I am five years old the first and last time I cut myself.
I have spent plenty of time during the past half decade inspecting my body, marveling at its stretching and thinning, at the continuous growth of its hair and nails, at the joints and muscles and tendons bending and stretching and working perfectly in tandem. However, as fascinating as such an investigation is, curiosity pushes me hard for an even further examination.
It is common knowledge that curiosity is a powerful force, but it is hard to imagine the childish persistence with which I have been wondering at the inner workings of my body. If I was older and capable of a more refined thought process, it might be labeled as an obsession.
The only problem is how to get into my body, as thoroughly covered by skin as it is. Such a substance is rather durable, as it would have to be as my primary defense against death.
And then, I see it.
Quillsh has just fished a stack of letters out of the mailbox, and is now methodically going through them and slicing some of them open with an ornate envelope opener. The device swiftly and efficiently slashes through the thin, milky material, which greatly resembles my own skin, and therefore will likely be a suitable investigative apparatus.
Roger peeks into the room, barely more than his receding hairline visible from my angle. "Quillsh, may I speak to you for a moment?"
"Certainly," he replies cheerfully, spinning around in his chair and lacing his fingers over his stomach.
Roger's eyes appear over the doorframe, meeting mine, and he none too subtly jerks his head back. "In private," he stresses, and Quillsh's brow furrows a bit as he sets down the envelope he is holding and stands up.
"I'll return in a few minutes," he promises, closing the door behind him, and leaving me alone.
I cannot resist.
I scurry over to the desk, scrambling onto the chair and picking up the bejeweled knife. A majority of the faux gems are red. It is, as the saying goes, the straw that breaks the camel's back. Of course, in my case, the piece of straw is a great deal sharper, and the camel's back is far more delicate.
I clamber back onto the ground, and begin to gently saw at my forearm and soon enough, a faint white line appears under the blade, and then a shade of pink blossoms on the mark, and, finally, the skin breaks.
It is beautiful, so much so that it more than makes up for the pain. A thin line of crimson bubbles from the incision, vibrant paint against the white canvas of my arm. I stare in awe at the intensity of the color, and am amazed by the magnificence concealed by such a misleadingly thin layer of skin. Certainly, I have scraped by elbows or skinned by knees in a fall, but those injuries were nowhere near as splendid as what I have discovered.
I press the blade to the cut again, hoping to unearth even more excitement from my body, but this time, something is terribly wrong. It hurts. It hurts a lot. There are no shifting color schemes or shimmering explosions of light or anything at all to distract from the fact that I am in a lot of pain, and the blood is coming out so quickly that even when I remove the envelope opener, it doesn't stop.
Beginning to panic, I clasp my palm to the gash, and scarlet oozes through the gaps between my fingers. I remove my hand and attempt another solution: licking it away. This tactic works quite well when jelly spurts out of a donut or juice oozes from a pear, but evidently not nearly as well when a person is bleeding. Not only does it sting terribly, as though miniature envelope openers are pricking at its edges, but the taste—oh, the taste!
It feels as if a hundred old spoons are being pressed to my tongue, or as if I have a hundred noses all running at the same time, or as if a hundred little people are clinging to my tonsils. I cannot stop gagging, and then I cannot stop crying, and finally I am shouting for Quillsh because this is the worst idea I've ever had.
He comes rushing in at once because I could count the number of times I've cried in my entire life on my hands, and the number of times Quillsh has seen me cry on one. He bursts into the room, nearly knocking the door off its hinges, because Quillsh is much stronger than he looks and he cares for my wellbeing a great deal, even if it isn't always apparent.
He drops to his knees in a flash, all aches and pains miraculously cured by the adrenaline, and his gaze flashes from my arm to the bloodied envelope opener and back again. He looks as though he wants to hit me or yell at me, but he does neither of those in lieu of scooping my frail form into his arms and rushing me into the bathroom over my choking sobs.
Five minutes later, the cut has been doused in hydrogen peroxide and securely bandaged in white cloth that nearly matches my skin, and Quillsh refuses to look me in the eye. At first, I can think of nothing but the throbbing pain in my arm, but then I realize that he is mad at me.
"I apologize for inconveniencing you," I murmur, head ducked ruefully.
Quillsh's only reply is to viciously shove the bandages back into the cupboard.
"It was irresponsible of me," I add hopefully.
The cupboard door slams with a tremendous thunk.
"It was incredibly irresponsible of you!" Quillsh shouts furiously. I flinch, never having heard his voice reach such a decibel before. "Don't you realize what you could have done?"
"I was merely curious," I inform him, distress infusing my voice with aloofness.
"That's no excuse for such unthinkably dreadful behavior," he snaps. "You could have killed yourself, Lawliet."
I blink in surprise, lips parting marginally. I hadn't realized that such an action could cause me death; to be honest, I hadn't realized that any action could cause me death. "I could have died?" I whisper.
"Yes," he replies fiercely. "You are human, and believe it or not, if you're not careful, you could die."
"Human?" I mumble to myself.
"I have big dreams for you, Lawliet, big dreams," he emphasizes through his teeth. "You have no idea how much time and money I have invested in you, and I am not going to let you ruin all the hard work I have done."
I can puzzle out enough of this peculiar declaration that I know that my dying would definitely ruin his plans. "I understand. I will not do this again," I promise.
Quillsh seems to deflate. His shoulders droop and he faces away from me, kneading the bridge of his nose. "Thank you."
Knuckles rap at the door, partially ajar and allowing Roger's head to pop through. "Quillsh, may I ask for your presence in my office?"
Quillsh removes his drawn face from his hand, gazes at Roger for a moment, then turns to me and asks, "Can I trust you to handle yourself well while I'm gone?"
"Yes," I answer, sure and deadpan.
He fixes his blue eyes on me firmly. "Good." They disappear out the bathroom door, close the door to Roger's office, and our branch of the house falls silent.
I silently repeat Quillsh's order to handle myself well, then decide that eavesdropping on their conversation would by no means break this order, and begin figuring out how to best get down from the countertop that Quillsh has ever so slyly abandoned me on top of.
Two minutes later, I am victoriously padding sneakily down the hallway to Roger's closed office door and pressing my ear against the thinnest part of the wall.
"—don't mean to sound like a fusspot, but I truly am worried, and today's incident only furthers my anxiety."
"Roger, he's barely entered childhood."
It doesn't take me long to discern that they are discussing me.
"Which is why we need to intervene before he reaches a point in his life where it is irreversible."
"There's probably nothing wrong with him in the first place."
"I'm afraid that he'll begin developing symptoms exhibited by those in solitary confinement.
"Solitary confinement!" Quillsh is audibly outraged. "We aren't confining him!"
"Practically. He hasn't talked to anyone but us since he was three."
"And look at how far he's come!"
"Quillsh. He's not a business. He's not a machine. He's just a kid—an incredibly intelligent kid, but a kid nonetheless—whose childhood we cannot afford to ruin."
"But we're going to begin pre-algebra next week!"
"This cannot continue." His tone is unalterably firm. "If he continues living this way, you're going to seriously compromise his social skills, not to mention his mental stability."
There is a long moment of silence.
"I suppose there would be no harm in allowing him to speak with some of the children."
Roger sighs in relief. "Thank you."
Quillsh grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a series of curses.
Roger laughs his rare, booming laugh. "Oh, Quillsh, my dear friend." Clothing rustles and Roger continues chuckling, and then there are three sharp footsteps and a jar of pens is knocked off the table. Roger falls silent.
"Well, then." Quillsh's voice is unusually loud. "I will—I will get to work on that, er, arrangement with Lawliet and th-the children." I hear him approaching the door, and realize that it is long past time for me to vacate the area. I scramble down the hall and duck behind a corner just as Quillsh emerges. He stands several yards away from the door, looking flushed and conflicted, then throws his arm up to his forehead, closes his eyes, and sighs.
I slip back to Quillsh's office, where I am supposed to have been for the past several minutes, and pull out a nearly completed math workbook. I scan over the last couple chapters, then move on to the review section in the back. Perhaps if I can convince Quillsh to get me started on pre-algebra early, I won't have to converse with these children they speak of.
Author's Note: Ah... There we go. One chapter right after the next, just as I'd originally planned. Took me long enough to get it right.
BIG thank yous to chibi-hime123 for editing this, as well as chapters 3 and 5. You win at life. :D