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Skin. Skin, skin, skin. Blood. The curve of his nails onto the skin. The release. Skin. Blood. Skin.
Kyle sits in front of the mirror every night after the shower. He puts on one of those spa headbands that his friends would bully him for having, turns his phone off, turns on the desk lamp, and stares. Every imperfection, every blemish, he attacks feverishly.
He knows it makes it worse. He remembers when Butters Stotch called him pizzaface back in fourth grade. He knows it makes scars, but scars are better than pimples, because pimples stick out and they aren't smooth, and maybe, yes, just maybe, he gets some weird dopamine release when he finally gets a hold on a blemish and it bleeds. Blood is disgusting, and he knows how many germs it can carry, yet picking his skin gives him some kind of weird contradictory sick excitement that overpowers everything else, even if it makes him uglier.
The seventh grade growth spurt made everything worse. He'd grown inches seemingly overnight, his nose had become more pronounced, his feet bigger. He hates it. He hates his face.
He hates his hair. It's gotten worse over the years, barely tameable and tangled no matter how many times he brushes it. He brushes it a lot. He one time spent two hours trying to get it to a manageable place, and nothing worked.
You look like a fucking mess! His brain tells him. Every morning. Every night. The thoughts that keep him up at night, the thoughts that haunt him during tests, while he eats.
He doesn't eat a lot anymore. He can't. He's already tall enough, he can't be fat, too. Cartman's fat but he's like five foot three and therefore not intimidating (despite all his scheming, a chokehold from Kyle has him down within thirty seconds.) Clyde is chubby and a bit tall but not that tall and not that fat. Kyle can't be both. He doesn't want to look like some kind of… monster.
He still has snacks, it's not like he's completely starving himself. Maybe he misses out on some food groups, but it's fine, because he eats brain foods, and brainpower is what will get him through this. He has plenty of time to eat better in the future.
He's taken out of his trance by his mother opening the door, conveniently once again forgetting to knock. "Bubbe, are you sure you don't want any leftovers or anything?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Kyle, are you making yourself bleed again?" she asks, frowning. "You're making your skin so much worse."
"I'm fine, Mama. I have… I have a lot of studying to do. I was just taking a break. I'll heat up something later."
"Alright, well, goodnight." She gives him a worried expression before kissing him on the head. "Take care of my son, please."
He nods, but it's an impossible promise, because that night he doesn't heat up any food, he pushes himself and studies until he cries, and yes, stays up until the very next day with his nails digging into his face.