Etho was laying back on his bed, his palms flat against his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. Doing nothing, except breathing and thinking.
He didn't know what it was to start his day off like this, it was very random. He didn't like that it was random.
He slowly lifted his hand up his abdomen, over his diaphragm, hissing in a breath when his hand reached the bottom of his chest.
He shoved his hand back, almost has if he had been burned, to his side. He gave a heavy sigh and squeezed his eyes shut.
His opposite hand moved down to his side to join the other and he cringed at the way he could feel the dips of his ribcage.
He hated his body. He hated the way it looked. He wished for a new one.
Etho found himself muttering the words to himself, over and over. He felt the breath clog in his throat. Tears raced down his cheeks and dampened his mask.
He missed being a child. He missed not having a care in the world about the way you looked. You could just live. Children never payed attention to those sorts of things.
But now, people he knew grew up. He grew up with them. And the more you grew, the more you realised what you looked like. You matured. And you worried. You worried because you noticed. You noticed people's flaws more than before, that meant other people did too. So people noticed that you were so pale, so skinny.
And then the comments would start.
The comments were the worst. The comments made him feel sick with cognizance. Because he knew they were right. The insults were always right.
'You're so pale, do you feel okay?'
I felt fine until you said that.
'You're so skinny, I bet I could fit my whole hand around your wrist.'
This isn't a circus, My body isn't the entertainment.
'Are you anorexic or something?'
No.
'Why don't you try eating more?'
I've tried.
'A breeze could knock you over.'
'Are you starving yourself?'
'What's your secret?'
'I wish I had your body.'
'Your skinny without even trying.'
'Your so lucky.'
'You should get some fat on those bones of yours.'
'Skeleton.'
'Bony.'
'Hollow.'
Etho found himself muttering the words to himself, over and over. He felt the breath clog in his throat. Tears raced down his cheeks and dampened his mask.
But that wasn't the only thing wrong with that sack of skin he called a body. He felt almost as if he was born in the wrong one. He had tried to changed it. And for some parts, he managed. He had managed to deepen his voice. He had cut his hair. He wore a mask to hide his feminine, weak jawline.
But there was still remnants of what used to be there. Things that were more difficult and more expensive to get rid off.
For example, his chest. He hated seeing it. He could hide the lumps of fat and tissue that weighed down on it. But that didn't change the fact that they were still there. They will still be there when he takes his binder off. They will still be there when he has to go to sleep. They will still be there when he has to wake up in the morning and the thought makes him want to cry out in frustration.
