vitreous / hs. (DISCONTINUED)

we are cold

V I T R E O U S - T W O
atlas






I nodded my head, still staring at him with some strange interest.


"What about you?" He asked me, finally turning his head and squinting at me, chewing on his bottom lip.


I stabbed my food with my fork, trying to kill it. I didn't want to eat this stuff.


"Quite a bit," I told him. "I'm messed up."


He laughed dryly, "Aren't we all?"


I nodded, agreeing with him. I stared at my cup of pills, trying to decide whether I would be taking them or not.


Suddenly, an idea came into my mind, and I grabbed the plastic cup, dumping the pills into the palm of my hand. I pocketed them, making sure no one saw me. The brittle boy hadn't even noticed.


A woman who worked here came up to him, and looked at him with concern.


"Harry," she said, her voice light but laced with authority. "You have to take your medications."


He nodded his head ever so slightly, almost innocently, and took a mouthful of water, popping the pills into his mouth and swallowing. The woman nodded, and walked away.


He watched her leave, and I watched him. Then, he parted his lips only the slightest bit, still staring at the same woman, and let the two pills slip from his mouth and land on the floor.


My eyes followed the pills, and he crushed the both of them with his foot, rendering them to a fine powder. He brushed the powder all over the floor, and then it was like there was nothing there.


I stared in awe as he shoved the tray of food away from him, crossing his skinny arms over his chest, and smirking in satisfaction.


"You just... you don't take them?" I asked him.


He shook his head. "If you refuse the meds, they force you to take them."


I nodded, my eyes flickering from him to the empty cup on my tray.


"I haven't taken mine since they sent me here." He informed me. "That's why I've been here for so long. The pills don't help you, they help them. It only makes you easier to handle."


"H-How long have you been here for?"


He shrugged. "Don't know," his eyes finally moved from the woman to me, and a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. His face was so hollow, he looked dead. A simple corpse, a body, no longer a human. "You're new."


"I am." I said, finding no reason to argue. "Is it that obvious?"


"No," he said, creating little creases between his eyebrows. I was surprised he had that much strength in him to do so; he was so fucking skinny. "I just haven't seen you before."


I noticed behind him, the same woman who had told him to take his meds was coming towards him. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he cringed. He didn't look up at her, he only slouched even more, unfolding his bone-like arms from his chest.


"Eat up, Harry." She told him.


She wasn't his mother, she couldn't just take control over him like that. It was his choice whether he wanted to eat or not.


He shook his head, "I can't."


The woman pursed her lips, "Oh, yes you can, honey. Just a few bites and you'll be getting better."


He frowned, still blankly staring at the table. "I don't want to get better." He muttered.


"That's why you're here, isn't it?"


He scowled. "I don't want to be here, and if getting fat means getting better, I need to get worse."


She looked concerned, but I knew it was a facade. They don't care, they only work for the money to care for themselves.

"Harry-"


"No." He cut her off, still staring at the table. He blinked a few times, and we were surrounded by silence in the midst of all the chatter around us.


She let out a deep sigh, and removed her hand from his shoulder. I watched her walk away towards a small group of psychiatrists, and whisper something in a blonde woman's ear. The blonde woman nodded and they engaged in a secretive conversation.


I turned my head towards the boy, and he hadn't moved. He didn't tear his gaze off of the table, yet he still spoke.


"I hate this place." He mumbled.


"I'm sorry," I said.


He let out a very dry, throaty laugh. "You don't need to apologize..."


I waited for him to finish his sentence, but then I realized he was waiting for my name.


"Atlas," I choked out.


"Atlas," he breathed. I watched him fidget, crossing his legs over one another, still staring at that one spot on the table. He made it seem so hard, like it required so much effort.


A small smile crept upon his chapped lips, but he kept them sealed, not showing his teeth.


"Well Atlas," he said, finally turning to look at me. I could feel his pale eyes burning into my hazel ones. "Do you have any fears?"


Slowly, I shook my head. "Not really," I told him. "I'm not afraid of anything but myself, you?"


He cocked his head slightly to the side. I feared it might fall off, his neck was so thin and brittle.


"Obesophobia," he mumbled, picking at the porcelain skin on his arm. "Is the fear of gaining weight."