Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
The big windows reminded Oliver of that sanctuary home in the woods. The crumbling testament of victory won, his brother and him standing warrior tall in the glory… but now shrunken to their usual accommodations. How untouchable Oliver had felt when the man died, when Jude and him ran far. When they took up in the decrepit house. And how vulnerable Oliver felt now, watching blood spill out of an entirely new head. Mourning for reasons he couldn't even understand. It sucked. Because he was free now, he was far away, and he free… but the emotionless nature of him made everything feel unimportant. His abuse was unimportant and other. It was something that happened to his body, but logic said that he was his mind and not his body, and so who cared what a body endured.
He didn't want to care anymore. He wasn't going to be his body anymore. It was a separation that had been going on for months now, and sometimes it meant eating less, mostly it meant sleeping less. If he could only be less, that's where Oliver believed that he would find the kind of religion that this crazy boy seemed so immersed in. Or maybe just some peace, whatever.
"Fiddle?" That was a quirk that deserved Oliver's attention. His eyes were dark mud and nothing as blue or pleasing as the crazy one's . He remembered from group that the boy's name was Misha, and Oliver began to commit that to memory, even if 'crazy' fit better. "You mean like a violin?" One of his brothers, one of the lost boys who he'd grown up with in the house of neverland, had played violin. Oliver recalled, with a vivid flicker of envy that he'd been miraculous. All of his siblings were meant to be, but that brother could stand in the park for a day with his case open, and return home with it stacked so fat with cash that it the buckles wanted to pop off like something in a cartoon.