Lead Shoes
Creeno
I've got nothing constructive to say except that I loved Eagle Eye.
Sometimes, family is a burden. Othertimes, it's all that holds on.
Jerry thrived in your shadow. While you ran, chasing trophies and goals, he stayed behind to bury himself in books he hardly could read and struggle at tasks it took you minutes to accomplish. It intrigued you to watch Jerry bite his lip in determination and concentration, even if it never helped.
"Like this—" you reach for the pencil but Jerry snatches it back.
"No, I got it," Jerry insists, even though his work is wrong.
"Jer—"
"I said no, Ethan," He glares at you, not for the first time, but it still hurts.
"I'm going into the army," you announce, and your father beams with pride and your mother's form stiffens.
Jerry does nothing but keep washing dishes.
ARIA listens to you talk, sometimes. You feel as if she's your child, built with your hands, even though it takes more than three different departments to make her. You tell her everything, about Jerry and Mom and Dad and mostly, well, about Jerry. About how you knew he loved you, even if he didn't say it and moved as far away as possible from you and how it hurt how he never even sent postcards or came to Christmas anymore.
And like Jerry, ARIA rejects you. One executive mistake and you're standing on your toes, biting your nails as you sit in traffic. You don't know what the hell to do, don't know when she'll strike (because she will, you put a piece of yourself in her) and you don't know anyone who you can tell. You accelerate into traffic and—
"I'm not him."
