(c) I'm not sick (PG-M)

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(c) I'm not sick (PG-M)

Post by LADIES AND GENTLEMEN on Tue 09 Sep 2008, 5:47 pm


Title: I'm not sick.
Rating: PG-13. M to be safe.
Author: Mikey (the antihero.)
Status: Oneshot. Perhaps complete.
Warnings: Mature themes; anorexia, bulimia, hints of psychosis/schizophrenia
Summary/Exerpt: Slow start. Donít complain Ė itíll pick up later. Oh, itíll pick up Ė and Iíll thank you not to disrespect me. I chose you, you know. Youíre special. Do you want my help? Yes? Good. Then listen.

I'm not sick. I'm not sick. It's just a diet. I'm not sick.

Iíd better see ninety seven on those sales, tomorrow, or youíre doubling it. Cruel? Yeah, right. Call me whatever you like, but you know you canít leave me. You need me. Admit it. You. Need. Me.











I'm not sick.


I work slowly Ė gently, carefully, weave my way into your mind like the finest of silks. You never even noticed, did you? Of course you didnít notice; silly boy. But you should have. Glances at fat people suddenly leaving you sickened and shuddering; how did you not work it out? Fat people Ė fatfatfat, you included. Look at that stomach. Did you look like that last time you looked? No. No, somehow, I donít think so. Couldíve been those chips, donít you think? No Ė you donít. You donít think, and thatís how weíve gotten ourselves into this predicament. But, donít worry. Iím here to help you. Iím here to make things better.

Slow start. Donít complain Ė itíll pick up later. Oh, itíll pick up Ė and Iíll thank you not to disrespect me. I chose you, you know. Youíre special. Do you want my help? Yes? Good. Then listen. Youíll put on your running shoes, now. Take a jacket, you idiot. I donít care how fast youíll be running; people are going to get suspicious if you go gallivanting around at night in just a shirt and slacks. God, I donít know why I bother.

Take it off, now that youíre out. Cold burns more calories. Feet faster; pulse faster still; lungs burning Ė movemovemove. Not good enough. Youíre not good enough, and I know you know. I know you know I know. Itís why Iím here, isnít it? Eight laps. Eight Ė is that all youíve got? Pathetic boy. Do another twelve and maybe Iíll let you off Ė but today only. See? Not that hard. It hurts? Of course it hurts. Fat is part of you, you know. Fat is the bad part. The impure part. The burn is good. Donít fucking cut corners! Stop it, you snivelling little rat! Seventeen laps? How many corners did you cut, while you had me distracted? Do them again. All of them! Do. Them. Again. Go!

Sit ups. Now. Donít get fucking cocky on me; Iím not the one who weighted ninety nine fucking pounds this morning. Eighty? Please. Youíll never get down to eighty. Pathetic Ė just plain pathetic. Seven. Eight. Nine. I swear to god, if you so much as think about resting, youíre starting them again. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Keep. Fucking. Going.

Finish the sit ups, finish the push ups, and youíre done. Twenty more laps, and thatís it. Scurry home, little boy; run home and collapse into bed. You did good, you did Ė but it took me a lot of fucking work. And Iíd better see ninety seven on those sales, tomorrow, or youíre doubling it. Cruel? Yeah, right. Call me whatever you like, but you know you canít leave me. You need me. Admit it. You. Need. Me.

Out of bed. Shower, now. Shower Ė but scale first. Take off those pyjamas. God, look at your thighs. Look at your rolls. Youíd think you were eating just as much as before. Ninety seven point four. Do you remember what I said? I said ninety fucking seven! No ifs and no fucking buts, nine seven point oh. Youíre going to double it, today, and I swear to god, if I catch you eating, itís tripled. Pathetic little boy; stop crying. Crying is useless. Everything is useless, unless it burns calories. Go bleed it out or something. God, must you sob so fucking loud? People are going to hear, you know.

Silver to skin, red to tile. Look at the pretty cuts. You can see your flesh. Can you see any fat? Itís gone Ė all gone. Itís gone from your arms, at leastÖ maybe if you cut your thighs open, itíll all fall out. Ha. Fat fucking chance. Bleed out some of that disgusting sugar, and bleed out your remorse with it. Get over yourself Ė itís your fault you didnít lose more, not mine. You should have worked harder. Shouldnít have cut so many corners, now, should you? Cutting corners, cutting wrists Ė jesus, youírea failure.

School Ė walk there. Save your fucking train money. I donít care how tired you are, you have half a pound to lose. Was it really point four? Maybe you hallucinated. Maybe it was point five. Five, or six, or seven. See? Better safe than sorry. Better safe than fat. Throw your lunch in the bin, and donít you dare even contemplate taking a bite of that apple. Nothing. No food today Ė none whatsoever.

Donít you love the way people look at you? Oh, youíre still fat, mark my words Ė but youíre losing it. Slowly, but surely. Losing it, haha. You are, arenít you? Youíre practically coming apart at the seams under my fingers. God knows what would happen if I wasnít holding you together. But I am, arenít I? I am. I am. Does it make you proud, to turn heads? When those jeans you bought just weeks ago suddenly seem to hang off you like sheets? Look at those pretty bones, little boy. See? See how I help you? Youíll be beautiful in no time.

Run along home Ė and I mean run; youíve still got your workout to do. If you donít fuck me around, you might be home by six. Might. Not that itíd fucking kill you to miss dinner or anything. Jesus. Laps, sit ups, laps, push ups, laps. Run home. Go on! Faster! Key to keyhole, and Ė are you shaking? Jesus, it was only a couple hours work out. Get over it. Pull up a chair. Relax. Pulse racing? Good, good Ė still burning calories, you know. Keep the jacket off. No, youíre not cold. Arm down, or theyíll see the marks.

Oh god, spaghetti? Youíd better not touch that. Youíre not hungry. I donít care what your mother says, donít fucking eat it! Carbs. Typical. Eat a little salad. A couple forkfuls of that heinous stuff, maybe. Chew, chew Ė donít you dare swallow! How? How what? How am I supposed to know? Just get rid of the goddamn food! Sneeze or cough or spit it out, but if you let it slip down your throat, then youíre doing another five hundred sit ups.

Toilet, now. Fingers down throat, tears to eyes Ė god, do you ever stop crying? I donít care how much it hurts. Do you want to be pretty? Do you? Then stop pissing around and puke. It. Up You were the one who swallowed it in the first place. I donít care if she was watching you, I donít care if she wouldnít let you leave Ė I donít care, I donít care, I donít care! Youíre not good enough, and thatís all there is to it. Good Ė just like that. Get it all out. Donít you feel better empty? Makes you feel pretty. Makes you feel thin. Now, back to your room, and get onto those sit ups. Maybe if you do the first five hundred properly, Iíll let you sleep.


checked: rafiki.

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Re: (c) I'm not sick (PG-M)

Post by frayed ends on Thu 25 Sep 2008, 9:18 am

Oh my god, I can't think of a right word to describe that.
You have so much talent it's unbelievable.
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Re: (c) I'm not sick (PG-M)

Post by Galileo Figaro on Mon 10 Nov 2008, 12:18 pm

Oh, Mikey. -loves-

It all sounds so effing scary, and it's just one day.

That was just... Amazing, scary, real, hard-hitting... I don't even know. I've lost track of how many times I reread it.
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