The story of Peter Santiago and Ouran Hayes.
The broken, bullied and desperate, willing to change himself even if it kills him.
The exalted, shamed and objectified. Too torn up to care anymore.
The story of two impossibly different bo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~•~
Peter was tired.
He lay in bed, motionless and silent, the distant sound of the train rattling through his open window, the curtains flapping in the breeze.
It was a quiet morning, everyone else had already left but Peter remained buried under his bedsheets, unable to move.
He was tired.
His head felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. His thoughts sluggish and unrelated, buzzing in his head and numbing his brain. There was a dull ache resonating in the pit of his stomach, burning and seeping into him.
He had forced himself to throw up.
Not per see in a particularly harmful way but he had slipped one to many laxatives and regurgitated all that he could into the small bathroom sink.
It had felt good. Gratifying and pleasing, the way his whole body heaved as he vomited out whatever churned around in his stomach. Albeit it left a foul, rotten taste in his mouth it was oddly satisfying.
It was like he had dispelled a parasitic part out of him. A part that festered nothing but loathing and shame. He felt slightly elevated from it, though his body felt like it had been infused with lead and his brain smothered with a blanket his heart felt light, free.
He thought that the guilt would crush him, absolutely consume him, he was doing things that they had religiously told him not to do, but he went ahead and did it anyway. He knew he was being colossally foolish but he couldn't help it, every time he looked in the mirror all he could see was fault. Bloated and stretched into the mass of flesh that was him.
Forcing himself to throw up had been a sick way to relieve him of the pain and it worked, he felt less constipated. The guilt was forgotten in an instant, an uneasy smudge of a mistake rubbed into dust.
As Peter lay there in bed, drowning in morality and the whirlpool of his emotions he clutched tighter on to the small packet of laxatives, his anchor in his ocean of madness, tying him down and granting him sanity, seldom as it was as he seemed to be engulfed by chaos. Pulling him in, killing him softly with each sweet kiss. Before nothing would be left of the boy who was Peter Stantiago.
He was wavering at the fringes of saneness and in that moment of undiluted uncertainty Peter Santiago decided something: He was going to change, even if it killed him.
