Winterboy
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Winterboy: Hellapy


T - Words: 1,691 - Last Updated: Aug 25, 2012
Story: Closed - Chapters: 5/? - Created: Aug 21, 2012 - Updated: Aug 25, 2012
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Author's Notes: Warnings still apply, continue to read with caution. Also this is a AU based on Wintergirls, if you like this at all read that, it's way better.

When I was a real boy I went to school on Thursday, Math then English and chemistry. Interact with various uninteresting, faceless, nameless personnel through lunch then P.E before home.

These days I creak out of bed at ten, throw on as many layers as I can pointless, I’ll never stop shaking and nibble on the corner of a plain rice cake (35) while waiting for Carole to appear and take me to hell therapy.

Xxx

The last time they locked me up admitted me my BMI was 14.8, danger zone? Pfft, that was pathetic. My collar bones really barely stuck out, my thighs touched, my heart was still beating.

But Dad said he couldn’t do it again, he said he was watching me die. Like a reality show but there was no voting, no control, I was just disappearing pound by disgusting pound.

So they locked me up and stuffed me with IV fluids and electrolyte drinks and protein shakes on top of meal after meal after meal. Thousands of calories a day and then they left me in a tiny white room with a sterilised, hypoallergenic cot in one corner (right up to the wall so there was no place to hide) and a single lamp screwed into the wall.

They left me where the demons could get me, where the ghosts and the creepers could seep into my brain, tug at my nerves, crawl on my skin and make me scream I bet they stood on the other side of the wall, one sided mirror where they could gather together, crowd around and watch me suffer. More fun than television.

Day after day they would open up my stomach and pour and pour and pour until the fat coated every inch, my tummy filled out and hid my ribs and hips from the harsh view of day, my collar bones melted beneath the sloppy goop and my face filled out so that my cheeks jiggled when I prodded and poked them.

At BMI 20 125 horrible horrible fat fat fat fat fat pounds I was released on the condition that I attend group counselling and get my weight checked 3 times a week. Carole would report back to them like their own personal spy, one already situated in my home, no escape, so I had to be careful around her. My brain built a new filing system. Words go in; the filter takes out dangerous triggering language then fast tracks the sentences to my mouth so I can spew out lie after beautiful lie.

“How are you, Kurt?” I want to jump off a cliff today, I’d hit the ground like a rock with all this horrible horrible fat all over me really good today, Carole.

“A whole portion of tuna pasta, well done Kurt that’s really great!” Go in my bathroom, check under the lid, there are still vomit stains and I think some splashed over the edge onto the floor. It was delicious, I just really enjoyed it.

xxx

Group therapy is a way for the shrinks of Ohio to cut down their effort by throwing all their patients together. Anxiety ridden, self-harming, skinny little fish in a shark tank.

Don’t stop swimming or they’ll get you

When I first started there were 21 little fish in the tank, now we’re down to 10. Every week we play bingo; names on a card, tiny squares 7x3, cross off the goners with blood red ink, first one to a line wins. It could be Thomas I think, trying to ignore the fat bubbling over the top of my jeans as I sit in the plastic waiting room chair, the fat fat fat fat fat threatening to bleed out of my skin and devour my frail little painfully large body.

Or Jenna, she had that virus the other week, which mixed with her barely beating clump of a heart, could easily have done her in.

I shake my leg before I can latch onto the fact that my thighs are melting over the edge of the chair.

Taylor.

Probably Taylor, last week she was too pale, translucent like if you held her up to the light you would see her failing organs and her decaying ribcage and her heart beating slower and slower and slower.

I bet she got to 70 before the ground swallowed her whole. Bitch.

We all gather in this tiny tight waiting room my body takes up half the space and crushes those poor people against the walls with roll after roll of blubbering sludge Then Dr Madden will come in with her giant fishing net and she’ll swirl it around in the water and pull us out one by one.

Through the door, strip down to boxers and t-shirt (“come on now, no one’s here just you and me”) stop staring at my thighs, step on scales, watch as she tuts and frowns and rolls her eyes, step down, by the wall please.

Height recorded. 5’5”. I used to be 5’6” before my stupid weak bones couldn’t hold me up straight anymore collapsed under my heavy heavy heavy heavy weight. They say if I get fatter stronger then I’ll start to grow again, I’m only 16, I have time.

But it ticks away so painfully fast each day.

Get back in there, fat lump, go join the others in hell the safe place.

I was right about Taylor (2 more for a line) Dr Madden goes off on a spiel about a wakeup call for all of us but I’m more focused on keeping their goddamn eyes off my bulging fat.

Don’t move, not an inch.

Move and their eyes will be on you like snipers laser targets.

Move and they’ll pick you apart like scavenging crows until you lay on the ground, a pile of bones drying in the sun.

“Who wants to go first?”

Russian roulette time. Who will be the first to crack? Who will be the one with a Dr Madden shaped bullet in their brain?

Everyones heads are turned to the ground, willing it to rise up and swallow you down. I stare away from my feet but my thighs are still there in the corner of my eye and I squeeze the lids shut tight and stop the glare of the snipers rifle between my eyes.

A cough.

We let out a collective breath.

Oh, Blaine, you just couldn’t hold it in could you.

All heads snap up.

Eyes up and down, scan the poor victim for every inch of life they have. They’ve shaved his head this week but you can still see the bald spots where every follicle had been forcefully pulled out of its resting place.

Trichotillomania, the experts call it. Anxiety related hair pulling.

It’s funny because he has to force his out of his scalp; mine abandons me all on its own.

Fly away; get away while you still can. Soon all of Kurt will disappear.

Blaine tucks his feet behind the legs of his chair and watches the gun as it enters the ring.

“What have you done this week, Blaine?”

The gun is passed on, a chilling tennis match; keep your eye on them.

“Nothing.”

Click

“You went back to school, yes?”

Click

“Yes”

Click

“And how did that go?”

Click

“They stare at my head.”

Click

“And you know why, don’t you.”

Click

“Because I’m a freak.”

Click

“Because you’re ill.”

click

“Because I’m a failure, because I’m stupid because I’m pathetic because I’m fucking weak.”

Bang

Next to him they scream as the chair flies away, forced into flight by Blaine’s foot, and it crashes against the wall.

Calm down calm down calm down calm down calm down.

The security guards rip through the walls and pull him apart as he screams.

The words lost meaning a long time ago.

His hands are on his head now and he pulls at the skin over and over and over, harder and harder and harder until his nails dig into his scalp and red red red blood jumps out and trickles down his skin.

13 year old Trina rocks back and forth under a table, tiny little head shaking back and forth and she shushes herself frantically.

In the corner the ghosts of psychos past laugh and laugh and pull us into the chaos.

I watch with a fascination built only from years and years of viewing breakdowns from the sidelines.

When I break I will be much more civilised. I will simply fall.

It takes a few minutes but eventually super sneaky Dr Madden get’s a poison dart into Blaines arm and he’s a dead weight in the guards arms. Parents will be called, Blaine take a seat, no that one’s broken, cracked down the middle. Thomas is clutching his arm like a lifeline and there’s a crimson puddle near his feet, torn stitches. Dr Madden has Trinas hand held tight as she passes her over to the receptionist who pulls out two magic pills that will shut her up take her fear away.

I pick at the fraying seams of my shirt as everyone is calmed and they pay me no attention as I blend backwards into the walls.

It takes a while, forms and accident reports but, lifetimes later when I escape I pass Mr Anderson, Blaine’s Dad Jail keeper. He looks angry, but mostly he looks disappointed. I know that look. There will be much discussion needed. We probably won’t see him next week; they’ll lock him up again.

I stand in the car park as Trina is carried away by the chubby blonde woman she calls her mother and Thomas shuffles past, new clean white bandage on his arm, bloodied sleeve rolled up past his elbow.

It’s cold.

My jumper does nothing to beat the chill that has settled and I wish I had thought to wear more.

I look for Carole’s car or Dad’s or even Finns but I don’t see anything.

I see it I don’t see the bright blue ford near the wall, I don’t see it until I’m standing right next to it and Nana Vetty is opening the door.

“I missed you Kurt.”


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