This is even more surprising to me than when I thought you were insulting me. And to tell you the truth, Gerard, I've always thought you had a beautiful body. You aren't desperately thin, nor are you even leaning towards the chunky side. You are amazingly . . . average. In body size, at least.
You continue to pinch at that tiny pouch of skin so hard that I'm afraid you might bruise yourself. Then you let go of yourself and walk over to the toilet, dropping gracefully to your knees. That's one thing I've always admired about you, your ability to appear graceful even in the worst situations. But it gets worse.
My eyes widen in horror as you jam two fingers down your throat and literally gag yourself until your dinner comes up. It was amazing, you had barely eaten anything at all today, but you seem determined to rid your body of every single thing that had touched your lips. And I find myself disbelieving it, unable to grasp what you're doing to yourself as truth. Because I've never seen a sign that you felt this way, had never gotten a clue towards your hatred for your own self.
And that's what it is. Pure hatred. I can see it in your hazel eyes when you finally stop grasping the porcelain toilet bowl with white knuckled fingers and stand up, looking into the mirror again. I guess you are satisfied with what you've done. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and then you start to materialize before my very eyes.
Or that's how it looks anyway. Turns out my eyes had filled up with tears during your little purging session. I furiously swipe at them because I want to look at you clearly, to make sure you aren't wasting away before my very eyes. But you are, Gee, you really are.
You finally notice me as you wash your hands in the sink. Your eyes land on my own in the mirror, and I watch them go from horrified to scared to worried, and then finally settle on anger. You turn off the sink, glaring at me, and then turn around to actually face me.
"Go away, Frankie," you say, pushing me out of the doorway, your wet fingers leaving handprints on my white shirt, "I'm busy." And then you shut the door in my face.
I selected the overall rating as R because of possible sex between characters, and varying violence. Each drabble/one-shot will have an individual rating though.
Narrators:
Billie/Adie
Billie/Mike
Frank/Gerard
Anonymous ( the narrators are whomever you wish)
Possibly more...
Not all of these include sex, in fact, not many of them will.
Comments are very much appreciated. If I look at the story and it says that 13 people have read the stories, I'd like very much to see 13 rates. It boosts my confidence, even if its constructive criticism. Get it?
Thanks,
- Laurie
