WHEN BEAUTY NO LONGER EXISTS

6

for the great tylerfuckingdun because he is such a beautiful boy and im his mom, and @tylersucks who is my best fucking friend.

also i don't want any references in the comments or ill get even more pissy

***

In the next handful of months that I will somehow gather up the bitter strength to describe, to pull up from the ground of my mind where it lay strong roots, all the way in the back, hidden away and kept quiet and kept tucked down, I will have grown a fear for many things. Unlocked doors, the sound of a doorknob being twisted open (though, I never heard it when Theo actually managed his way in. I stood like a normal, unsuspecting human being in the shower inside of my home, not knowing the end of my life was going to be waiting for me when I decided to step out of it), the look of myself in a fogged up bathroom mirror, the honest sight of myself in general, being hugged, being reached out to, being hit on, having someone move their arm in the always alert corner of my eye, being naked, being yelled at, being eyed in public (when I managed my way back outside), not standing next to Josh, and questions.

Most of these things, I would be strong enough to overcome. The rest of them, I grew the will to try and bury. The immediate flinching would never vanish, for one. I couldn't teach myself that people weren't going to hurt me when their arms reached for something near to me, because I didn't know that. I didn't know they weren't going to grab me and drag me somewhere or shout in my face or make me feel helpless and useless and fucking pointless. Irrevocably dirtied and agonized. There was just things that I didn't know.

Questions. That eventually subsided, but it took a long while. Every time someone saw me, they were handed out. People asked why they hadn't seen me in so long and why I looked so weird and why I didn't eat as much anymore and why my skin became so pale and why my knuckles and hipbones and jaw looked as if they were trying to throw themselves from the cage that my skin created for them, and they asked why Josh always looked after me as if something was going to jump from the shadows and latch itself on to me and drag me away forever.

They wanted to know why they never saw me outside anymore, too. Why I found so much "solace" in the "safety" of my apartment. They wanted to know what ripped out the core of everything I was, and what, somehow, transformed me into such a different person. They wanted to know what happened, just as badly as I wanted to stop hating myself for it.

But my favorite question to be asked, by absolute far, was this:

What is wrong with you?

Because I didn't know. Maybe, I thought, as soon as I found the answer, I'd appear just as excited to share as they wouldn't be to actually listen.

But, when my parents showered me with questions the first second our eyes met, them standing in the doorway, and Josh and I grinning like a decent couple, I felt my heart sink into my stomach. It wasn't in my throat, though, so words flowed as best as I allowed them to.

"Oh, god. What happened to your face?" My mom's voice came right over my dad's. He was mumbling deep swear words, figured he would let my mother handle it. He loved Josh, and moved around the two of us to shake hands with him. Glancing back, I caught the sight of a smile sitting tight on Josh's face, realized how lazy it looked. How much he didn't want to smile, yet how easily he did so, anyway.

"Got mugged," I shrugged, giving a stubby laugh. The pain in my crest tried to recede into something less extreme, but the fade lasted less time than I'd asked for. "It's New York, can't expect much."

"It happens to everyone at least once," Josh worked to cover. My dad laughed, slapped his back. My mom's chuckle was dry and unconvinced, but her eyes let me know she dropped it where she stood. Thank whatever god was watching. Though, I doubted there was one, after every inch of me was stolen and replaced with something that could never be holy again. Even if I wanted it to be. And it happened right in the eyes of the one supposedly protecting me. What a fucking shame.

"Don't worry," Josh continued, leading us all down to the kitchen. When we scheduled this, he pouted over having company for a solid twenty minutes, but I promised I'd do all the cooking. Just a promise unkept, obviously. This chicken alfredo was not mine. He knew so. I knew so. "I took care of him afterwards, of course."

"I bet you did," my mom muttered. I shut my eyes against the headache building up. No one paid me any mind, though, seeing as I engulfed myself down in the dark for a second less than a real second, and joined Josh down by the stove. He was plating, while my parents made light conversation over my collection of salt and pepper shakers. They were making fun of it, and I let them.

"I'm sorry you had to do all of this," I whispered gently, heart still breaking for the millionth time in a row, at the sight of him turning to look at me, soft smile on his face. "I know I c-can't do much right now, and-"

He had two plates in his hands, and I wanted to cry all over again. His lips moved to the side of my head, and I didn't want to jerk away from him, so, I didn't. Just allowed him to feel the weight of my tension. It spread over the both of us, and it shook me inside.

"It's okay. Really," he reassured. Turning back to my mom and dad, he smiled wide and forced, and I could hear it when he spoke. Only me, though, judging by my parents' enthusiastic response. "Here we have chicken alfredo, and loaves of bakery bread! A round of applause for our chef, would you?"

"You made this?" My dad questioned, his hands giving gentle claps while Josh gave me a warm smile. It ached in my chest. "It looks amazing."

"I hope you like it," was the lie I gave. Nothing else to hand them. They'd much rather taste chicken alfredo than a mere drop of the truth.

***

a/n: typing on a computer has me fucked up. also, this is so so bad and im so so sorry. not doing well, but writing really helps. also, this is unedited as living hell.