Three
What do you do when you feel lonely?
Should you keep everything bottled up? It is so easy to wrap oneself up in a dark blanket of self-pity, to drown in a sea of tears that choke you and make you faint without ever dripping from your eyes.
It is about six in the morning on a Sunday. Although Maka naturally wakes up early due to a freaky internal clock, today she lays in bed, waiting for the feeling to pass. She has felt this before—the doubt sleeps in her stomach at all times, but every so often, it bursts through her ribcage, curling up directly on top of her heart, crushing her into the mattress.
She stares at the ceiling, letting her eyes unfocus as she thinks about nothing at all.
Her breaths slow. She feels like she is shut out of everything. All she wants to do is fall asleep, but the sun is rising, and before she has the chance to think, it is seven o' clock and she is up and making breakfast.
She is surprised to hear the shower running. Soul usually sleeps in until around eleven on weekends. What is he doing up?
In the kitchen, Maka sets about making eggs. In a few minutes Soul joins her, flopping down on a chair, a towel around his shoulders, his white spikes damp.
He asks her if she's feeling better.
She giggles and says she's fine.
Time passes. Maka gets her stitches removed. The scars aren't as pronounced as she'd feared; just thin indentations down her lag and across the bridge of her nose.
She spends a few minutes each day staring in the mirror and poking at the tissue, even though it feels sore.
She has to wear a baseball hat outside at all times to prevent the skin from damaging. She dislikes this, as it makes her hair greasy.
But oh well.
More time passes.
Mid-afternoon. Maka lies on the floor of her room, staring at the ceiling. She wonders why the floor seems so much more comfortable than her bed.
Her window is open, letting the warm desert breeze flutter the drapes and wash over her nose. She feels relaxed, like her flesh is melting away from her bones, leaving pristine white ribs jutting into the air.
Not a pretty picture. But then again, not a pretty girl.
Maka's brow becomes tight. She feels the need to go out.
She stands up. Bright fog obscures her vision for a second, and the blood rushing from her head attempts to pull her back down. She takes a deep breath. She enjoys this feeling.
She walks out into the living room. Soul is reading a magazine with a promiscuous cover. He glances up at her.
"What's up?"
"Nothing."
Soul frowns slightly. "You've been acting weird lately, Maka."
Maka feels her face twitch. "Have I."
"Yeah. Is there a problem or something?"
"No."
"Wow, once more with feeling, please? You've got the makings of a great actress."
"Thank you."
"That was my way of calling bullshit." Soul sighs. "I'm your partner, Maka. I know when something's up. So."
Maka shrugs. "I'm fine. Really."
Soul groans. "Whatever."
"I'm going out."
Maka walks through the streets of Death City, no destination in mind. The baseball cap is still perched on her head. At least it keeps people from seeing that faint red line on her face.
She sees couples walking by.
A girl is hugging her boyfriend's arm, their hands meeting between their hips.
Maka glances away. She goes to a café with a happy-looking theme. Several empty tables sit out under umbrellas. Maka sits at one, with no real intentions of ordering anything. If they ask her to leave she will.
(As it happens, nobody asks her to leave. Maybe they are closed.)
Safely in the shade, Maka takes off the cap and smooths back her damp hair. She looks around, watching the people that pass.
A young girl chases another girl down the road, her high voice giggling in a song of happy carelessness. Maka smiles. She remembers singing this song.
She sighs. When did it all go to crap? When did life become more complicated than a game of tag? When did she also have to be prettier, smarter, and better?
She can't remember. She looks up again.
Another happy couple walks by. They are holding hands, their fingers intertwined.
Maka glances down, and clasps her own hands together. Wouldn't they get sweaty? Holding hands doesn't seem very pleasant.
She glances up again. The boy pulls the girl in and kisses her on the mouth. Maka slits her eyes. She doesn't understand the pleasure in kissing.
She has only kissed one other person before: Patty. It was a rather disappointing first kiss, as it was in a game of spin the bottle. That adds another question to the list: since when did all parties have to have kissing games?
Maka stands up abruptly, flipping her hat back onto her head and brushing her bangs out of her eyes. It is time to go home.
When she arrives, Soul has apparently gone out. Blair cheerfully tells her that Soul went to the store. She does not know what store, or what Soul is buying. Maka rolls her eyes.
"And it is his turn to cook dinner, too…"
"I'm sure he'll be back in time!"
"Ugh, whatever, he's just gonna make packaged ramen or something, anyway. I'm gonna go take a bath."
"Have a good time," Blair grins. Maka warily recalls the Cheshire cat and nods.
In the bathroom, Maka strips. After she carefully folds her clothes and places them on the toilet, she looks at herself in the mirror.
There's the scar. She still isn't used to that.
Her hair is stuck to her forehead (probably from the hat). It doesn't look very appealing.
Her eyes are big and tired-looking, but a pleasant shade of green. Maka smiles slightly. Her eyes are the best part of her.
And then she glances at her breasts. Small, definitely, they barely stand out from the rest of her chest. But they look slightly bigger… maybe? She turns to the side. Maybe. She squeezes them lightly. Nah. She goes through this same routine every day. They never grow. It's always her imagination, or the light in the bathroom, or the crease left by the underwire bra she doesn't need.
Maka sighs and runs the bath, sitting on the cool stone floor and waiting for it to fill.
The rumbling of the water and the hissing of the spout has always sounded like an opera to her.