Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha watched those eyes quiet. He almost missed being able to see that play of feelings in someone's eyes as something more than flicker. Some days, on real low ones, he wanted to go on back to being what he'd been from ten to twenty, to knowing what lived in folks' hearts and seeing it all like some real colorful kaleidoscope landscape of things all tied together to make up a person. Current, he had to figure it from flickers of lashes lowering and gaze darting, and it wasn't near as clear or near as easy. But Misha, he wasn't real good at distance, even on first meetings, so he nudged and tried to get to the heart of the uncomfortable looking boy. Misha, he was a pusher.
The boy's reaction 'bout why he was upset, that was real. Misha liked real plenty. He wasn't good at false things wrapped up polite. He thought that yelling was like lancing a boil, and he figured it had to be a good thing. "You're mad on account of the dead girl mussing you up," he said. Folks, Misha knew, were selfish as the day was long. "But, see, sugar, that's all right. She was selfish when she done herself in how she did, and you're allowed to be selfish about it mussing you."
The therapist, she clucked and said words Misha ignored. He chewed on his fingernails, and he spit colored polish from between his teeth.
"It matters," he said soft, "because seeing someone die ain't easy. And I'm not saying you seen anyone die before, but if you did see someone die before, then this could bring it all up, like bones seeped in a stew long." Funny thing was, the therapist didn't react any to those words coming out of Misha's mouth, and neither did anyone else present.