When his mother wasn't watching, he'd travel to the road that ran by their house, and if he was feeling particularly daring, he'd lay his chest in the dirt and watch car tires go whizzing by. The street was mostly vacant, only a couple of vehicles here and there making an appearance, but he closely watched them pass and wipe his eyes when they were gone. For hours he was able to do this, playing with strands of withering grass and smashing his thumb down on any ant that passed by. Sometimes he would snicker deviously as he flipped beetles over, watching their legs scramble to find some sort of surface, but before they could be slam down his palm.
"What's on your palm?" his mother asked him one day when he had done this routine in a white shirt. She was peeved enough that the moon fabric was stained with clumps of a dull, tan color.
"I smushed seven beetles and fifteen ants."
"You nasty little boy," she told him, but it was almost light-hearted for her. She made a plate of sandwiches for him that afternoon, which he eagerly consumed after he washed his hands and took a scolding from his mother about his shirt.
"Lordy, you look more like your father everyday," she said. He could never tell how she felt about his father, since she never talked about him and when she did, there was always a faint hint of disgust in the edges of her faces but a faint light of adoration tucked somewhere in her eyes. It wasn't as if he'd ever been good at reading people anyway.
"Come here, boy," she commanded, and he scurried over to her. She ruffled his hair, complaining about the wind always ruining it, and then ran her finger down his cheeks to remove any streaks of dust still there. "There, that's acceptable," she said, and he knew that was her way of saying, "I love you." Or at least that was how he had interpreted it, since he never really heard those words ever verbalized, but as he crossed up the stairs, he acknowledged that he had a habit of always saying it back.
"Norman!"
He sprinted inside the house, cheeks flushed as he slightly panted, eyes glimmering as he stopped in front if the kitchen window. "Yes, Mother?"
"What are you doing outside?"
"Mrs. Knolls' cat somehow ended up in our yard, so I was petting-"
"Don't do that, it's probably diseased."
His smile wavered. "Okay."
"Come inside now, we have a guest coming over."
His eyebrows furrowed at the news. She hated having any sort of company, and wouldn't even let him talk to anyone himself because of her aversion to people, but he never minded it much. Mother was all he needed. "A boy's best friend is his mother," she told him day after day when he used to question why he couldn't talk to the other boys and girls when they all had best friends. Ever since then his alienation didn't seem so different anymore.
"Who's coming over?"
"Never mind that, get yourself cleaned up."
He followed her orders and went upstairs, combing his hair and washing off his hands and face, before bouncing back down the steps and meeting his mother in the kitchen. "He'll be here anytime, so sit down and be good."
"Yes, Mother."
Norman shoved his hands into his pockets and sat down in a large mahogany chair that had rarely been used since the death of his father. He slumped down, watching the hands on the clock, quickly following his mother's orders for correct posture but then relaxing again a minute later. The period of waiting that followed was an agitated one, unending and uneventful, much like the rest of Norman's experiences, only now he wasn't allowed to run and jump like he otherwise would of. Instead, he flexed his fingers and watched the bones of his hand flex underneath his skin. Teal veals weaved their around his arm, much like rivers flowing to a sea they couldn't quite fine. An inkling of curiosity plagued him as he wondered what it would be like to cut one open.
There was a knock, followed by the door creaking open. Norman quickly leaped to his feet and brushed off the front of his shirt. A man's voice murmured something to his mother, causing him to shift uncomfortably on his feet. He barely could remember a time when he could hear someone else that wasn't his mother. His face was fuzzy, his posture half-forgotten, almost as if he had dreamed of his man a decade before, but there still was something uneasy about this other man being here. It wasn't his father, and even then, his father was hardly a welcomed memory.
"Norman, this is Chet."
Norman only blinked at him.
"I've been seeing him for a while, and now it's your turn to meet him."
He hated him already, like a sudden spark that set a untamed flame running. His back tensed, arms becoming lead bricks at his side, unwilling to greet this man. How long had he been with his mother for?
The walls seemed to close in, and that man was in such an unacceptable proximity. The pure rage that seethed inside the lowest pit of his stomach was enough to keep him from opening his mouth at all and ignore the glares he got from his mother when he didn't answer Chet's questions.
"Don't mind him, he's always been odd," his mother told their guest, but Norman only clenched his fists around his utensils tighter, glaring between the table and the two adults present. His jaw was locked, heart pounding, and he knew he was being unreasonable, he knew it could be nothing, but she betrayed him.
"May I be excused?"
"No."
"Thank you," he mumbled, and he got to his feet. He occasionally disobeyed his mother, even though he was always reprimanded for it.
"Norman!"
The kitchen door slammed behind him, and he shuffled across the ground, through the quiet air and past the scattered trees. Maybe he could give him a chance, if his mother wanted him too, but it would be challenging. Not when she was his only friend.
That gray cat was there again, meowing as Norman neared him, staring at him with sienna eyes and nuzzling against his legs. He blinked down at it. The cat had veins, the same sort of thing he observed earlier, and if he could find the right tool, he could try and split them, see what would happen to this animal blissfully unaware to cruel intentions of anyone else-
He stopped himself. Not with that cat. Not here, not now, not with him. A bird flew overhead, chirping something chipper, and Norman became aware again of where he was and what he was doing. The veins were still there.
"You can't do that, Norman! You embarrassed me and looked like a fool!"
There was another bird, the same breed as earlier, swooping near the window, cooing a soothing song. His eyes followed it, back and forth, up and down, around and around, until -
"Norman!"
Her hand impacted with the back of his head, jolting him back to the reality he ever half-paid attention to.
"You listen to be, you ungrateful freak, if you ever run out on me again-"
His gaze shifted back to the window.
"-I'm going to make sure your sorry soul regrets ever ignoring me-"
It was still there. His heart fluttered a bit at the thought of holding one in between his hands.
"-do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother."
She grunted, eyes partially shut in suspicion, but adjusted her dress and backed away. "Go get ready for bed."
"Okay, Mother."
He made a goal to catch that bird sooner or later.