Cold Hands
Twelve
The floor is cold on his knees and it almost feels like his bones are digging into the tiles; though, of course that’s his imagination. His knees are as padded out as the rest of him. It’s just that sometimes, with all the starving, he thinks he’s skinny. It’s a brief moment when the guitar techs arm looks bigger than his, or when he’s got a bottle of water and Andy’s got a pizza.
It’s his imagination. Is all.
He slumps against the side of the cubicle, smelling sick and acid on his breath and wishing he hadn’t started eating all that time ago. He’d have Pete by now, if he’d just learned to control himself. He’d be the pretty, skinny boy at Pete’s side instead of Ryan and his blooming ribcage and skeletal fingers.
There’s a bang and Patrick freezes, hands scrambling on the cold floor. He sucks in his breath and tries not to feel the seizing pain of his cardiovascular muscles as they clamp down harshly. Light footsteps echo across the bathroom, getting close and closer to Patrick's little hideaway.
He stares at the converse visible just under the wall and can't think why they look familiar.
A pack of mints rolls under the divide.
“You left them on the table.”
Ryan’s voice is scratchy and eerily calm. Patrick winds his fingers carefully around the pack and pops one out. He doesn’t move from the floor.
“Soon you’ll have nothing to throw up.”
“What?” Patrick’s answers come stumbling out, all weak and faltering. Nothing like Ryan’s. Nothing ever is.
Ryan laughs.
“Soon it’s just blood and stomach acid. It eats away at your throat, you know. Ruins your singing voice.”
There’s a pause.
“Not that I have much of a voice.” Patrick pulls the mint into his mouth and bites down, letting the taste overwhelm his own guilt.
“But you do, Patrick.”
The converse disappear from sight and Patrick can’t say anything as the door slams shut and the tapping of water on basic becomes oh so apparent in the resounding silence.
His throat burns.
It’s his imagination. Is all.
He slumps against the side of the cubicle, smelling sick and acid on his breath and wishing he hadn’t started eating all that time ago. He’d have Pete by now, if he’d just learned to control himself. He’d be the pretty, skinny boy at Pete’s side instead of Ryan and his blooming ribcage and skeletal fingers.
There’s a bang and Patrick freezes, hands scrambling on the cold floor. He sucks in his breath and tries not to feel the seizing pain of his cardiovascular muscles as they clamp down harshly. Light footsteps echo across the bathroom, getting close and closer to Patrick's little hideaway.
He stares at the converse visible just under the wall and can't think why they look familiar.
A pack of mints rolls under the divide.
“You left them on the table.”
Ryan’s voice is scratchy and eerily calm. Patrick winds his fingers carefully around the pack and pops one out. He doesn’t move from the floor.
“Soon you’ll have nothing to throw up.”
“What?” Patrick’s answers come stumbling out, all weak and faltering. Nothing like Ryan’s. Nothing ever is.
Ryan laughs.
“Soon it’s just blood and stomach acid. It eats away at your throat, you know. Ruins your singing voice.”
There’s a pause.
“Not that I have much of a voice.” Patrick pulls the mint into his mouth and bites down, letting the taste overwhelm his own guilt.
“But you do, Patrick.”
The converse disappear from sight and Patrick can’t say anything as the door slams shut and the tapping of water on basic becomes oh so apparent in the resounding silence.
His throat burns.