Wake Up, Get Paid, Get Laid, Gatorade

Behind The Sea

A/N: For wngland because you need to cry at my fanfictions okay

He looked as if a ten-year-long rain had washed the color from him like a painting left in a downpour, red washed from his cheeks and lips until they were flushed white and once darkened blue eyes now lighter than the sky.

He was drifting.

His cheeks weren't hollow, but they certainly weren't as round and full as they once were. His stomach caved in alarmingly and his hipbones jutted out at a sharp angle. His hips were what was effected the most, and it surprised Patrick that Pete hadn't noticed. Usually that was Pete's favorite thing about him.

And then there was him.

The voice.

He hated himself for personifying it, but he couldn't help it. He was angry, but only spoke in cold whispers.

Today, he whispered to his reflection, "Pete doesn't have a favorite thing about you, he pities you."

He knew he was enabling and he knew he needed to just stop, but he couldn't help but believe it.

   His ribs were jutting out just slightly, but not enough. Never enough.

   Another mile he thought just one more should do it.

   Maybe not just one, maybe two.

   Maybe three.

   Pete's razor blade lay by the sink, tempting him in soft whispers, waves of a malicious craving for the pain washing over him followed by a sharp pang of guilt.

   I promised not to.

   "and you also promised to lose weight this week, but guess who's too weak to do one little simple task?"

   He's right.

   Quivering hands reached out to the blade, as if the same rain that had washed away his color had chilled him down to his bones, which now were somewhat visible.

   The metal was cool between his fingertips, sharp and chilling as he glanced at his wrists with a blank, vacant expression.

   He was a ghost, a wisp, a shell of what once was, but what really made him that was the definition of the word itself.

   Ghost, the soul of someone who is dead.

He brought the blade down upon his skin, just below the barely faded scars on his right wrist, and pressed down.

Just one more he thought.

Maybe not just one, maybe two.

Maybe three.

He dragged the metal across the pale expanse of skin of his wrist, turning white a bitter crimson, dark and running down his arm to the porcelain of the sink.

Drip.

One more.

Drip.

Again.

Drip.

Please stop.

"Don't stop."

Drip.

His chest heaved, quickly rising and falling with the weight of his broken promises. His forearm was a deep red, the color of a dark rose.