Fat white kid

Pudgy. That was the word that Harry would use to describe himself. The word came to him as he looked into the mirror in his bedroom. His shirt and pants were laying on the floor besides the bed, mixed with other laundry that he probably should clean up. In his boxer shorts, he was looking at his reflection.

Pudgy, that was the word the his father used to describe him last week. His dad had just gotten home from the bar, the place he usually went right after work. He was drunk, again, when he knocked on the home door. "Hello, Pudgy," was how Harry's dad greeted him when Harry had opened the door for him. "I am surprised that your knees have not gone out." That line was new, pudgy had been used before, a couple of times.

What was that? Harry looked into the mirror. uh, oh. Yep. That was a new zit, right in the middle of his chest. He probably had like thirty in the stomach area alone. His mom said that when he was younger, he used to name her zits. She still had them zits even when she was 30, and he, unlucky he, got the zit genetics. He was growing a red garden by the time he was eleven, and now, two years later, the roses were in full blossom. He also got her voice. Though Harry did not think so, his sibblings and father always said that they sounded the exact same. He even got teased at school for it.

After making weird faces in the mirror to express his feelings, he pulled his pants on and the shirt. It was a saturday, so he was in no particular hurry, but nobody would like it if he went down to have breakfast in his underwear. He was not a hot actor.

The shirt was a red polo shirt, with a small white logo on the corner while the pants were gray sweatpants. Both were hand downs from his older brother, who skipped town as soon as he turned eighteen, but the polo was in very good condition since it was hardly every won. This was only because Harry was running out of clothes that did not smell and the polo had been in the very back of the bottom drawer.

When the shirt was on over his head, he got a text. The phone, currently seating on the bed, lite up and did a "hey listen" fariy vocie. Sam had texted him.

The text was short. "Did you do it?" Harry looked at it in confusion. Then his head turned to the night stand where the candle and matches were. He had completely forgotten about the challenge. Last night, he had gotten the matches and candle out for a little experiment, but had fallen asleep before he was able to do the chant.

Similar to bloody mary, according to some friends of Sam, if you turned the light out, and then lite a candle in front of the mirror and chant you first name, with the bloody adjective in front of it, and do this three times in the candle light, then your reflection should move on its own. One of Sam's friends said his even talked to him. Harry dropped the phone back onto the bed. Stupid. He had promised to tell what happened, and he never even did it. He quickly grabbed the matches and lite the lemon scented candle. He turned off the bedroom light before he walked up to the mirror.

"Bloody, Harry! Bloody Harry! Bloody Harry!" The mirror cracked. The loudness of the sound made Harry drop the candle. He quickly bent down to stop anything bad happening. It was as Harry got up that he realized that while he bent down, the reflection did not. Instead, it was staring at him, smiling. Now, its eyes were glowing red. And it spoke. "Hey, Prudgy. Those most be some strong knees carrying all that extra weight." The voice was not his, but he knew it. He heard it all the time. His bloody harry reflection had his dad's voice.