Fuck.
_______________________
What now?
It seemed to be the only question spiraling in his mindset. He felt uneasy again, head throbbing with questions that hit him like a big wave. Like he was down in the abyss again.
Was it a sign? A sign to stay away from them? Or was it a sign to go back as quickly as possible?
At this point, he didn't know anymore. He had just reached the top of the first pair of stairs, and he felt like he stumbled back down a few. It wasn't ideal for him. He wasn't used to all of this.
He hated everything.
But oh, the amount he loved everything.
He hated his teacher for taking him to that hospital. He hated the hospital for diagnosing him with that fucking hell of a disorder, in which for no fucking apparent reason, defined who he was for the rest of his life. He hated Chan and Hyunjin, so much to the point that he wanted to point a gun to his head and end it all.
But oh, how he loved them too, a feeling that was so complicated to express, too hard to show and tell, so much that he wanted to slit his own throat for them. And he loved his parents, even if they didn't love him, he loved them and the way that everything was just fine to him, because he was used to it back then. He loved his disorder. It made him feel alive, and it made him feel like someone.
Someone he wasn't, but someone he could always yearn to be.
He hated his life.
He loved his mortality.
He hated his body.
He loved his hair, though.
He hated love.
He loved love.
And if he could tell someone that his thoughts actually made sense, people would judge because they didn't make sense, but they somehow did and didn't at the same time.
And that in itself made sense and didn't make sense.
It was confusing.
But, right.
Perhaps this was the reason he had opted for the bottles. To tame the weird train of thought that did and didn't make sense.
Why couldn't it make sense? Why did it make sense?
He never understood himself. How could someone as alluring as Chan believe he understood him well? He never believed in himself. How could someone like Hyunjin believe in him so much more? And he wasn't proud of himself. So why was Hajun proud of him?
It's sick.
He was sick.
Everything was sick.
Everyone was sick.
Sick, sick, sick.
He hated it.
He hated it.
And oh, how he hated it.
It was ticking in his brain. Constantly on repeat. It was stressing him out. It was soothing his emotions. But it made things worse. It made things better.
What the actual fuck did his own mindset fucking provide for him?
Fuck this.
Fuck that.
Fuck you.
His name wasn't his to bear. It was people who talked about him in school when he was stuck in that hospital. His body wasn't his to bear. It was his disorder that ate its way inside out, and gutted him a big fat fucking punch in the fucking face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
His throat hurted, his lungs screamed at him, his eyes welled with water, and his heart was beating rapidly.
Fucking hell.
His hands were shaking. His eyes darted to every corner of the room. His hair stood tall.
It didn't.
But it felt like it did.
Fucking hell.
His throat stinged again. His ears were ringing. His eyes closed.
His hands clenched around the glass bottle. Gulping the shit load of Alcoholism down his burning throat. Coughing at the sensation. Grimacing at the taste. Crying because of how awful he felt.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Stopping wasn't an option. Raiding the kitchen for alcoholic beverages was a great solution to create a bigger fucking problem.
How could he ever get used to the fact that everything people said were the same fucked up bullshit again and again.
"Have you eaten?".
"Did you sleep?".
"Are you doing well?".
"Are you okay?".
No.
No.
No.
No.
The answer was fucking no.
Cause even if he did eat, he didn't enjoy a single fucking portion of it. Even if he did sleep, he was still haunted by everything revolving his terrible and miserable life. And even if he was doing well, he really wasn't at the same time. And even if he was okay, nothing never seemed to be okay.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
Fuck crying.
What did it do other than stain his cheeks and feeling exposed by the wall in front of him.
A fucking wall.
Why a wall?
Why him?
It was frustrating.
Chuck another bottle down. He reached for seconds. He grabbed the seconds. The seconds were done. He reached for thirds. The third was done. He reached for fourths. They were done, too.
It was all gone. His sanity. His tears. The liquid in the four bottles.
But there was and always will be more.
More sanity. More tears. More liquid.
A cycle to repeat.
It was a dilemma at this point. A choice between the love life he had mistakenly created and regretfully shut down to push himself away. He wasn't ready. He never said he was ready. Why the fuck did he go with the flow?
Trash.
It was fucking trash.
He was trash.
Love was trash.
Hate was trash.
Everything was fucking trash.
And now it was five bottles. And it doubled to ten. And it doubled to twenty. And math did its work again.
5,10,20.
Was he still here?
Where was he?
Shit, this is confusing.
Forty down bad. He was slumping over the toilet seat. His insides gutting him for real this time. Kick dropping him hard as he hunched over a porcelain chair.
A dirty porcelain chair.
He wiped his mouth clean with his dirty shirt.
And he went back for more liquid.
What the fuck was happening?
________________________
Okay, but what is happening?
YOU ARE READING
Thinner
Fanfiction"It's the hunger that consumes you". "I don't feel hunger anymore". "Will we ever meet again?". "Maybe in another life".
