"Yes... I am German..." Hans said stiffly upon hearing William's comment. Hans was the sort of person who never could lightheartedly answer questions unless he happened to be lying; therefore, if he ever seemed at ease in a conversation, people assumed he was lying. "Great Britain... Is near Germany, yes..." He had a very curious way of speaking, often halting his sentences in the middle of saying them, as if he had to think over what he was saying. Sometimes he did actually have to think over what he was saying - considering he often lied to just about anyone and everyone who inquired about his eating habits, and tended to confuse the lies - and sometimes, his speech was just halted purely out of habit. And, sometimes, it was because he simply forgot what he was saying. But, the cause didn't really matter; and everyone just took it for granted that Hans' speech would have multiple pauses and breaks in it.
When Xochitle offered him the cookie, Hans cringed back with such an expression of horror on his face that most people would have thought he was organs or blood, or something else really nasty, not just an innocent little cookie. Quickly, he managed to regain his composure, although he still appeared to be rather frightened. "No, thank... you..." He stated quietly. Oh, how tempting it was to just take the cookie and wolf it down, along with the rest of the food at the table. How disgusting and fattening to cookie looked! He wouldn't touch it with a ten foot long pole.
You want to eat that, don't you! Go ahead, fatty. Take it, stuff yourself. Let the fat invade your body, let it hold you back from your goal. Why don't you? Come on, come on! You know you want to, chubby! Stuff yourself, turn into a bloated whale, let yourself loose. Just do it, come on!
His appetite faded away once again. Well, it didn't fade away. Hans just began to ignore it. He was too fat, he had to stay hungry. He couldn't eat, he couldn't gain weight. He was so... so bloated... so fat... so obese. He had to stay strong. He had to lose weight. He had to reach zero.
There it was once again. Zero. That fable, that myth. That ultimate goal. The one number he had to reach, the number he longed for. Every skipped meal, every avoided bite of food - or, as he thought of it, poison - every time he was strong, brought him closer to zero. He was racing towards zero, he was so close, and yet still so far away. It was a struggle, with these people who were trying to pump him full of fats, these people who had absolute no empathy for him, these people whose only goal was to chain him down to the ground, to hold him with shackles of fat. He had to stay strong, he had to try to break free. With determination, with discipline, he would make it. With emptiness, he would get to zero. As long as he stayed strong, as long as he stayed empty, he would reach zero. He just had to stay empty. If only he wasn't so hungry. If only emptiness was easy to achieve. He would stay empty. Emptiness was simple to achieve. Hunger was a thing of the past. He was beyond hunger. He did not feel it. He refused to feel hunger. Why was the hunger so strong? Why was it so difficult to ignore?
Hans stared down at his lap, one thin wrist resting on the table, his pale, slender fingers tapping out a beat. Who knew what it was? Hans certainly wasn't going to be telling anyone anytime soon. Maybe it was a song, perhaps one that had been long lost in the river of time, and was only surfacing now. Or maybe it was the faint beat of his heart, much like a butterfly's wings, so beautiful and full of life, and yet so weak, so easy to destroy. Maybe Hans was the butterfly, and he was tapping out the story of the life. Maybe one day, he might just fall, his wings torn and fluttering in the air like forgotten paintings. His broken body would sink to the ground, battered and beaten, but his soul would rise up. Maybe this is what would happen if he reached zero. Hans longed to see if that was true, so he had to reach zero. He had to.
The sudden voice startled him to the point where he almost sprang out of his skin. Hans looked up, and saw a man who was most certainly a doctor. Even if his white lab coat was ignored, it was still clear from the way that he carried himself that he was accustomed to attempting to do what he considered 'helping people'. Of course, he was delusional. He had to be, otherwise he would see that what he thought was helping was actually just hindering. All doctors were like this, at least to Hans. All of them thought they were 'helping'. Instead, they were just chaining him down further, they were just holding him back. If they actually could see clearly, maybe they would realise that. Hans had long since decided that, because of this inability to see that their 'help' was actually 'harm', it must be a requirement for doctors to be delusional.
His mind immediately began to spring to ideas. This man - whatever his name was - was probably trying to 'help' him. Hans wouldn't have it! He didn't need to be helped! He was perfectly fine as is!
Who are you kidding, calling yourself 'perfectly fine'? Of course you're not fine! You're fat, you're pudgy, you're plump, you're chubby. You certainly aren't fine, fatso!
Yes, he wasn't fine. He was fat. He was too fat. He needed to eat less; he needed to lose weight. He needed to eat more; he needed to sate this hunger.
At the mention of swimming, Hans shivered. He hated swimming. It was really a rather gruesome sport. Especially when it involved him; him being shirtless, showing off his rolls of fat to all those who were in the pool. Utterly horrifying. No matter what, no matter how hot the temperature, Hans refused to swim. Completely refused.