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He was told he wasn't perfect.
And after years and years of ridicule and judgment, he started to believe them.
He'd spend hours in front of the mirror, poking at the fatty areas on his stomach, the disgusting parts on his thighs, and the flabby skin on his arms.
He hated it all, and he couldn't understand why his imperfections—his flaws—wouldn't leave him alone.
He'd done all the right things.
He'd, sorta, eat healthy. Well, healthier than he was eating before.
He'd purged at all the right times.
He'd known when to starve himself to the point right before his body went into starvation mode. He hadn't wanted that. He'd heard you actually gained weight whenever that happened.
He hadn't understood why he was being punished.
Had he done something wrong?
Had something made his techniques become ineffective?
He had wanted the answers, and he had wanted them now.
He had wanted to be perfect, wanted to be up to their standards.
He'd do everything they had done. Everything they had done to make their body so… perfect, so beautiful, and gorgeous, and everything he had wanted wrapped up into one.
But when every time he'd looked in the mirror, he'd just seen a cow, a pig, a fat, disgusting whale.
He'd wanted to be perfect, just like them.
He'd wanted to have high self-esteem, a group of good friends, olive-skin, and beautiful, hazel eyes.
But all he had was a dangerously low self-esteem and self-image, no friends, gray-tinted skin, and a shit color of hazel eyes.
He'd hated himself even more each day, because he wasn't as beautiful as them.
He hadn't understood what he had done to make him suffer, make him less capable to be perfect.
Perfect had looked easy to him.
It could be achieved as easily as a snap! of the fingers.
But why had it been so difficult for him?
He'd wanted collarbones and hipbones. He'd wanted them to stick out. He'd wanted his jeans to lay on his hips, the bones, and not the fatty area of his stomach.
They'd done that on them—why not him?
The thought had frustrated him. It had made him lay awake in his bed, making him stay up to odd hours of the night.
They're perfect, why aren't I?
His parents had told him that they noticed how his clothes had gotten baggier, how he had lost the will to eat.
He'd told them that he didn't know what they were talking about. Whenever he'd walked past his bedroom mirror, he'd seen an elephant with black hair and disgustingly skin-tight clothes look back at him.
The mirror had never lied to him.
He had always listened to it.
He had wanted to be perfect, so he obeyed it.
His parents hadn't noticed anything about him. They had just said that to make him eat.
They had wanted him to get fat.
They had hated him.
Eating disorders and a fucked up sense of reality had altered his senses.
The mirror had always made him feel sick, and his little friend—index finger—had always made him feel better.
It had just made sense.
So, naturally, it had made sense that he'd listen to the mirror's bidding.
Purge one last time, weigh yourself, and write a little note. Then, go beddy-bye with Mr. Happy Pills.
He was told he wasn't perfect.
He always obeyed his mirror.
To Whom It May Concern—You Know Who You Are:
As I lay myself down to sleep tonight,
I don't want anybody to shed a tear.
For this note will shed some light,
And make you wish you hadn't called me that queer.
I was judged beyond natural belief.
I just didn't understand why.
My fingers gave me such great relief.
They made all the bad go bye-bye.
Tonight, I weighed seventy-five pounds.
I don't know if this is good or not.
I still feel my imperfections from all rounds.
It still feels like a lot.
The air around me is starting to get cold…
As others very well know,
I am only sixteen years old,
This, certainly, isn't the age anybody should go.
And yes, this is true,
That all I wanted was to be perfect—
To be like you.
xoxog.
And after years and years of ridicule and judgment, he started to believe them.
He'd spend hours in front of the mirror, poking at the fatty areas on his stomach, the disgusting parts on his thighs, and the flabby skin on his arms.
He hated it all, and he couldn't understand why his imperfections—his flaws—wouldn't leave him alone.
He'd done all the right things.
He'd, sorta, eat healthy. Well, healthier than he was eating before.
He'd purged at all the right times.
He'd known when to starve himself to the point right before his body went into starvation mode. He hadn't wanted that. He'd heard you actually gained weight whenever that happened.
He hadn't understood why he was being punished.
Had he done something wrong?
Had something made his techniques become ineffective?
He had wanted the answers, and he had wanted them now.
He had wanted to be perfect, wanted to be up to their standards.
He'd do everything they had done. Everything they had done to make their body so… perfect, so beautiful, and gorgeous, and everything he had wanted wrapped up into one.
But when every time he'd looked in the mirror, he'd just seen a cow, a pig, a fat, disgusting whale.
He'd wanted to be perfect, just like them.
He'd wanted to have high self-esteem, a group of good friends, olive-skin, and beautiful, hazel eyes.
But all he had was a dangerously low self-esteem and self-image, no friends, gray-tinted skin, and a shit color of hazel eyes.
He'd hated himself even more each day, because he wasn't as beautiful as them.
He hadn't understood what he had done to make him suffer, make him less capable to be perfect.
Perfect had looked easy to him.
It could be achieved as easily as a snap! of the fingers.
But why had it been so difficult for him?
He'd wanted collarbones and hipbones. He'd wanted them to stick out. He'd wanted his jeans to lay on his hips, the bones, and not the fatty area of his stomach.
They'd done that on them—why not him?
The thought had frustrated him. It had made him lay awake in his bed, making him stay up to odd hours of the night.
They're perfect, why aren't I?
His parents had told him that they noticed how his clothes had gotten baggier, how he had lost the will to eat.
He'd told them that he didn't know what they were talking about. Whenever he'd walked past his bedroom mirror, he'd seen an elephant with black hair and disgustingly skin-tight clothes look back at him.
The mirror had never lied to him.
He had always listened to it.
He had wanted to be perfect, so he obeyed it.
His parents hadn't noticed anything about him. They had just said that to make him eat.
They had wanted him to get fat.
They had hated him.
Eating disorders and a fucked up sense of reality had altered his senses.
The mirror had always made him feel sick, and his little friend—index finger—had always made him feel better.
It had just made sense.
So, naturally, it had made sense that he'd listen to the mirror's bidding.
Purge one last time, weigh yourself, and write a little note. Then, go beddy-bye with Mr. Happy Pills.
He was told he wasn't perfect.
He always obeyed his mirror.
To Whom It May Concern—You Know Who You Are:
As I lay myself down to sleep tonight,
I don't want anybody to shed a tear.
For this note will shed some light,
And make you wish you hadn't called me that queer.
I was judged beyond natural belief.
I just didn't understand why.
My fingers gave me such great relief.
They made all the bad go bye-bye.
Tonight, I weighed seventy-five pounds.
I don't know if this is good or not.
I still feel my imperfections from all rounds.
It still feels like a lot.
The air around me is starting to get cold…
As others very well know,
I am only sixteen years old,
This, certainly, isn't the age anybody should go.
And yes, this is true,
That all I wanted was to be perfect—
To be like you.
xoxog.
Literature
I Love How, -Frerard
I love how your beautiful face makes
My insides tingle with absolute lust.
--
Frank woke. His eyes rimmed with heavy sleep; they stung quite badly. His dark chocolate bangs swooped down to tickle the crook of his nose; he needed a hair cut and fast. His arms were flaling all over the place. One arm dangling off the bed and res
Literature
Frerard
It was 4:30 in the morning. The tour bus drove through a rainy Nevada. The pit-pat of rain drops slowly got louder as the storm began to worsen. A huge flash of lightning lit up the sky. For a split second, Frankie could see the beautiful southwesten landscape perfectly from his window. "But it's not as beautiful as Gerard," Frankie thought to himself. He replayed the images of Gerard as he lay sleepless and scared in the top bunk. Even Mikey knew Frankie was petrafied of thunderstorms. He remembered how gorgeous Gee looked on stage that night. How the stage lights made Gerard look as if he was glowing. Frankie could see every perfect featur
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Title: Perfect.
Author: Megan.
Summary: He was told he wasn't perfect. He always obeyed his mirror.
Rating: T
Word Count: 713.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot. I also do not own the preview image.
Author Notes: My Chemical Romance fanfiction.
Implied Frerard.
Oneshot.
Author: Megan.
Summary: He was told he wasn't perfect. He always obeyed his mirror.
Rating: T
Word Count: 713.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot. I also do not own the preview image.
Author Notes: My Chemical Romance fanfiction.
Implied Frerard.
Oneshot.
© 2011 - 2024 sfregiato
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Feckin' beautiful.