Chapter Text
Ringing. In his home, the sixteen year old blonde swiveled his head around every which way but there was no found source of the ringing. Eratic echoing went on for an immeasurable length of time. And Dee ran. Desperately pulled plugs, smashed radios, destroyed floating clocks but the sound screamed on. The frequencies produced a haze so strong he tried to pull out his hair, but nothing came off. Vivid. But he wasn't lucid, not yet. The scene of anarchy faded in front of his dark eyes, the empty halls of his house crack off and fall away under the guise of the black creeping in from all directions. The ring. Reaching. Twisting. And spiralling like parasitic worms into Dee's ear canals. Him and the void look at each other, the void is frowning. Unable to latch onto anything, he stands and awaits to be engulfed. His stomach twists, not fear but hunger. He is very aware there is nothing of sustenance here, he would give anything to eat it. His jacket and blonde curly hair swooshed in front of his face. He could have sworn he plummeted into water, but there wasn't any splash. Just black, and even though both in reality and in his mind his eyes were closed, he never ever wanted to open either for any reason again. Then. There was an unending wave of unending connected painless jolts until even the blackness faded, and there was truly nothing except his own ability to perceive. Every jolt pulled harder at his skin and at the same time squeezing tighter against his bones. It wasn't suffocating. It never was. The void felt like water.
Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!
Slowly. The void lit up and faded away, only to be the same room he woke up in the day before, in the same house, in the same town, in the same conscious world. Streaks of light erupted into his room through the blinds. Little taps aganist the otherside of the window. Little things he would rather notice than the obvious ones. Another dream.
And today is Friday, June 2nd.
Today is another day.
Beep beep! Beep beep! BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP!
He rolled over and unplugged his alarm clock instead of turning it off, he wouldn't need to wake up early for the next couple days, thank God. He laid back and groaned into the pillow. He felt numb. Not the sparkling beneath your skin type, no, the other kind. He didn't want to move, to go to class, to talk. He had weights in his stomach that held him against the mattress making him curl into himself already feeling defeated, he had had weights in his stomach for weeks. Pulling him back towards his mattress, his head down onto his desk during school, He was so tired. He could surrender, he could get sleep in, but his parents wouldn't have it, now would they?
No. No, they would not.
Repeating. Repeating. Repeating. Invisible weights continue to pull him downwards, further into himself. They are rusting, corroding his stomach lining allowing his stomach acid to spill and disintegrate everything else inside of him. Disgusted at the thought of opening his eyes again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again. There are high days and there low days. He felt especially low today.
Repeating. Repeating. Repeating. Dee would wake up and go about his everyday life. He would decide what he would wear. He would brush his teeth. He would go downstairs and join his family to eat breakfast. But he was the only one who did not eat and would not eat, by miracle it went unnoticed, at least it looked that way. At least it wasn't spoken about.
At least. At least.
The hunger stays with him always, but the thought of eating anything made him sick. This is what consumed him, and it was either consume or be consumed. It was the same monotony (and maybe misanthropy) it always was. Dee could digest the world around him. Dee could digest the bitter taste of the truth, the truth of how he felt about heavy. He could digest the fact that if Glam and Victoria found Dee's penchant for Heavy they would disown him. Kick him out or send him to the psych ward for the second time for a "prolonged stay." He could stomach it all, but he could not stomach food.
A noise very close but not one he could affect. Heavy's alarm always went off 5 minutes after Dee's. Shuffling followed. It was comforting, just a noise. Just his brother, in the next room, getting ready for school. Dee sat up and listened to Heavy in the next room, throwing his bag around, talking to his friend on the phone, getting his shoes on. Then a dry, elongated squeak, opening and closing the door, leaving Dee in the next room alone in the quiet. Faint noises from downstairs, the smell of bacon had traveled through the vents, he knew he wouldn't eat any. He groaned again, deeper into his sheets and pillows. He couldn't think about food today. He tried to remember eating yesterday, he drank an energy drink, but ate nothing. On a good day he could stomach egg whites, maybe some popcorn. But he dreaded sitting down at that fucking table, being in that kitchen, he could not look at anything because he didn't know if there would be fruit on the table if there was cereal on top of the fridge. The smell of fat floating in the air, creeping into his nostrils. He threw his fist down on the nightstand. He just. . He needed to get out of bed. He didn't have a choice. He didn't need his parents asking him if he was feeling sick. Or getting suspicious, or pressing the panic button.
He knew he couldn't deal with his parents, that he and Heavy were sure to be caught sooner or later. He was so aware, and that is what suffocates him.
Finally, he lethargically threw himself off of his mattress and got dressed. He didn't bother with any make up today. Jeans. Grey shirt. White jacket. Satchel full of books and his binder. His shirt from the night before which he slept in, reeked like weed. He was careful to keep those clothes in a bag and take them to a laundry mat when he could. He rolled up blunts more frequently, praying to God it would mellow him the fuck out. He had been worried. The though of him and heavy getting caught constantly looms over his shoulder. Dee would sneak out at night through the window sill and jump off of the shingles to the ground to escape the noise inside his head, inside of the house, and inside of his throat. Because almost everything he says is a mistake. He couldn't stay in the house for long. It drove him mad. Worrying, worrying, worrying. Worrying he would end up doing something today, that he would feel too sick to eat, that every thought inside his head would become shrouded in a haze of Heavy's image. Anticipating a migraine at some point today. Oh, he could already feel it coming. He took some tylenol from the bathroom, hoping it would help, then stuffed the bottle into his bag and went downstairs to "eat."