Three Days Later…

I sit on his couch; my legs perched up on his coffee table staring at my polka-dotted socks. I guess I was that distracted when I was packing. I still haven't opened up about my…insecurities, or whatever the hell you want to call them. I've read and heard over and over again about how it's not a good idea to bottle up your emotions. It only makes things worse. But it's not me to bide to what people say. I sigh to myself and continued to flip the channels. There's nothing on TV, figures. I'm not really the type to watch TV a lot. But it's vacation. Any normal girl would be partying, hanging out with her friends, talking to some boy, gossiping. I sigh again and rub my temples. How many times do I have to remind myself; I am not a normal girl. I will never be a normal girl. I need to get that illusion of it out of my head. I need to stop brainwashing myself. I need to start dreaming and face the factuality of it. My life will always suck…wow, that didn't sound EMO. I flipped to MTV, and the show Scarred was on.

I tilt my head as I see a man skateboard down the ramp, then fall flat on his nose. I didn't even flinch. The camera focuses up onto the face, where you could see his nose cracked, blood all over the place, gush almost squirting out. Most would feel sorry for him; but no. I envy him. If that were me, all I'd have to do was crack the bones into the right place and I'd be picture perfect. I stare at the television, and watch them operate on his face. I wouldn't need that. I never needed any medical attention. I'm watching the aftermath, and he has scars. Scars. I want scars! I want proof that I'm human. Sure, blood stains would be there, but you could always blame tomato juice for that. My hand rakes over my messy curls, "Look I me" I almost scold to myself. I envy a guy who broke his nose and God knows what else, I can push my bones back together and I want scars while normal people would want to get rid of them. I'm such a freak. Even people with abilities would look at me as a freak. A seventeen year old freak. How charming.

I hear the door turn and I quickly change the channel to American Idol. Ew, I always despised that show. I turn my head and I see Peter walk in with two large brown paper bags in his arm. I chuckled slightly, "No take out for today?" While he kicks the door shut behind him, he walks to the kitchen and sets the bags on the counter, "You know what Claire? I've been thinking" Thinking? "Should I be scared" He smiles and shakes his head, "No, no. Well, kind of" I turn my body and lean up trying to spot what was in the bag. Tomatoes? Pasta? …A cheese grater? "Peter, what's going on?" my voice is slow and hesitant as I turn my body and stand up. Peter reaches into his duffel back, pushes aside the bandages, and such and grabs a wrinkled paper, "This, is up" he throws it to me and I catch it, nearly slipping off of my fingers. I unfold it, flattening it out straight and held it in front of me. I cock a brow and tilt my head. It's either he's trying to kill me, or he's trying to kill me. I look up at him and raise both brows, "It's a recipe"

He nods his head and grabs a blushed colored tomato, "Yup" I walk over and reach into the bag, looking through it. There's olive oil, parsley, garlic, and a lot more, "You're gonna cook?" I ask him. I thought Peter could cook since we ate Chinese take out these past few days. He shakes his head and I tilt mine, "No" he says and I suddenly get scared, "We are going to cook" I let out an obnoxious, humorless laugh and look at him again. Fuck. I sigh and look at him again, "You're serious, aren't you" This is probably his attempt for some uncle, niece, bonding thing he briefly mentioned. He smiles and nods his head at me, "One hundred percent serious" Yeah, it's the bonding thing. I can't cook, maybe some Pesto Pasta, but that's it. I nearly burned down my school during cooking class. I don't want to burn down Peter's apartment, that's just beyond being a burden. I sigh and shake my head looking back at the crinkled paper, "Okay, the Penne…all'…arra…biata doesn't sound too hard" I struggled with the word and furrowed my brows as I try to pronounce it. He smiles crookedly and throws me the tomatoes, "Well, start chopping"

Easy enough. I grab the tomatoes and lay out the cutting board. Peter walks over to one of the cup boards while I start slicing up the fruit and grabs out a pan. He takes out the olive oil and sprinkles it onto the pan, "Uh, is there a limit on how much I put in?" he asks me dumbly. I shrug my shoulders, "I don't know, check the paper" "I thought you took cooking classes" he laughs as he adds a dash more. I shake my head, "Yeah, in middle school" I continue to cut the tomatoes and Peter looks over the recipe. This is such a bad idea; two people trying to cook something that I can't even pronounce! I look at him scratch his head as he's staring at the paper and I couldn't help but laugh out of amusement. Seriously? He's never cooked before? Well, can't say that I'm surprised. He's a guy…well, maybe I am a bit surprised. "Hey, what's the difference between finely chopped and roughly chopped?" I tilt my head. There's a difference? I just thought chopping was chopping. This isn't going out so well. "Uhh…" I stammered, "Wing it?" He laughs and shakes his head, "I'm almost afraid how this is going to turn out"

Half an hour later…

"Well…I think we did good" I smile and look at our work of art that laid in front of us on the counter. Peter smiles at me, tomato still in splotches over his face just like mine, "I'm just surprised we didn't burn down the apartment" he admits. I laugh and grab two towels, throwing one to Peter as we wipe ourselves down. I never thought cooking would be so messy. Well, messier than it should be. I actually had fun. I haven't had any fun in a long time. I usually spent my day with deep thought and such. It feels nice to relax, even if I did stain my new white T-shirt. It was worth it, and the bonding thing wasn't so bad. I grab two plates and Peter takes a serving spoon, scooping up our lovely art into the plates and as he did his elbow hit the knife which tumbled off of the counter. Out of instinct I shot my hand out and grabbed the knife, clutching it on the blade side. I could feel the sharp edge slice into my skin and I wince at the pain. "Claire" Peter whispers my name and sets the plates on the counter before grabbing a paper towel and wetting it.

I stand up straight and unlatch my fist around the blade, pulling it out of my palm biting my lip as I did. Peter takes my wrist gently and we both watch as the wounds close up within seconds. Sighing softly, he takes the wet paper towel and wipes away the blood from my palm, "You need to be careful" he said and I immediately flicker my eyes up at him, "I heal, Peter" I reminded him and he just threw the paper towel out, "Doesn't take away the pain" he retorted before grabbing the plates and dismissing the future subject, "C'mon, we can have a TV dinner" he smiles. I sigh and I walk next to him on the couch, taking a bite of our food and surprisingly it wasn't all that bad. We both place our feet on the coffee table in as an echo gesture. I kind of wanted to know what was going through his head when he saw the knife cut my palms. My mother is naturally worried because, well, she's my mother, and my brother is used to it. I'm used to it. It's hard to see what others are thinking when they see something like that happen.

As I had mentioned before, I believe that we are two people that don't mind the silence. Which is nice. I can't have just a quiet dinner with my family without it being awkward. I have no idea what we're watching now; all I know is that Peter changed it some time ago. And thank God for that; don't know if I could stand American Idol. I focus on the channel and see that Nathan is on the TV and I look next to me. Peter looks focused, serious, and I sigh looking back. Things haven't been well with him and his brother and I sigh, "Um…we can watch something else, you know" He snaps out of some sort of daydreaming and quickly grabs the remote, "Oh, uh, yeah" he changes the channel and I groan when I see what's on, "American Idol? Seriously?" He probably changed the channel intentionally, but I don't know, I just really hate that show. Paula annoys the hell out of me. He looks my way and chuckles, "Hey, Cara is hot" I find my eyes roll with an absent mind and shake my head, "Half of these people aren't even going to go anywhere, so why bother trying to win something they barely have a chance in" Peter tilts his head and, "Ouch, that's a bit harsh. So you wouldn't support me if I sign up for next year?" We both laugh and I don't even bother answering to that question.

"Hey" he said after a moment of silence. I slurp my pasta and flicker my eyes to him and answer with a hum. "I'm off tomorrow" he said and I wipe off the sauce on my lip wondering where this is going and answer again with a simple hum. I have a feeling this is going to be more bonding time between us, not that I'm complaining. "So" he said stretching it out, "I say we go somewhere" I finish off my plate quickly and tilt my head. Go somewhere, there's not really anything interesting in New York City. Well, I don't think so. I've been there so many times, there's really nothing to see. "Where?" I ask him. He takes another bite of the pasta, moving his eyes somewhere as he thinks. I don't know much about Peter's interests, but I'm willing to learn. He is my uncle after all. His shoulders shrug, "I don't know. Anywhere. We can just drive" He takes my empty plate along with his and walks to the kitchen. I turn my body and tilt my head, "Just drive?" I echoed. He washes off the plates and fills up two glasses with water, "Yeah, and wherever we feel like going, we'll go" It was simple enough, and something I can handle. He hands me the glass of water and sits next to me. We both take a sip in a mirror like way and I shrug my shoulders, "Sure, why not" He smiles and grabs the remote, "Cool. So, guess what I'm dying to watch right now?" I tilt my head and he grins as he switches the channel, "American Idol" "I hate you sometimes"

Next Morning…

I look at myself in the mirror, smoothing out my brown sweater and straightening it out. My fingers run through my blonde hair, pushing it up into a ponytail. I had a dream last night. Just a dream, not a nightmare. It wasn't happy either. It was me, Peter, Mom, Dad, Lyle, and Nathan watching TV. Just watching. I was sitting on the couch Indian style, and under me on the floor was Peter, sitting with his arm perched on his knee. Lyle was next to me too, tossing a worn out football up in the air and catching it. Mom and Dad were leaning against the couch, just staring, and just watching. Nathan was behind the couch, his hand resting on the top edge of it. I don't know what we were watching. I can't remember. I don't know if it's supposed to mean something, or is it just a dream. Weird things always seem to follow me; it will probably come up sometime in my life. For now, I guess I'll just set it aside. I look at the time, and raked my hand over the back of my neck. I have no idea what Peter plans for today are, but looking at our fun last night, I'm sure it won't be bad.

I walk out of the bathroom and see that Peter isn't anywhere to be in sight. I thought he would be back by now. Getting gas for the car shouldn't take that long. "Peter?" I call out. I pause in my tracks. Something's not right. I can feel it. There's something in my gut that tells me to run. But I can't, I have to find Peter. Slowly I walk to the kitchen, grabbing a knife before looking back at Peter's room, seeing the door cracked open. That's funny; I remember closing it before I went into the bathroom. I walk slowly and flattened my palm against the white wood, pushing it open slowly. Then, on the bed Peter is knocked out unconscious with a man hovering over him, "Peter!" I yelled. I charge for the man with the hooded face, fury boiling in my blood. But I stop. I feel something in my shoulder, and I drop my knife, taking out whatever hit me and gasp softly, "A tranquilizer" My vision gets blurry and I fall to the floor. The last thing I see is a man with a black mask pushing me flat on my spine, cuffing my hands, before my world goes black.


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