A/N: I'd place a warning on this thing, but I don't want to spoil the story. Either way, the rating T should be enough to warn you, right?

.-.

Different

.-.

Help,I have done it again.
I have been here many times before.
Hurt myself again today.
-Breathe Me, Sia.

("You're a special boy, son.")

Mail thought he didn't function right.

That's what his dad would've called it, if he didn't love him as much as he did. If he was someone other than his dad. Mail knew that he could say anything horrible about himself to his dad, and he'd get the same caring, careful answers he wasn't looking for. As much as Mail's dad was honest man, what kind of self-respecting dad would tell his son, to his face, that he wasn't right in the head?

Even if it was true?

Mail's dad was very careful in handling him. Whenever Mail protested to his treatment, he had always gotten a very gingerly given pat on the head, like his dad didn't want his brain getting whizzed and whack like how the television sometimes went. His dad said, "I gotta take care of you. You're the only family I have left, son."

Excuses.

He hated whenever his dad pulled out the 'only family left' card on him. Mail's mom died of a car accident when he was two. Mail had been in the passenger seat playing with the new Nintendo his mom couldn't afford, but still bought to make him happy. He never really understood what had happened that evening, because in one second, he'd gone from laughing with his mom to slumped unconscious in the seat, his head bleeding after a hard smack into the shattered windshield.

Somehow, Mail wasn't the same, after that. His memory suddenly had improved, and he could remember pages upon pages of books and newspapers, no matter how much he didn't understand what he'd just read. He could watch people do things like fix toasters, and suddenly he'd be able to do it too. Mail's dad was proud, of course, but there was a kind of wariness that weighed on his shoulders whenever he looked at Mail.

Mail knew that his dad thought he wasn't the same, talkative, giggling boy he'd been before. Make no mistake, his dad really loved him. But he also was freaked out by him. Mail didn't mind, because he kind of freaked himself out too.

He didn't tell his dad, though.

Because he'd still get the carefully given answers he wasn't looking for.

("I will always be proud of you, son. No matter what.")

Mail liked to follow his dad around the house whenever he was home. He liked to think that following his dad's footsteps would make him like his dad, and he really did want to be just like him. Mail was at that age where his dad was everything to him. Even considering Mail never knew anyone else to look up to, it still meant a lot that he was proud of his dad.

Mail's dad was his dad, his big brother, his best friend, all in one. If his dad got a cologne, then he'd get one too. If his dad shaved his beard, then Mail couldn't wait until he got his own beard. Once, Mail drew little red curls on his scrawny chest to present to his dad. He said, "Look! I'm a grown-up, dad! I'm gonna fix things up good, just like you do."

And Mail did like to repair things.

There were different ways to repair every single thing. Like how you'd tighten the screw on one object, loosen them on another, or replace the batteries in something else. Like how you'd get new fuses for one thing, or hit something else with your fist until it works. The last method was a favorite of his dad, and it seemed, by far, the quickest, most effective way to fix things up good. At least, to Mail.

Mail's dad used to curse at the television, the computer, and pretty much everything else if they didn't work right, and then he'd hit them or punch them or whack them a couple of times, and then suddenly, those things would work just fine. Mail got too curious once at the lack of tools needed for this method, and asked his dad why beating things up would work. His oblivious dad shrugged and said, "Sometimes a few screws are loose. Once you beat 'em up, they get tightened again, or put back where they belong, and then they work right. See? Good as new."

His dad didn't realize just how seriously Mail took his words. Mail began applying that logic to just about everything. He'd hit his toys sometimes, he'd hit the TV, and he'd hit the radio. It didn't always work, but there was a sense of satisfaction that ever came whenever it did. Somehow, hitting things until they worked was more satisfying than simply loosening and tightening bolts with wrenches.

But Mail woke up with an epiphany one night, that the car accident with his mom had messed up his head something awful. It made sense, given how long he'd been wearing bandages over his head after that. Something was wrong with the bolts and screws in his mind. They were probably loose. That was why he was a lot more different than he remembered being before the it had happened.

He needed a fixing up too!

Mail spent that night hitting himself in the head with various objects, sharp or blunt, heavy or light. He'd knocked himself out cold after letting his favorite wrench fall from the top of his toy shelf and hit him in the head. It was on the floor, with bruises, a few nicks and cuts, and missing strands of hair that Mail's dad found him the morning after. Mail didn't let himself explain why he did it; something told him his dad wouldn't appreciate the truth.

After that, whenever Mail was home, his dad made sure to keep him in plain sight.

("Don't try to grow up so fast, Mail. I can't catch up with you. You need to slow down and be a kid for a while."

Mail didn't need to be careful not to let his dad see him hurt himself. He didn't need to. It was easy, to purposely provoke the older kids at his school and let them beat him up good. He didn't complain. He'd direct the hits himself, by twisting at an angle in perfect timing. He'd always come home with bruises and blood on his face, arms and back. His chest would hurt something awful too, but Mail never saw any hurt there, so it was probably just in his loosely-screwed, little head.

The fixing sessions were painful, but necessary, because Mail wanted desperately, to be unbroken. So he'd be a better son for his dad. So his dad would stop looking at him like he could slip away like a soap bar in any minute.

Whenever he came home to his dad, he tried very hard not to smile in satisfaction after his regular fixing sessions. Mail thought he was in the process of repairing. He was probably half-way fixed. It wouldn't be long now until he'd stop seeing the devastated look on his dad's face. His dad never failed to ask him what had happened at school. Each and every time, the answer would be a constant. Mail would say he got too excited playing with the big kids in school during recess.

Not that his dad believed him.

He knew his dad came to the school one time to investigate the matter himself, to ask the teachers if Mail did this to himself. The teachers always said that Mail was a good, attentive little boy. Very brilliant, top of the class, despite the very large age difference between him and the other kids. "But, Mister Jeevas, why would your son do this to himself? He's being bullied by the other children. We're trying our best to stop it, sir, but at the moment, we're at a loss."

("He— he thinks he needs to be beaten up! I don't know what I'm supposed to do!")

When Mail did things, he hardly ever did it with any feeling of regret afterwards. He never regretted trying to fix himself up, or breaking things when he hit them, or coming home to see his dad's heartbroken face. All his life, he would never, ever,regret anything more than that sunny afternoon when his dad passed away.

His dad was leading him by hand, to the doctor he'd requested see Mail. Mail remembered his dad calling the man a therapist, a kind of repairman for people. Mail looked to his feet awkwardly, and wondered since when had his dad accepted that his only son was a broken, broken boy with loose-screws. He wondered if this 'repairman' had a special kind of wrench, and if he was going to be hit in the head with it only once and be automatically fixed. He wondered if he'd never need another painful fixing session ever again.

It sounded so promising, there was a bounce in Mail's walk.

His dad was on the phone with the people-repairman when they were both suddenly pushed into an alleyway, all in broad daylight. Mail's dad was made to hang up the phone, hand it over, and give all his money to the big, bad man holding Mail at gunpoint. When the bad man attempted to walk out, with Mail still in his arm, Mail's dad panicked. He was the only family his dad had left, after all.

His dad ended up being shot over less than fifty dollars, and Mail's self-fixing had transgressed. He cried out in shock and fear as his dad's body slumped to the dirty floor and started to bleed out. Mail ended up being hit so hard in the head as he bit the man's hand, that he lost his consciousness for a sparse few seconds.

The big, bad man ran off with the money and the cell phone, leaving Mail leaning over his dad's still body, eyes wide, the tears finally falling. Mail was numb. He immediately blamed himself; if he hadn't needed any fixing in the first place, his dad wouldn't have ended up like that. If Mail had been more normal, if he hadn't needed any repairing, his dad would've been happy and not dead. His dad wouldn't have been distraught as he walked his son to the therapist.

Mail didn't believe it at first. His dad wasn't functioning right, that was all! He wasn't being the good parent he was by lying on the floor like that, eyes glassy, mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but never chance to. His dad needed some fixing up, and then he'd be all right again. Right? Right?

He first tried to pinch his dad in the side, and then he shook him, and then he stabbed him with his finger. Mail's fixing grew more desperate, more irrational when each try told him that nothing was working. The tears were streaming freely now, but Mail didn't notice. Didn't care enough because he already knew he was broken. It was his dad that wasn't supposed to be.

That day, Mail learned that not everything could be fixed.

A forever later, he'd been forced away from his dad's cold, white as snow body, by strangers with strange hands and strange faces. Mail locked in on himself and became inconsolable. It was apparent that no amount of fixing could put him back together. He became more different than his normal, unbroken self. More uncaring, less inclined to care, more quiet, more uninterested in everything. Nothing could shake him. Nothing could break him.

How could it, when he was already broken beyond repair?

("You're not broken, son. You're different. Special. Nothing is wrong with you.")

.-.

A/N: Pulled that out of my butt at three in the morning, armed with hot cocoa and marshmallows. Please review. I'll make you virtual hot cocoa. :D