The Bird That Couldn't Fly

Chapter Two: Bitter Memories

Ghirahim rolled over onto his side, back facing the open window as sunlight glared in. He really didn't want to get up. No matter how much he slept of rested, he was always exhausted.

Letting out a yawn, he slowly pushed himself off the bed into a sitting position. His hair was a sight to behold, sticking up in every possible direction, and the dark circles under his eyes seemed worse than normal. There was no doubt in his mind that these were just the consequences of achieving perfection.

A slight headache pounded at his temples, causing the demon lord to let out a small groan. He clumsily swung his legs over to the side of the bed and made to get up, but fell back down on his rear, shouting a string of profanities. Littered on the floor was broken glass, and he had had the delight of stepping on one of the jagged pieces.

Ghirahim's eyebrows furrowed together, wondering why broken glass was on his floor in the first place. His eyes scanned the deep red shards before widening in realization. It was the smashed pieces of a wine bottle. As his headache continued to assault him, he realized that he was hungover. The demon lord couldn't recall the events that took place last night after the battle, but he could remember that they weren't exactly pretty.

With another groan, he tried to push himself off the bed but instead let out a small whimper as his arms stung like crazy. Almost afraid to took down, he found himself tensely gazing at the bandages wrapped around his left arm from his elbow down to his wrist. He could clearly see red along the inside of his arm, and he quickly made to unwrapping the gauze. Inch by inch, he uncovered the bloody mess that he had made of himself last night. Jagged slashes criss crossed over the pale skin, hiding the silver scars that had been etched on his arm. It had been so long since he had done something this monumentally stupid.

His fangs worried at his bottom lip as he sat on the edge of his bed, not knowing what to do. It was a hollow, unsatisfying emotion that jarred him. The great demon lord always knew what to do and when to do it. But today, all motivation had left him along with the memories of what had happened the previous night.

A bead of sweat dripped down to his brow as he froze in mid-pose, perfecting his stance. He should've been traveling to Eldin, trying to get his hands on the spirit maiden, but he couldn't. The boy's words kept replaying through his head like a broken record.

"If we weren't enemies, you'd actually be attractive..."

It was the closest anyone had come to calling him beautiful, even if the words meant nothing. He knew that child was just trying to pick out an insecurity of his to use it against him in battle, but yet he couldn't stop replaying the scene in his head.

For years, he had tried to perfect his body to his every whim, but everyone just called him sick. They said he was too thin. They said he needed to put on some weight. They said he was ugly.

But they were dead now.

"You anorexic freak!"

He went to perform another leap but stumbled. He hated that scene from their battle. The words clashed in Link's mouth, and contorted his pretty lips. No, the demon lord had not enjoyed when the boy had said that.

He stopped, trapped in thought now. He faced one of the mirrored walls and really looked at himself. His bones jutted out clearly against his skin that was merely stretched out against his frame. His legs never touched, the dark circles under his eyes had become even more pronounced, and his lips were always chapped and split. Yet, his eyes could only focus on the fat on his body. He wanted it off. Then, everything would be perfect. Then, he'd be beautiful.

Then, maybe that taunt that came from Link's lips would be sincere.

He breathed out slowly before deciding to cease his training for the night. He made his way out of the room, feet heavy with exhaustion.

He did not snap until he got in the bathroom.

He splashed cold water on his face, foundation running off into the sink beneath him. His eyes dared to dart up to the mirror as his own skin was visible. Tiny blemishes, some of them scars, were scattered haphazardly on his face. He hated how weak he looked. He could just imagine what his foe would say if he saw him without the makeup.

"You're disgusting..."

The words ripped through his gut and he quickly dashed over to the toilet, bent over. The words, of course, had never actually been spoken by his enemy, but Ghirahim was too mentally damaged to assure himself. He heaved over the toilet, nothing ever actually came up.

A small whimper came from his body as his empty heaves subsides, leaving him with a sore stomach and throat. He clumsily got back up, stumbling back over to the cabinet beneath the sink. His usually nimble hands were now shaking as he yanked open the drawer. Various bottles of alcohol sat in the dusty compartment. It was surely an unusual place for someone to keep their booze, but this was the place Ghirahim always seemed to need it.

He chose a bottle of burgundy wine that was already half empty and bit off the top. He slowly sank to sit on the tiled floor, with the bottle snuggly in his hands. For the first few seconds, he just stared at the potent liquid and the way it sloshed in the glass as he shook, trying to reason with himself. However, it was to no avail.

Soon enough, the neck of the bottle was between his lips as he drank the strong liquid down. For someone so small, he had an abnormally large tolerance for alcohol. But as the last of the alcohol ran down his throat, he was drunk. Ghirahim didn't get drunk often, because it wasn't proper for a lord, but here he was.

In his bathroom, blubbering about some stupid but beautiful boy that just wanted to ruin his life.

A/N: Alas, I've finally finished this stupid chapter.

For those of you wondering how skinny Ghirahim actually is vvv