Fall of Rome (BoyxBoy)

Rome

A small, curly-headed boy is staring down the gates of hell. 

The offending beep of the scale is, decidedly, the most jarring. The white, bright lights run a close second. Rome had never particularly liked the cold tile either, his toes turning red as he steps off of the white plastic square. The room was always seemingly frigid, reflecting how the boy felt inside. White walls shifted to colors of pale blue in the corner of his eyes. The walls leech the color of his skin, his eyes.

The boy emits a small sigh. He glances at the mirror,  seeing only plastic haphazardly thrown over it. He never was pretty enough for the mirror, and he chose to spare it from his own repulsive disfigurement. Somewhere in the compound, a grandfather clock chimes deafeningly loudly. Seventeen years of disappointment. Only three days. Rome has not eaten in three days, and he hasn't regretted it. He's proud of his accomplishments, certain of his own ability to withstand temptation following years of practice.

He chances a look back at his taped-over reflection and catches a glimpse of brown eyes in a frayed corner of the plastic. His pale, washed-out eyes stare back, framed by even paler lashes. Instantly, the boy's anger jumps. His eyes fog up, however, his mind remains crystal clear. He tears the material forcefully, scratching skin on a corner of the sharp mirror, while tears stream down his face.

Never enough. Never enough. Never enough. His mind chants his insubordination, aided by cruel visions flashing before his eyes. Rome's hands lose their coordination, no longer aided by patience.  Somehow, he's torn his skin open. The boy glances at the crimson liquid pouring down his limb, unbothered enough by blood to be genuinely concerned. The plastic material lies on the floor, taunting him. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Rome looks at the boy in the mirror, feeling naught for the individual staring back.

The boy likes color. Constants are sure-fire, untouched by precipitations of uncertainty. He likes blues, reds, and purples. He thinks the color of his skin is pretty, perhaps because it contains artwork painted in those hues. He smiles, seeing blue skin covered in burgundy red, and waves at the mirror. His reflection waves back, moments later. Rome doesn't feel quite so cold anymore; his body is heated by blood.

He places the scale back into the cabinet and wishes momentarily that he could escape it all and fold himself in there too. He's all too aware of the fact that he would not fit, but dreams of being untouched and forgotten dance in his mind regardless.

Rome strides forward and unlocks the solid door of the bathroom. The door is always locked whilst he is in there; he is afraid of any person seeing his own dissidence in society's opinion of beauty. The harshly decorated room crowds Rome's field of vision, and he walks out into the darkness beyond the doorframe.

The boy is all too aware of the reality that waits for him, beckoning with gleaming fangs. He has done this many, many times. He has watched the cycle loop and loop over again, but, somehow, it still wasn't quite perfect. Rome was aware that it never could be. As far as he was concerned, perfect wasn't possible as long as he was involved in the equation. He pulls back on his clothes, baggy as they may be, still convinced that they were too tight. Rome thought he would never be small enough for anyone or anything, even the clothes he wore.

Rome is tired and cold. He is done.