dining area
Once upon a time, there was a boy who did not belong. The fact that he was not even truly a boy didn't register quite yet. Oh, he knew that he was different. There was a broken window in the attic that he called home, and its view offered perspicacity on the lonely subject of his overwhelming otherness. The attic wasn't even a bedroom, but rather a workspace with conveyor belts and egg beaters. In all the time he'd spent up there, there'd never been a television or a book. No means of likening himself to the monsters hidden away in the tops of French cathedrals or Frankenstein basements. No means of understanding just how rebarbative and aberrant he really was.
The people down there had tidy little box houses in a panoply of candy colors, whereas the attic was chalkboard black. His memories of the old manse at the top of the hill were vivid, even if they were not quite his memories. Conceived, but never born.. he could recall his assembly in the way that none of the people down there would ever recall their births. He understood this, these were some of the things that his father had imparted on him before passing. He also understood that his father was not his father. The product of a dying man's imagination and ambition, he was not like the people down there. He would not belong, he knew this, but the attic had been dark and lonely for years now, and the concept of a party felt as unusual as he was himself.
So the boy with the frosted cookie for a heart boarded the sailing apparition out of fretful curiosity. Razorwire fingers twitch-twitching, gleaming anxiously while buckled leather soughed with movement. Chalk dust pale and scarred like a saint, he followed the haunted groans of the engine room until gentle strains of music steered him toward the dining area instead. His scissors clicked and scratched like the scuttling of punk rock crustacean claws in a mosh pit sea.