WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
• • •
Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The difference between healthy, normal people and someone like me is obsession.
And obsession can be scary.
Sometimes people are so obsessed with the idea of being gorgeous that they're willing to drop dead just to achieve it.
Obsession is another thing keeping me awake at night, planning my every move in the following hours. My eyes are heavy, but my mind is stuck.
Biting my nails from hunger soon became redundant because they'd be nubs after a day and a half without food. Having nothing to bite off, I'd gnaw at my knuckles until they were red and irritated.
Because of this, I've started a new routine.
When I feel the urge to eat, I take the switchblade on my car keys and dig it into my skin until I draw blood. I deserve the discomfort it brings me. It's one more step towards control and peace. The path to success isn't without pain.
Besides, every artist dreams of making their art as realistic as possible. There is always a modicum of truth and realism within each sculpture, drawing, and painting, even the abstract ones. The emotions felt when creating the abstractions are real.
Abstract pieces are mostly lines and odd shapes. So are self-inflicted scars.
There isn't any beauty within the scars, but there are emotions.
I'm testing myself, too. I go as long as I can without food. When I fail and gorge on shit, I punish myself with a cut. It's like a wrong answer buzzer on a game show, sharp and red, a reminder of all the times you've failed.
One of my favorite games as a child was playing pretend, and the monster would play with me, but she never let me play pretend pirates. It was always pretend doctor.
She shed her human skin and held me down on the couch. She always took the fun out of it and I wouldn't want to play anymore, but she'd insist.
Dad caught us during one of these "games." Her head snapped up when she heard his key in the door.
My innocence was in full view.
"He has an infection," the monster said, not missing a beat.
"Of course, he does," Dad responded bitterly. "What did you do this time, boy?"
"No, I don't! She's lying!" I shouted.
He saw me screaming, saw my pain, saw the terror in my eyes. Still, nothing except, "Shut up. Let her deal with whatever this is."
Because of her income, she probably really could convince him she was a legitimate doctor, and he wouldn't question a damn thing.
He didn't, ever. Not when I gnashed my teeth and flailed my arms until my face was red. Not when she pulled me up and tightly wrapped one of her arms around my torso.
