Sick

"Are you sick?" asked the worried mother, as his translucent hands gripped tightly onto the white ceramic bowl. Ignoring his mother's question, the pale boy continued to heave a thick yellow-orange vomit from the morning's barely digested breakfast. After he finished, he got up on wobbly feet and flushed the waste away. He then brushed his teeth and sprayed air freshener in the bathroom, attempting to rid the bathroom of the hideous smell. He unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out to meet face-to-face with his mother.

"Are you sick?" She asked once again. 'Why must you always ask me this, dear mother?' questioned the young man in his thoughts.

"Do I look sick to you? Of course I'm not sick." replied the woman's son

"But dear," started the dark-haired woman, "You do seem sick, you've gotten thinner and you rarely eat. You always go to the bathroom after eating. Are you sure you aren't sick? You've always had a terrible immune system..."

"Linda, I am not sick. Geez, what gives you that idea?"

"But baby... Hm. Forget it, just go to school and have a nice day, okay? Bye." She said, sighing in defeat. The short boy just grunted in response and without another word; He was out the door.

The boy, Frank, was ill, though. In the last month he's changed; A lot. He was paler than usual and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. His cheeks were starting to sink in slightly. His body was littered in fresh blue and purple bruises. His arms were scattered with what seemed to be self-inflicted wounds. He limped when he walked and his once extremely tight clothes were loose and baggy on his body. His thoughts had turned evil and twisted, although the thoughts didn't belong to him. A voice in his head told him awful things. That voice was starting to wear Frank thin and, without help, might be the death of him.

Frank isn't just sick, He's more than sick.