"Bored. I am constantly bored"
They look at me, eyes and mouth flung open. „Constantly?", they repeat. Yes, constantly.
Is it that hard to understand that word? Should I explain it? I didn't think it was that complicated. Constantly? Is that a "complicated" word? No, it isn't, small me. Not for us. It will take you many years to understand why they are so surprised: You just shouldn't know that word. Not yet.
They start to whisper with each other, while my vision starts to fade. They reduce themselves to little hushing sounds and moving fingers – oh, Aunt Anne is wearing a ring. Is she married now?
It doesn't look like she cherishes it, however. The ring is not as shiny as it should be, especially considering that it is so very new. And Aunt Anne is always shiny, everything about her is shiny – her polished shoes, her golden hair, her lip-gloss. She likes shiny. Why shouldn't the ring shine?
It's engraved.
"…en, 1943" I cannot read the rest. 1943? That was a long time ago.
Maybe she inherited it? That would explain why it's so dirty: It cannot be cleaned anymore. Maybe…
Their voices are intruding my mind again. They never knock. They are just like Mycroft.
"…lock. …erlock… Sherlock!"
I look up at them. This is merely for their sake. My gaze is hazy behind my wondering about Aunt Anne's ring. It's the only sharp thing in my vision and I would rather prefer not to look away from it.
But they won't stop talking to me. They never do.
Why would she keep it? She doesn't like dirty things, she detests them. Last week, when Gina had "an accident", as they called it, she couldn't even stay in the room. (Why did she choose this profession anyway? It couldn't have been her first choice) Maybe...
"Sherlock, why are you bored?"
"I'm not bored" Why won't they be quiet when I'm thinking?
"But-"
"Not now" Don't they even get that? It must be so obvious. I must be staring. My gaze must be returning to her ring every other second. Isn't it obvious that I'm thinking about it? It must be.
Ah, she's moving her hand – wonderful.
"Mark and Helen, 1943" it says. Clearly not her name. Why no last name? It's a hand-me-down.
Wait, why was she moving her hand? Aunt Anne wants to touch my hair – why does she always do that? My mother never does that. I flinch away; I can see her face for a moment.
She seems hurt somehow. As if I had been the one trying to touch her. Is she mimicking my face?
The ring goes back to where it's been before, before she stands up and goes away.
Aunt Fiona stays with me. Nothing is new with her. She has clipped her nails yesterday evening.
Apart from that? Boring.
"Are you bored now?", Aunt Fiona asks.
"Yes"
She laughs. It is no laughing matter. But I think she doesn't know that: being bored. I've never seen her not-busy. But I would be bored with the things that are keeping her busy.
"It's as I thought", she calls after Aunt Anne, "I think he likes you"
Oh.
It's like in those horrible TV shows Aunt Emma watches. My real aunt, not the kindergarten Aunts. Why do we have to call them Aunts anyway? The association with Aunt Emma rather makes me dislike them even more.
"I think he likes you" They say that a lot in these shows. And then the woman, or sometimes the man, starts to blush and wave a hand and say "Wha- no, no, no. Impossible. Totally impossible"
They then start to cry a couple minutes later.
"Impossible" Aunt Anne says. It sounds different. It sounds like she means it. And I don't think that she will cry over it.