The First Punch ( perrentes fan fiction)

I've Felt the Hate Rise Up in Me

TRIGGER WARNING FOR ED'S, SUICIDE

The song is from Wait and Bleed by Slipknot.

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Tony's P.O.V.

I shuddered, cold, disgusting, the feeling you get after you have a one night stand with someone horrendously ugly and you can't wait to get out of there but you don't know where the fuck you are or where your clothes are. The urgency that rose in my throat was highly unpleasant.

I hunched, holding my tattooed and bare stomach. Turns out the urgency was just stomach bile.

I shuffled around, my hand looking for purchase on anything that felt like fabric to throw on my body or a garbage to throw up in. I found nothing but a sock and Mike's underwear. I sighed, frustration and nausea mixing.

I heaved again, holding back what was in my throat, for the first time in a few days. What did I have to eat yesterday?

Nothing, not that I could remember. Sex must have taken too many calories out of my body, now it was protesting. I didn't know what was better, being sane and going to eat, or giving the finger to healthy eating habits and going to throw up.

I opted for the latter, finding my own underwear on a crawl to the bathroom, more like a crawl to something that holds anything. Garbage bin, or toilet, I didn't particularly know which one I wanted more, I just wanted them desperately, equally.

"Tony," came a whisper from beside me on my somewhat successful creep to the bathroom.

I didn't answer, just keep writhing in a less than fruitful scramble to not throw up over everything. I whimpered, my mouth screwed shut, in a little pucker, half in an effort to keep from throwing everything I've eaten in the past few days in my stomach and half in pain.

A sigh came, disappointed, bored and a pair of arms carrying me to my destination. Dragging my body along was Mike, forever carrying me like a dead weight. Forever keeping me like a burden, loved.

"I'm getting quite tired of this," he said, his voice deadpan, my body dead feeling.

I couldn't reply, the snarky wit that might have come out had gotten caught in a sea of neusea, waiting to be let out of my throat, my mouth, my body. What probably would have come out would not help the situation in the slightest but might have soothed my slightly injured ego. I wanted to defend that it was truly not my fault, I was addicted to dying, to self  destruction, to purging.

He probably wanted to shake me, to yell at me, but the urgency of the matter would allow for the confrontation later. Our trip was quick, getting us to the bathroom in no time, just enough to hold back my hair and say a prayer before all the not contents of my stomach, violently shot out.

Normally, there would be the preparation, the water turning on, the fingers down the throat, leaning, standing, mouth wash and water standing by the sink waiting for a puffy cheeked, puffy-eyed me to drink from it.

This time there was no fingers, no standing, no liquids, just a shaking, crying me, being held by a shaking, crying Mike. I hated the sight we must have made. I was a wreck, and only taking him down with me. This had to stop.

I thought it already did, but apparently I was wronged. Breaking up with him was not the end, it probably only added to our problems, my problems. But it was the only option that seemed viable, visible, straightforward without me giving up my new found habits and him not seeing me crumble in such a raw and up-close manner.

Of course, he was as stubborn as I was and would not compromise, even if it was best for the both of us. We've had numerous, fights, discussions, and confrontations about the matter but it never seemed to end. He wanted me, I wanted it.