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I decided that Peter could have the support mechanism for his wrist. I didn’t need it, really – I had, at the time I put it on, merely thought it went well with the scraps of my shirt. Looking down at my ribcage where it was secured, I struggled with the wire clips. Eventually, I managed to undo it, my undead hands fumbling the task. For fear of the clothing being too dirty and looking bad, I dipped it in some muddy water, hoping to clean it. When this failed, I shrugged and went back to him. I wrapped the cloth around and around the wound, not caring when he winced – I’d already caused him pain, so now I was fixing it. He could get over it.
I finished up, but the child still refused to look at me, staring in a blatantly obvious way anywhere but at me. I wrapped my hand around the fabric that had now turned blood red, keeping it there until he looked at me. Then I pointed to myself, trying to do my best to show him what I meant. I had little energy, and therefore little words, so I wanted to make sure he understood.
“Sss..ooorrrrrr…eeee…” I told him. I used the same mangled finger I’d used to point to myself and touched it to his chest, trying to communicate. I was apologetic, too. I didn’t want to eat the boy just yet. If he grew into an adult, then I’d have more life energy to eat. By then, also, I’d know that it wasn’t worth preserving his brain – because he’s have hung around me so long and been his stupid little self - so I’d be able to eat that, too. The first brain I’d eat in years. I was only saying I was sorry because I wanted him to trust me. That is, that was what I told myself, so that I could justify being apologetic.
Peter smiled, and I tried to remember what smiling meant. I’d forgotten human facial features and what they meant a long time ago. Peter spoke, “Kiss it better.”
I stared at him. Did this child really expect me to be able to kiss it better? Did my (not-so-much-there) lips have some magical powers that I did not know of? I expected the child to start laughing, as was the norm when a Live One was being humorous, yet he did not. Thinking it best that I at least test his theory of my magic mouth, I leant forward to press my lips against the fabric. He giggled, and as if that made it all better, he gave me a hug. His wound still bled and he still winced when he moved his wrist, but whatever magic he believed was in my lips seemed to make him forgive me. I decided that I liked having magic lips.
 Phonetically Write · Sun Apr 29, 2012 @ 12:49am · 0 Comments |
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