Painted Sunflowers

Chapter 2

//TRIGGER WARNING\\

"Ha, whatever you say dude! Bye!" Alfred said, ending the call before the annoyed Brit on the other line had a chance to respond. A huge smile was on his face, a smile that showed all of his pearly white teeth, and a mischievous twinkle sat shining in his sky-blue eyes. He waved goodbye to his jumble of other friends as he headed home after a long Tuesday of calculus and reading.

Alfred half-skipped and half-walked away as his friends were watching him leave, a smile still glued on his face.

"Just a little bit faster... " He thought to himself, feeling more and more worthless and horrible by the second.

Finally they were out of view, and he began sprinting as fast as he possibly could without stopping. Not to breathe, not to rest, nothing. He had to get home.

The smile vanished from his face, and he was relieved to drop the act at last.

"Why the heck did I eat so much today, what was I thinking? A whole apple AND two burgers? Such a fat, ugly faggot." He thought to himself, teeth clenched and a few tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

He pressed on and on. It had only been 15 minutes, but it felt like an eternity of sprinting farther and farther away from the school.

He could barely breathe, gasping for air, his inhaling choppy, painful, and feeling like sandpaper violently tearing at his throat. He could taste the metallic, salty flavor of blood taunting him as he rasped and choked.

But on he pushed, his legs aching and head throbbing with pounds of pressure.

"I've got to get home... I HAVE to get this crap out of me before I digest it." He yelled in his mind, absolutely furious with himself.

Closer, and closer still.

The door to his house seemed to get farther away as the time ticked on, as if it were laughing in his face saying "You can't catch me!" But, at the same time, he could picture it in great detail and he seemed to be able to reach out and touch the illusion.

Closer and closer he was becoming to his goal.

He was practically drowning in a thick layer of his own sweat, and the bloody taste was growing stronger. It felt like someone was strangling him, and he guessed that his face reflected that feeling.

"THUD!" The door burst open, the handle ramming into the wall next to it and leaving a hole that held the door open and captive in its grasp.

Alfred collapsed on the tile floor, and tears streamed out of his now faded blue eyes. They always did that when he showed his depression- as if the color and life had been drained out of them. He tried to scream in rage and agony, but all that came out was a raspy squeak and a few chunks of shining, dark red blood.

He couldn't physically move- not after bolting at least 7 miles in under thirty minutes with barely any energy in the first place.

But, he thrusted his shaking body up the stairs, messily sobbing and panting the whole time. for once in his life, he was glad his parents were gone.

He forced himself to open the bathroom door. Time couldn't have gone slower.

He crawled, quaking, over to the toilet, ignoring the razors he forgot to put away late last night. They were just rock salt in his open wound.

The quivering teen shoved a calloused finger down his throat, gagging up chunks and bits and pieces of slimy orange food mixed with bubbling stomach acid. It burned his bloodied, wounded throat, and the taste was unimaginable. Like year-old spoiled milk left in the sun for a week and mixed with dirty gym socks. He was sorry to say was used to it, and even found comfort in it.

Alfred absolutely hated himself. He despised to look in the mirror and see this crappy human being he was ashamed to be. He loathed the squishier parts of himself, which in all honesty weren't that bad, but might as well have been 300 pounds in his eyes. He detested absolutely every little crack and corner of his body, and it was tearing his fragile mind apart.

The only thing that he was more disgusted by than that was what he was addicted to doing to himself- but he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop starving himself, then forcing himself to barf up what little he did eat. Couldn't stop cutting his tender skin that had already been cut open hundreds of thousands of times. It was sickening. It was life.

He croaked a dry, humorless laugh, knowing what would happen next like it always did. A strong black headrush that suddenly swept over him in tingly black dots knocked him out for a restless, dreamless night of forced sleep.