Chapter Text
Travis woke with what was probably the worst headache he's had in months, his body slick with a cold sweat, his ribs aching from Kenneth's abuse beating correction. He groggily pulls himself to his feet.
lest Father get upset
He doesn't want to risk another beating—or worse, time in the basement—just for a few extra minutes of sleep.
Speaking of his father's corrections, Travis is sure he'd cracked a rib last night. The pain hasn't subsided, even slightly.
Travis grimaces at his reflection in the tall, cracked mirror. Clothed in but his boxers and a tshirt, he swears he looks fat bigger than he did last night.
such a disgrace, the pastor's son had let himself go, hadn't he?
He crossed his room, opening his closet and pulling out his clothes.
Pulling on a white button-up, his favourite purple knitted sweater over top, and blue jeans. Travis beds down to tie up his green shoes, forcing himself to ignore the way his vision swam as he stood back up. He pulls his golden cross from under his shirt as he descends the stairs, heading to the kitchen.
Travis grabbed his beat up metal water bottle, filling it at the sink. “750ml,” he mutters to himself, making a mental note to write that down in his notebook when he has the chance.
He looks to the fridge, then up at the clock. 7:45. The school bus would be here in minutes, despite the loud grumbling in his stomach, he heads to the front door, promising himself he'll eat lunch—a poor attempt at willing away the gluttony hunger burning in his stomach.
Hiding in the school bathroom, the stall furthest from the door, Travis is curled into the corner, knees against his chest, sniffling quietly, as his arm hovers above the toilet, blood dripping down into the bowl. Kenneth's words replaying in his head, from the last time he'd cried at home. Boys don't cry, he knows this, men don't cry. They must be strong.
what a pathetic boy he is, crying in the school bathroom. how weak he must be.
He grabs the double-edged razor blade off the floor next to him, hands shaking as he presses the blade down, harder. His heart drops as the skin parts, gaping to reveal the small, yellowish bubbles of fat.
yes Travis had cut deep before, but never this deep. what if it got infected? he'd have to tell Father. what would Kenneth do? tell him to deal with it?
Though there was a welcome rush of adrenaline, which almost makes him want to cut that deep again—or deeper, would he feel better?
As he stares at the little fat bubbles, the little voice in the back of his head tells him that fat is inside him—which must mean he is fat. Irrational, yes, he knows, he knows he should find the thought insane, but it doesn't matter.
yes, Travis Phelps had let himself go once again, everyone can see it, they must think he's disgusting.
Pure disgust wracks his body, and, suddenly, he could feel absolutely everything, he feels his organs inside him,
rip them out
He feels the slight softness of his jaw, the pull of the skin as he turns his head to begin wrapping toilet paper around the mutilated arm, the last of the blood sticking the paper to the wounds.
His body convulses with the force of his sobs, quiet, but deep, as he slips the blade into his pocket. Roughly scrubbing the tears away with his sweater sleeve, he stands up.
Travis had to grip the toilet for support as his vision blurs briefly, blinking and rubbing his eyes as his vision came back. He pulls down the white sleeve first—praying the wounds didn't open, staining the sleeve—then he pulls down the sleeve of his sweater.
Travis flushes the toilet, watching as the evidence of his weakness blood disappears, swirling down the drain.
he really is nothing more than the pathetic faggot his father thought he was.