Title: Scissorhands and Glue

Author: Naisumi

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. However, Edith is an OC and therefore mine! No matter how pathetic and pithy she is...>.>

Spoilers: None.

Warnings: Angst, some experimental literary elements, minor OC

Notes: It's now official: The more Nai has to do, the more she's inspired to write. *coughs* Um, right. :D This is that Pietro sidestory! Actually, it's more of a vignette. Supershort, but probably one of the most ambiguous weirdly metaphorical/symbolic things I've ever written. Uh. Yes. 913 words of Pietro yumminess. (;

Additional Notes: Blah. *fires school*

As always, C&C is encouraged and craved and NEEDED DESPERATELY.

Enjoy! :D

--

Darkness before sleeping and darkness before waking. A sip of wistfulness in coffee with cream. Words--sunshineyouaremy--on the kitchen floor: rags. Three square meals and new shoes--pinchingtightatthetoes--and dry-cleaned windbreakers, sheets washed every two weeks, dry socks on tumble, darks in cold; separate the colors, catch the spill after one swipe, wait, swipe again, the sun is bad after onlysolong; wear sunblock, turn off anything that might have radiation, balance the pyramid--balance the pyramid; how? How wouldn't you--read in the lamplight, read by a window, lying on your back ruins your posture and your eyes--

Balance the pyramid.

Index C, table 17 tells you that you should. Don't you think you should? Don't you think you ought to?

Don'tyoudon'tyoudon'tyou.

He splashed onto the pavement, facing the sky. It was bright out in a dull, blank way.

Chew completely, finish, swallow, sit a moment, drink; pick up your napkin, use one side, and when you're done, fold and use it again. You shouldn't waste. You shouldn't swallow without chewing. Be very careful. It says to be on page fifty-two under the scatter-plot graph. See? No, here, you don't need to read. I'll read. I ought to. I should. Here, I'll process all this; I'll spoonfeed it to you; I'll show you; I'll tell you so you can understand.

Whywhywhy.

He turned, curled his knees to his chest like veins, shrank in the rain for a breath, then staggered to his feet, clumsy-slow. The ground was slippery--a slippery, slippery slope of earth; cement sidewalk chunks swimming in gravel gravy. He wiped the blood from his hands. He'd slipped.

It's very late. You need nine hours of sleep. They say teenagers need nine hours of sleep. You never get nine hours of sleep, do you? Well, maybe you should. Yes. You should sleep. Sleep a little, and when you wake up tomorrow--six--I'll make you something. Let me check. You need fruit. Dairy. Grains. I'll get you some bread. You should eat some with jelly. Grape, maybe?--Milk in a glass, tall and chill with yellow sunflower print lacing the bottom. Cold. Bacon writhing in the pan--hissing like tires over blackyellowred. Brake. Scream: the rubber dies in a smear of black. There are eggs--a dozen--and iceberg lettuce and cherry tomatoes, ground beef frozen in valentine pink packages like a bloody heart wrapped in a shippable bar of plastic and foam--milk in cartons: blue and white; clean, a sour taste after; apples in the bin, rumbling like bowling pins when the drawer opens--it jerks close--tumbling, bruising, delicately decaying.

Whydon'tyouwhydon'tyouwhydon'tyou.

He pressed his hands together, feeling his fingers sticky with blood and rain and sweat. His eyes watered. There was no pain. None? Inside: one. No--maybe--hell, do you think? No--no, there was no pain.

Emptiness; a breath waiting to be exhaled.

Stifling--nothing.

He could run, but when he tried to, he always stopped right before the same gray door, the same pale face, the same silence-blackened windows. He came back to--

Balance the pyramid. When did you come back home last night?--Three?--Oh. You should sleep. You should, Pietro. Are you cold? Here's a jacket--here's your jacket--

I'm not cold.

Oh--are you sure?

Yes, I'm sure.

--but it's twenty out. It's--

I'm tired. Good night.

Whydon'tyouwhydon'tyouwhydon'tyou?

Perfection: too much inside too little. Too fucking much. It's in a textbox; swirled in a test tube--you're looking for me to be perfection. No--you aren't. You're looking for you to be perfection. I don't want you to be perfection. I don't want you to be perfect. I want you to be--

You can eat ice cream twice this week--you shouldn't eat it too much. Running--running injures the knees, you know. They say it strains the knees. You shouldn't run too much. How about swimming? I don't think you can get injured swimming. When you swim, though, you must be very careful. It says to be careful on page 64. It says so right under the pink-and-blue bar graph--see? Oh, but you don't have to read, you don't. Here, I'll read it to you: In the event that a ligament is torn while--

Mother.

O-h.

whydon't--youwhydon't--youwhydon't-you.

He brushed his hair from his face; slicked it back smooth and pale--cool with gel. He practiced his smile, ignoring the twinge of pain on his kneecaps--red crosshatchings: blood. He wondered,

Whydon'tyouwhydon'tyouwhydon'tyou--

--Dinner's ready. You should eat.--

He turned and saw his mother--Edith, mother, Edith--at the bottom of the stairs, and he saw she loved him, but still couldn't help but ask himself why she didn't--couldn't--care.

She looked up at him and smiled weakly, going through the motions with nothing there to touch or hold or affect:

"I made dinner. Are you hungry? I made dinner. See?"

~fin~