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Churning insides, twisting intestines, and a stomach that is trying to eat itself alive. That is all Jon is, and all he imagines he ever will be. How long has it been since he hasn’t felt starving? His cheek is cooled by the hardwood floor of his office, his ears barely registering the sound of a tape running on the desk that he cannot reach.
Not that he cares anymore. His brain throbs behind his eyes and he closes them, sighing and turning his head against the floor. Experimentally, he lifts his head up and lets it’s full weight drop onto the wood. Once, thunk, twice, thunk-thunk.
Doesn’t help. Now his headache is worse, a pulsing pain bouncing from temple to temple. He draws his knees to his chest, staving off the way his stomach ties itself into a knot. The low growl it makes is pitiful and pathetic at best.
He’s fine. He doesn’t need to eat- it’s not.. He doesn’t. He does not need a statement. He does Not need it.
Jon briskly draws his hand under the sweatshirt he’s been living in over the past few weeks, and slips his fingers under the t-shirt beneath. His fingers run along the prominent, curved edges of his ribcage.
The rib cage surrounds the lungs and the heart, serving as an important means of bony protection for these vital organs.In total, the rib cage consists of the 12 thoracic vertebrae and the 24 ribs, in addition to the sternum.
Except now he’s missing two. So 22 ribs, and 12 thoracic vertebrae in addition to his sternum. His hand drifts even higher, tracing out the shape of his sternum until they finally find purchase against the obnoxious protrusion that is his collarbones. Jon snorts to himself- he used to like his decolletage. He enjoyed the high prominence of his collarbones, he used to feel very elegant when he indulged himself in low neckline shirts. He used to feel so.. So many things.
Now he is perhaps nothing and everything at the same time. A stomach that wants to consume, and consume, and consume. The urge is there, of course. It never leaves his mind. The Eye provides him with a never ending source on where he could find a meal if he’d only get off the floor. Blasted thing clearly doesn’t understand self preservation. If he eats, he dies. Bassira won’t hesitate to put a bullet right in the butterfly winged center of his chest.
His fist comes down hard against the wood floor with strength he didn’t quite realize he still had in him. Anger- no, he doesn’t feel that right now. Pain, perhaps. Frustration that he can’t explain what hunger feels like because it isn’t hunger anymore, no. Jon has starved before. He has been scraped hollow by his own intentions. Bile tongued and feathery heartbeats are something he’s dealt with before. Even better, he’s chosen to starve before.
Jon lifts his hand up, and blinks the blurry sight of his office from his vision. Luckily, he still bleeds. His knuckles are split as well, thin rivulets of blood dribble between his fingers. Experimentally, Jon brings his hand close and laps up the small stream.
Eat, or be Eaten. He sighs around the copper taste blooming across his tongue. The acrid taste of his own blood should be nauseating at the very least. But it feels.. Good, and right. He suckles against the split skin of his knuckles as warm tears begin running down his face. Salt mixes with the copper he laps up like a life-line. Jon sucks harder until his teeth find purchase against his skin and when he finally gets it- there’s nothing to find purchase on anymore.
The tears fall in earnest. Jon scrubs at his eyes with his fists until sobs begin heaving out of him. But he’s never been one for theatrics. His chest spasms, his lungs rise and fall, but he doesn’t dare make a single sound. He chokes and fills his body with as much silence as he can. The only sound in the air are his own pathetic sniffles.
He should stop, he should stop crying, get up, and go to the breakroom for normal food. Normal food will make him feel better.
But he doesn’t. Instead he stays on the floor, face buried in his hands and he tries to ignore when the gnawing pain of hunger transcends into a wave of euphoria.
Good things never last. Jon rakes his hands through his hair as he scans over another stale statement. The words do nothing for the gnawing, ceaseless way his stomach is currently eating itself. Dry ink, and dust. The statement tastes like nothing but stale paper that has been sitting in a cardboard box for far too many years.
The statement makes Jon hungrier. He winces and shuts his eyes, bringing his knees to his chest. Fuck professionalism, honestly. He has half a mind to get up and hunt down another pair of sweatpants. He’s so cold, and the archives have always been chilly. It takes all his will power to make sure his teeth don’t chatter through his jaw.
The rest of the statement goes down like sand, and does little to satisfy him. He can’t even curl the damn paper into a ball and throw it as hard as he can against his door like he wants. The Eye stops him, and his hand hovers over the aged sheet before he recedes into himself. Arms tuck into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He considers finding a coat next, maybe wool socks.. Something, anything.
Anything to stave off his body shutting down on him. He smiles to himself and only himself, letting his head knock back against his chair. It’s been.. How long?
35 days, six hours, ten minutes, and 18 seconds since last consumption, Beholding roars in his head, along with the carnal need to go out and hunt down a meal. He’s not an animal, he’s not a monster. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t.
“Jon-”
Daisy’s hand is like ice on his shoulder, he flinches away from her, “Sorry uh- sorry.. What did you need?”
She frowns at him, and looks tired.. Oh so tired. Her hand drops into her back pocket and she sighs, “You need to tell me what’s happening. I can tell Bassira and we can- we can figure it out, okay?” Her brow is set with determination, and Jon has to fight every instinct not to burst out laughing.
Instead he manages an eyeroll, “I’m. Fine.”
“You’re. Not,” Daisy bites back, voice suddenly wet and throaty. Horror comes out of her in waves but it’s not fear, no, it’s concern, pity. She can have it back. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t, he’s fine. He’s starving, he’s starving, and hungry, so fucking hungry.
“I’m Fine,” Jon snaps, “Leave.. Please, Daisy.”
Daisy tries to stand straighter and if she had any of her previous muscle Jon might actually cower away from her. Her spine straightens, and something warm drips out of his nose. For a brief second Jon fears his brain might be melting out of his skull and oh god he can’t fix that, can he?
“Jon, that’s not normal.”
He swipes his fingers under his nose and stares down at the crimson red liquid on his fingers.
Oh that’s blood.
He still- right he still has blood.. Heavily oxygenated blood but it’s still blood and it’s his. It came from his body, his.
His stomach makes a sickly swoop, and he bites his tongue to keep himself from lapping the blood from his fingers. His organ betrays him, growling loudly. Jon squeezes his eyes shut, “Please get out.”
The door shuts loud enough for the sound to reverberate in his skull. In newfound privacy, he sucks the blood off his fingers and lets his head rest against the cool top of his desk.
He’ll survive, he always does.
A normal human body shouldn’t be able to last longer than a month without sustenance, Jon thinks as he makes his way down to document storage, a box of sorted statements in hand for prime organization.
And yet he’s still functioning. Just another reminder of his inhumanity, he scowls at himself and pretends like the box isn’t as heavy as he feels it is. His arms feel like they may pull out from the socket but he can’t deal with that, no.
The hallway lights flicker, and Jon’s stomach swoops again. He figures his nose might be about to bleed, joy.
Instead his stomach swoops again, and his extremities get all tingly. His head feels so light, and pleasant. His lashes flutter once, and then twice.
Then the world tilts sideways, and he can hear the box of statements drop onto the floor with a heavy thunk before his body joins the ground with it.