Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Doing prompts now to slowly sink myself into writing again. Not MCR, I know, but you can imagine it's any one of the pairings. Frerard, Frikey, Waycest, OC's, whatever, take your pick. I hope ye get the message at the end and all, and it doesn't look like I just fucked it up or whatever.
I'm doing a really short series of prompts my friend gave me. Might upload a few more, might not.
lorna
Prompt #4 - mirror
Fat. That's all he sees. Fat, fat, fat. It's disgusting. It makes him want to vomit, not just for the obvious reason but because he's just...so...goddamn...fat.
His eyes always dart to his legs first. The slight swell of his thighs and awkward jut of his knee make it seem like all of his hard work is nothing. He slips a hand - he tries not to scoff in dismay at his chubby fingers and pudgy wrist - up the curve of his thigh and stops at his hipbone. He wishes it would stick out and he could feel the definition of the bone but his skin feels soft and fleshy when he touches it. He chokes a sob and turns, so that he sees his side profile in the mirror.
Jesus. He's fucking huge.
He continues to pinch at the excess skin bunching around his waist, a crystalline tear dribbling down his cheek and trying in vain not to start crying full force. If he can go days without eating, surely he can delay the waterworks. God, he hates his stomach. It looks like he swallowed a soccer ball. Hey, he could even pass for a couple of weeks pregnant if guys could get knocked up. He rubs his hand just along his protruding waistline and whines in despair. His boxer shorts are skin-tight against his thighs and God, he just hates it.
He hesitantly gives a glance at the door; it's quarter to five and his boyfriend will be home in roughly ten minutes. Leaving him alone had been a bit of a chance, especially after his stint in the centre, but his boyfriend had instilled trust in him finally and for that he was grateful. He certainly wouldn't trust him if he saw him now, alone and pathetic and half-dressed in front of their mirror.
The mirror has only recently made its comeback. He had gone on a weight-induced rampage about two months ago and smashed every single one of them in their two bedroom apartment. After emerging from rehab his boyfriend had, with the planned and careful tentativeness of a serial killer, introduced the mirror back into their home. Of course it was nowhere conspicuous, simply standing to attention in their spare bedroom on the bottom floor.
He was there now, running hands through his hair. It's started falling out again. It's a pity, really; he used put so much effort into it, regularly dying and styling it. Their bedroom dresser was creaking with the weight of hair care products, and he was pretty sure he alone kept L'Oreal Paris in business during slow times. But now it had withered back to his natural colour, a washed out shade of mouse brown. It was the same colour of his expulsion: his last meal in congealed form, mixed with the metallic red of blood.
He flicks back to his legs again. They seem to have swollen since he last looked at them, but that doesn't surprise him. That's all he can really fucking do, isn't it? Put on weight. What a great talent. He can't sing, he can't play an instrument, he's not artistic, he doesn't posses an ounce of intelligence and he is not remotely attractive. His sense of humour is non existent and God, personality, what is this you speak of? He can barely hold a conversation or share a common interest with another human being before they realize he is nothing but a waste of skin and muscle.
And fat. He's the biggest waste of fat since time began.
He takes one last look in the mirror, because he knows soon the door will click open and his boyfriend will be calling for him in the hallways, arms open and inviting. He will smile and laugh and force himself to make everything look like a perfect, pretty picture that fits his ideal life. He has a wonderful, caring and downright gorgeous boyfriend and a very stylish apartment set in a well-to-do area and he should thank every star above his fat self that those things don't seem to be leaving him any time soon....a little like his weight. But when he wraps his arms around his significant other, he will catch his reflection somewhere (he's become an expert in spotting himself in things normal people can't; saucepans, phone covers and clock faces all do a great impersonation of mirrors, just by different names and shadowed by different purposes) and feel utterly useless all over again.
Tears are coming now. His cheeks are chubby. Chest flabby, stomach puffy. Hips - Jesus, his hips make himself sick on their goddamn own - are full and fat. His legs feel heavy and almost obstructive in how his thighs brush against each other, that subtle rubbing of his inner thighs. He whines again, in frustrated, helpless sadness and sinks to the floor, hating the feel of his calves sliding against his thighs and how expansive how body mass is.
So lost in his remorse the young man is that he doesn't the door opening nor the dumping of his boyfriend's bag on the floor.
He looks from the hallway, seeing the bone-thin boy slumped against the mirror, snuffling quietly into his hands, pressed into his face. His shoulder blades poke out like forks and the back adjoining those bony shoulders is based around a spine, each and every vertebrae bumping the surface of ivory skin. Legs stick out like toothpicks. Everything, from patella to clavicle to mandible, sticks out at an unnatural angle and makes touching the victim hazardous, ill-advised almost.
He should really get that mirror out of the house.
Have a feeling that was THE worst piece of descriptive writing I have ever done in my existence. I feel shite explaining it, but basically, from my experience of eating disorders, I would see something a lot different in the mirror than in reality. I can't really be anymore obvious than that. Thanks anyway, lads.
I'm doing a really short series of prompts my friend gave me. Might upload a few more, might not.
lorna
Prompt #4 - mirror
Fat. That's all he sees. Fat, fat, fat. It's disgusting. It makes him want to vomit, not just for the obvious reason but because he's just...so...goddamn...fat.
His eyes always dart to his legs first. The slight swell of his thighs and awkward jut of his knee make it seem like all of his hard work is nothing. He slips a hand - he tries not to scoff in dismay at his chubby fingers and pudgy wrist - up the curve of his thigh and stops at his hipbone. He wishes it would stick out and he could feel the definition of the bone but his skin feels soft and fleshy when he touches it. He chokes a sob and turns, so that he sees his side profile in the mirror.
Jesus. He's fucking huge.
He continues to pinch at the excess skin bunching around his waist, a crystalline tear dribbling down his cheek and trying in vain not to start crying full force. If he can go days without eating, surely he can delay the waterworks. God, he hates his stomach. It looks like he swallowed a soccer ball. Hey, he could even pass for a couple of weeks pregnant if guys could get knocked up. He rubs his hand just along his protruding waistline and whines in despair. His boxer shorts are skin-tight against his thighs and God, he just hates it.
He hesitantly gives a glance at the door; it's quarter to five and his boyfriend will be home in roughly ten minutes. Leaving him alone had been a bit of a chance, especially after his stint in the centre, but his boyfriend had instilled trust in him finally and for that he was grateful. He certainly wouldn't trust him if he saw him now, alone and pathetic and half-dressed in front of their mirror.
The mirror has only recently made its comeback. He had gone on a weight-induced rampage about two months ago and smashed every single one of them in their two bedroom apartment. After emerging from rehab his boyfriend had, with the planned and careful tentativeness of a serial killer, introduced the mirror back into their home. Of course it was nowhere conspicuous, simply standing to attention in their spare bedroom on the bottom floor.
He was there now, running hands through his hair. It's started falling out again. It's a pity, really; he used put so much effort into it, regularly dying and styling it. Their bedroom dresser was creaking with the weight of hair care products, and he was pretty sure he alone kept L'Oreal Paris in business during slow times. But now it had withered back to his natural colour, a washed out shade of mouse brown. It was the same colour of his expulsion: his last meal in congealed form, mixed with the metallic red of blood.
He flicks back to his legs again. They seem to have swollen since he last looked at them, but that doesn't surprise him. That's all he can really fucking do, isn't it? Put on weight. What a great talent. He can't sing, he can't play an instrument, he's not artistic, he doesn't posses an ounce of intelligence and he is not remotely attractive. His sense of humour is non existent and God, personality, what is this you speak of? He can barely hold a conversation or share a common interest with another human being before they realize he is nothing but a waste of skin and muscle.
And fat. He's the biggest waste of fat since time began.
He takes one last look in the mirror, because he knows soon the door will click open and his boyfriend will be calling for him in the hallways, arms open and inviting. He will smile and laugh and force himself to make everything look like a perfect, pretty picture that fits his ideal life. He has a wonderful, caring and downright gorgeous boyfriend and a very stylish apartment set in a well-to-do area and he should thank every star above his fat self that those things don't seem to be leaving him any time soon....a little like his weight. But when he wraps his arms around his significant other, he will catch his reflection somewhere (he's become an expert in spotting himself in things normal people can't; saucepans, phone covers and clock faces all do a great impersonation of mirrors, just by different names and shadowed by different purposes) and feel utterly useless all over again.
Tears are coming now. His cheeks are chubby. Chest flabby, stomach puffy. Hips - Jesus, his hips make himself sick on their goddamn own - are full and fat. His legs feel heavy and almost obstructive in how his thighs brush against each other, that subtle rubbing of his inner thighs. He whines again, in frustrated, helpless sadness and sinks to the floor, hating the feel of his calves sliding against his thighs and how expansive how body mass is.
So lost in his remorse the young man is that he doesn't the door opening nor the dumping of his boyfriend's bag on the floor.
He looks from the hallway, seeing the bone-thin boy slumped against the mirror, snuffling quietly into his hands, pressed into his face. His shoulder blades poke out like forks and the back adjoining those bony shoulders is based around a spine, each and every vertebrae bumping the surface of ivory skin. Legs stick out like toothpicks. Everything, from patella to clavicle to mandible, sticks out at an unnatural angle and makes touching the victim hazardous, ill-advised almost.
He should really get that mirror out of the house.
Have a feeling that was THE worst piece of descriptive writing I have ever done in my existence. I feel shite explaining it, but basically, from my experience of eating disorders, I would see something a lot different in the mirror than in reality. I can't really be anymore obvious than that. Thanks anyway, lads.
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