Chapter Text
Obsession. That’s all it could really be described as. There wasn’t really any sense to it, just an ambition that every action and decision centred towards. That’s what John was thinking as he was slowly walking the familiar route back to his semi-detached house, in a painstakingly suburban area, drenched with sweat and with stitch in his side.
“Is that you, John?” his mother called as the click of the backdoor announced his entrance.
“Yeah, I went for a run” John called back, heading towards the tap for a much needed glass of water.
He greedily gulped three large glasses, before heading upstairs to shower and change. The worst thing about coming home for the summer from University, well, there were quite a few bad things about returning, so one of them, was how he didn’t have his own room or private space anymore. Sharing a bedroom with a teenage sister definitely made life more difficult than was necessary. He grabbed some clean clothes from a pile on the floor and took them into the bathroom with him. Why every bathroom necessitated a mirror, he’d never understand. He quickly got undressed and allowed the water to beat against him for what felt like hours. There were times when this happened, when he’d lose track of time and forget that he didn’t have that luxury anymore, he had to be focused and on track.
Heading downstairs feeling considerably fresher he flopped onto the sofa hoping to finish a few chapters of the book he was currently reading.
“John, could you do Harry some lunch? I’m just going to fetch her now” his mum said whilst zipping her coat up.
“Sure” John murmured, wondering why a sixteen year old couldn’t cook for themselves, and why he couldn’t have ten minutes to himself for once.
“Thanks love” his mum uttered as she passed through the door.
Tyres crunching gravel made John begrudgingly sit up and half-heartedly make his way to the kitchen. Opening the cupboards and scouring the fridge made his stomach growl to remind him that he too hadn’t eat. What he’d give to just taste bread, something as simple as plain bread made his mind excited. Or cheese, God when was the last time he’d had cheese? But no. He had a job to do, and that wasn’t to make himself fat. He put together a quick sandwich with crisps, then returned back to his place on the sofa where he eagerly devoured his novel.
He was the only one in his family who appreciated literature and language. He doubted he could accurately put into words his need for alternative universes in the form of stories, or his adoration for language used with flair. It was something that only he had, something that wasn’t a shared passion or hobby amongst relatives or friends, something to save him when he needed it most. During exam season, he’d hated the relentless revision and never-ending essays, but what he’d give for just one more assignment, he couldn’t say. He hated knowing that he had days of ‘nothing’ ahead of him. Still over three months left until he could go back to London and be happy. Over three months that he’d have the distraction of perfectionism to fight off his demons.
“Alright fatty”, Harry yelled having barely come through the doorway. “Hey” John replied, too used to the misdirected insults to get angry, but still mentally taking offense for later. “What are you doing?” she asked, already munching down on her sandwich. “I was reading” he said with a smirk. “What are you doing that for? Its summer” she replied, scrunching her nose up in distaste. “Just because you don’t enjoy books, doesn’t mean I don’t” John chided. “Put the TV on?” Harry asked, barely acknowledging that her brother had spoken. “Sure” John said, moving to grab the remotes and heading to the shared bedroom; if Harry was watching TV that bought him at least half an hour of no interruptions so he could read.
After reading the same page three times and still not being able to recall a word of what he’d just read, John lay down on his side and stared out of the window. The sky was a bloodshot sort of sky, the one that only happens when the afternoon hasn’t quite met the evening yet and there is a heat that makes moving an inch seem an impossible feat. There was an alley way opposite the back of his house, and if he had sat up slightly he would have seen a group of youths tormenting a cat with a can of deodorant.
He knew he should be doing something, but lately he has begun to appreciate times of doing nothing. It’s hard to explain. When he has no plans for a day, he panics, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts and his own self-irritation for a whole twenty four hours. Yet, when he tries to do something he enjoys, such as reading, his mind decides to feign a difficulty concentrating and so he is forced to resign into his own mind, losing track of time and reason. And that’s just the problem: his mind. He doesn’t want to sound like some self-righteous teenager, full of angst and confusion, looking for attention anywhere he can because of some warped excuse of a childhood. No. He just wants to understand what is going on inside his mind, something that has been festering for the last few months, but has only really taken hold recently.
Around Easter time, he ordered diet pills and bought a set of bathroom scales for his dorm room. He also bought a novel based around eating disorders to try and give this 'thing' something to relate to, to prove that he isn’t going mad and that there are other people who think the same thoughts as he does. He’s scared to touch it, really. He isn’t sure what will happen if he lets this 'thing' take hold, isn’t sure whether he’d welcome being on auto-pilot whilst he relinquishes control and allows himself to be dictated to by something he still doesn’t know how to describe. If anyone ever asked him about his actions, he’d say he was trying to lose weight. He knows he’s gained almost a stone since last year, late night library trips fuelled by sugar-filled snacks had to have an affect sooner or later. And the worst thing, the absolute worst fucking thing, is that the one true friend he made all year there, Sherlock, had lost weight since being at University. How on earth is that supposed to make him feel? He was a disgusting, fat, waste of space [his parents’ words], who couldn’t even control what went into his repulsive mouth. Weak. W e a k. WEAK.
He’d been saying to himself every Sunday for the last two months that ‘as of Monday I’ll start dieting seriously’, and every Monday for the last two months had seen him break that promise, and give in to his hunger before he fully realised what he was doing. This was fucking it now though. You have to be completely fed the fuck up of seeing a reflection that repels you to want to deny your body of necessary nutrients. He had a little over three months until his second year of Uni began, and ten days until he saw Sherlock to exchange birthday gifts. The pressure was on, and how he was good at working under timed conditions.