Hearing a woman's voice, Hans glanced up, an annoyed expression on his face. How could she call him 'skinny'? He was fat, he was bloated. He was a walrus, he was a whale. He was pudgy, he was chubby. He wasn't 'skinny' in the slightest. Was she delusional?!
Oh, right. She probably was. After all, this was a mental institute.
The male stood up, walking over to the trash can. He dumped his tray into it, not wanting them to comment on his diet. Too many people made remarks on it. It was so annoying! Why couldn't they leave him in peace? He handled his weight in a perfectly healthy manner.
Walking back over to the table, Hans sat down a good three feet away from the girl.Ā
Don't sit too close, chubby. Your waves of fat would probably crush her. We wouldn't want that to happen, now, would we?
He cringed as his mind made jeering remarks, teasing him and taunting him. His gaze drifted over to the knife sitting on the table. If only he could take it and plunge it through his head. Maybe then this torture, this heaviness, might end.
But, no, if he did that, he would never be able to achieve perfection. He would be stuck there, in heaviness, for the rest of his life. Zero would never come; zero would always be an unreachable goal. And that just couldn't be allowed to happen. He had to reach zero. His life depended on it. His soul depended on it. He depended on it, he depended on that dream of weightlessness, that dream of zero.
Hans' vision blurred for a second, black spots appearing in front of his eyes. He was so hungry. He was so strong. He was so empty. He was reaching perfection. Already, he could feel it. The globs of fat melting away from under his skin. Soon. Soon he would be there. If he kept this up, he would reach the fabled zero.Ā
"I am Hans. Hans Engel," he said quietly, staring down at the table. He figured that, since this girl didn't know who he was, she would probably want to know. Hans never quite understood why people valued names so much, why they always wanted to know them. His was a joke. Who on earth had the last name of 'Engel'? It was such an arrogant last name, at least around people who understood German. After all, how could calling yourself 'Angel', the translation of 'Engel', not sound arrogant?
Hans glanced over to the girl's meal, the delicious scent of the chicken wafting over towards him, filling his nose and lungs. Oh, how he wanted a piece of that chicken, to sate the hunger gnawing at his stomach. Oh, how disgusting it smelled, how it made him want to vomit. How could she stand to eat something so, so nauseating, so disgusting.
You want that, don't you, Fatso? Why don't you ask for a piece? He'll, why don't you get your own, why don't you show them what a glutton you are? You'd love that, wouldn't you, you stupid, fat, lump.
He was empty. He was strong. Hans didn't need food. Food would only chain him, it would only hold him down. Food would be the downfall of him. No, he would stay strong. He would stay empty. He would not succumb. He would stay strong.
Hans glanced around the table. He knew nobody there. They must have been new arrivals, or maybe they just stayed out of his way.Ā
They probably just stayed out of your way. After all, who would go near a fat ass like you?
Yeah, they must have stayed out of his way. People always stayed out of his way. If they weren't paid to do so, Hans had the suspicion that the doctors wouldn't ever dare go near him either. That would be nice, if he were just left alone. Then he could do what he wanted, he could get what he wanted. He could be free, he could be zero.
"Anyone have some meth?" Of course, they most likely wouldn't have any. Nobody here had any. Hans had to specifically bribe doctors here if he ever wanted any, and, even then, he rarely ever managed to acquire any. The security was just so strict, it was horrible.
His head ached at the though of meth. It had been a while since his last dosage. The withdrawal effects were absolutely horrible. He had to get some more, to expunge those nasty withdrawal effects. Meth made him light, it helped him get closer to zero. It was the only thing that made him have the grandiose illusion of happiness, it was the only thing that actually made him feel good about himself. He needed meth. He needed emptiness. Without either of the two, he would grow weak. With neither, he would die. With both, he would be empty. With both, he would be strong. With both, he would be zero.
His head throbbed. He needed something. No, not something. He needed food. He needed emptiness. He needed to scrape this hull clean, he needed to take every last piece of it away. He needed to scrub himself, scrub himself of fat, of muscle, of bone, of weight. He had to get to zero, he had to be free.
Help. He needed help. He needed to be left alone. He didn't need help. He needed freedom, he needed peace. He needed zero.
Everything always came back to zero. Zero was the diety, zero was the heaven, zero was the freedom, zero was the peace. Zero was the destination. This horror filled life was the journey. He had to stay strong, he had to stay empty, to be worthy of zero. If he didn't stay strong - if he didn't stay empty - he would not deserve zero. He would not be able to reach zero. He had to reach zero. He had to stay empty. He had to stay strong.
He was so so so so so hungry.