Cold Hands
Eight
No.
He can’t possibly – he hasn’t been, oh fuck, he.
Patrick stares in disgust at his reflection. At himself. His middle seemed bigger than before, his arms flabby, his thighs fighting for space between them. He tugs, restless, at the fat spewing from his skeleton and almost weeps in repulsion.
He’s disgusting. Unsavoury. Nauseating. He doesn’t want to be in the same room as himself let alone the same body, the same mind. He digs in his fingers, gauging at the flesh but not breaking the skin. No wonder Pete was more interested in Ryan.
Ryan the perfect.
Patrick shakes his head at the stupid name but quickly stops as a wave of dizziness washes over him. He grabs for the sink and blinks tightly, staring down into the plug hole.
He can see it all now.
He can’t possibly – he hasn’t been, oh fuck, he.
Patrick stares in disgust at his reflection. At himself. His middle seemed bigger than before, his arms flabby, his thighs fighting for space between them. He tugs, restless, at the fat spewing from his skeleton and almost weeps in repulsion.
He’s disgusting. Unsavoury. Nauseating. He doesn’t want to be in the same room as himself let alone the same body, the same mind. He digs in his fingers, gauging at the flesh but not breaking the skin. No wonder Pete was more interested in Ryan.
Ryan the perfect.
Patrick shakes his head at the stupid name but quickly stops as a wave of dizziness washes over him. He grabs for the sink and blinks tightly, staring down into the plug hole.
He can see it all now.