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Natasha spelled his name with extravagantly large letters on the crumpled up notebook paper. Each black letter was endowed with the griffonage typical of a preschooler, being spaced out unnecessarily wide. She stuck her tongue out the side of her lips, bit down and was engrossed in the way the stolen pen from the clinic glided across the paper. Her narrow eyes followed the flow of her fingers, and Norman followed with her. He looked over in amazement to her fixation on each stroke’s form, regardless of how inconsequential it all was. He liked that about her. Natasha had an affinity for all things that could be created and fixed, which she soon realized was everything, in one way or another. At the beginning of everything, she’d hold the wrapper of a pryanik like it was to be worshipped before carefully unfolding the wrapper and holding the honey tinged and too-dense cake in her mouth. She’d gawk at the chalk drawings scrawled on the street probably forever, if not for the time.
„N… O… R,” Natasha recited to herself, periodically looking up at the boy resting cross cross applesauce in front of her, making sure she’s spelling it right. He nodded each time she spat out a letter, peering and admiring her work thus far.
They shouldn’t have been out here. They sat in front of an old antique shop run by a tall elderly lady that smelled indolic, whom of which kept a long line of empty, half-full, opulently designed glass bottles right next to the register. Natasha sat on a small pillow, normally reserved for the stray cats. That day was an exception, however, and was welcome to any bummish child on the street, because not even the cats would be idiotic enough to prowl in this weather— according to the old hag , anyways.
Natasha stopped writing momentarily to gaze upon her own work, struggling to keep the pen between her frostbitten fingers. Norman gazed back with the same curiosity that was plastered across her face, and he waited anxiously for her to continue. Only the sounds of the wind hitting the blanket of white floated in the air.
„M…” she finally whispers. The silence had gone on for too long.
Natasha and Norman had gotten off the utterly miserable train ride only the day before, and Natasha was still shaken from it. Her fingertips were cool and hued a disgustingly beautiful azure, which could only be kept warm with a warm blow from Norman’s lips. On the train, they both huddled together per Norman’s suggestion, drinking the tomato juice that had been hoarded in Norman’s shallow pocket. He wanted to believe that maybe the tomato would revitalize her, bring her back from the half dead state she was in already— but reality was much harsher than that, being that they were far more different than he realized.
The only noise that escaped her was utterly unintelligible grumbling. He pressed his ear to her cheeks and listened to the melodic and pathetic whispers from her, and he reveled in the intimacy of it all; the cold that burned his ears, the sound of her struggle, the slight tremors she emitted every couple of minutes. She was beautiful, even like this, he noted, holding his soft palm against her chest and taking in the haggled breaths she took.
The screeching of the machinery and the nauseating sound of metal clanking together as one symphony only made her appear sicker by the second, and Norman wasn’t quite sure when they’d get off. It enamoured him, the idea that Natasha’s feeble body could cave in on itself any minute now. But it couldn’t end there. He didn’t want it to.
All he could’ve done was slip off his overshirt and drape it around her neck, and keep blowing softly on her cheeks.
She was more certain with her pen strokes, now, overlapping some of the already scrawled on lines.
Scratch. Scratch. Poke.
A cavity had formed in the O. Her pen had punctured the paper.
Natasha stared dumbfoundedly at the undoable deformation caused by her. She couldn’t bear to look up. It was her fault and that’s why she couldn’t look up.
It took him a moment to notice. When he did, he chuckled at the look of shamefulness smeared on her face.
„It’s okay, you know,” he was hardly audible. Natasha sniffled and wiped the burning feeling threatening the edge of her eyelids.
„Ve can go inside, if you vant.”
Norman didn’t wait for a response, gripping her palm and pulling her into the store right behind them. The notebook paper glided into the snow, and ashen dots formed as it made contact.
Natasha couldn’t look away.
He giggled into her ear, „I’ll take a lighter. And maybe gasoline… distract zee voker for me, yes?”
„But what if she notices? I don’t wanna get in trouble…” she mumbled, tightening her grip on his hand, „I mean, um. I don’t care too much, but she’s been nice, and…”
„I sink ve’re past that point, Nat,” he whispers, pulling at her hangnail, „Plus, kindness is a stretch, isn’t it? You sat in ze snow.”
„Well, yeah, but I… I don’t know, I…”
But Natasha had taken too long. He slipped away past the loft shelves saturated with a variety of forgotten wares. There was a towering stack of various yellow-stained children’s books, western cookbooks filled with extravagant recipes that included ingredients no one around could ever get ahold of, porcelain cups with intricate arabesque designs, and glass dusty jars probably used a million times. She could barely see it all with how dimly lit the store was, and the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to drown out Norman’s impish snickers.
There was more there, she’s sure, but she had to distract the shopkeeper.
Tiptoeing over to the front desk and having the coolness of the concrete permeate through her body had each step proven to be a battle, and consequently, it was embarrassingly obvious how suspicious she was. She was a pathetic excuse for a diversion, and she knew that.
Holding the hem of her skirt and tugging down, cheeks flushed red from the utter embarrassment, she stutters, „Um… Hello? I need hel—„
Clank. A glass bottle that was originally displayed with great pride by the shopkeeper’s side had then been in a billion glimmering pieces on the floor. A small albino rat had tipped it over, its crimson eyes taunting Natasha.
The hag hardly acknowledged her as she dazed wistfully at the crystals on the floor. Her eyes darted to Natasha, next.
„Now, you…” sputtered out in two furious bursts, stabbing Natasha in the chest just below where her liver would normally be.
„I didn’t…”
The hag tore her down with a quick glance, stripping her of any confidence she could’ve possibly had left. However, Natasha couldn't read what her facial expression meant.
„You have to pay for that, child,” the hag sneers.
„I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t drop it. It wasn’t me.”
„Like every child would say, yes.”
“But I–”
The hag looked down at Natasha’s black socks, chuckling, “I’m only kidding. I am not angry. I don’t like these old vases, anyway. They were my mother’s.”
Natasha paused for a moment. She noticed the hag’s melancholic eyes as she caressed another bottle, engraved with the memory of what was and never will be again. Yet, somehow, it was far from a dreadful expression, she noted; in fact, the hag seemed almost relieved.
“She got it from the North,” the hag started, focusing her attention on Natasha, “up where all the elders like me are. She used to take me there, every Wednesday, eyes gleaming and sure she’d stick it to those sticklers… Hah! She was never able to make a good deal. That is, until she was able to nab one for cheap off some toy collector.”
Natasha’s lips only parted slightly, whispering, “Was that the first bottle?”
The hag smiled, nodding, “Matter of a fact–”
She disappeared from sight in a second, ducked behind the tall counter separating them. Sounds of the many miscellaneous items scratching against each other ricocheted through the small store, making the small specks of dust dance along with it.
The hag resurfaces with a clear rectangular prism as big as her head, tinged yellow from years of wasting away. Dust was caked at the bottom, along with a small handkerchief; however the sides stayed pristine, proudly displaying the amateur flower pattern weaved into it. The hag leaned over and waved it at Natasha, “Here it is.”
“It’s beautiful,” Natasha smiled. And it was. Despite the flaws in its creation, it was beautiful. It was the epitome of the perfection in the imperfect, the relief that comes when you find misplaced keys thinking they were lost forever, the sprite waiting in the fridge after a long day of work, the memory of the most embarrassing day of your life. The crack in the glass glimmered in the shady light coming from the ceiling, of which a beam of light shot back at the wall in an abomination of a blob. Natasha’s gaze followed that little blob as the hag shaked the bottle back and forth, trying to get the handkerchief out.
„It is, isn’t it? It’s a little rough around the edges, but hey. Can’t expect a pretty vase from a toy collector, hah!” The hag started, managing to use her shriveled hands to pull out the small cloth. She knocked on the glass and the small clinks resonated in Natasha’s ears, „My mother adored it. Maybe just as a recognition that she could do it. Get that deal, I mean. And I guess that it’s only fair. But, ah. If I may be honest, she was a cranky old bitch—„
The hag paused, glancing at Natasha, „Sorry. You’re a kid, should have more respect for myself. Don’t tell your parents I said that.”
She held the words in her mouth a moment before continuing, „Ah, anyways. You can have it. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this old thing. Maybe share it with your friend back there, share a few drinks when you’re older,” pointing to Norman with an unusually protruded and rectangular shaped stomach creeping around the front door.
Natasha glared at him, and realized there is no way that old hag doesn’t see how stupid he looks trying to carry a massive jug of lighter fluid out like that. But even still, she hadn’t said anything. Maybe she didn’t notice.
Natasha stumbled over her words, whispering, „Oh… yeah. I, um. Thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart. I'm sorry for any wrong that I caused with the broken bottle… I know you said you didn’t care. But still. I care, I think.”
The old hag ruminated on her sentiment, and cackled, hearing her lungs wheeze out. She reaches over and holds Natasha’s cheek, and Natasha noted the beautiful warmth held in such bony fingers. The woman responded, slowly parting her lips as it warped into a huge grin, „Whatever you’re carrying, carry it in this bottle. Just credit me for the bagging!”
As the old hag ruffled her hair and placed the cold bottle in Natasha’s hands, she lightly pushed her in the direction of the door. „Make sure that boy treats you right, little miss.”
She waved and it’s then Natasha realized she never asked her name.
„So. Vat first?” Norman chuckled, patting his now lighter-fluid filled shirt. He whipped out a pack of matches as well as a silver, marked up lighter, etched with some brand they’d never heard of. He flipped open the cap and flicked the wheel a couple times as sparks flew in every which way. He looked elated and turned fullheartedly to Natasha, eyes full of joy, „I vant to burn somesing cool,”
„Maybe a tire? Do those burn properly?”
„No, I don’t sink it vould be vohrt it anyvays… plus, zey are definitely wet…” Norman sighed, dropping the lighter fluid on the ground and taking a seat next to it on the snow lined grass. The wetness took seconds to bleed into his clothes, with no acknowledgment from Norman.
He was a curious one. Burdened by shame but nevertheless driven by some reluctant sense of enthusiasm sparked by he and Natasha’s recent escapades. Well, really, his only drive for any of this was her. She dealt out such a pure kindness, and her smile always felt familiar, a warm embrace he assumed she’d never want him to pull away from. Her touch, that elegant, dainty brush from her fingers was… enticing. Like it was inviting him to a whole new world of sweetness.
Norman glanced at her, holding his chin in between ashy knees.
Her eyes sparkled as she glanced down at him, unmoving and uncertain. She made a sort of whimpering noise, as if wanting to say something.
He always wondered why she was so reluctant around him.
„Maybe flowers?” Natasha finally added, practically mumbling. „Where would they have them in this weather, though…”
„I don’t sink zey’d have sat lying around. Maybe zose fake flowers? You know, zee plastic ones. My mom used to have a lot of zhem. I like zee pink ones,” Norman grinned wide, sitting up fast from his slump. Giggling at the catastrophic shift in tone, Natasha holds out her hand to pull him up.
„Let’s go find some, then.”
Every run-down store they passed was closed and had a huge, cheap sign on every front door to let the only two fools wandering know. They had no choice but to follow the road which wasn’t in their map that they ditched earlier, much to Natasha’s dismay. They had been walking for at least half an hour, wandering aimlessly along the fence bordering the residential area. The multiple concrete blocks litter the road, and every other window has clothing dangling over the tiny balcony. The hum of air conditioners stuck to the side of buildings blazed despite the fact it couldn’t have been above freezing, and Norman grimaced at the sound. It reminded him of the nights spent staring at the thin walls insulated with large carpets that he thought his mother inherited from his grandmother. The heater stationed under his window hummed constantly, a subtle yet overwhelming static, and was the only thing that distracted him when he realized his mother creeped into his room early in the morning to greet him the same way she always did back then, subtle kisses taking away all that was good from him.
Norman gripped Natasha’s hand tighter.
A playground popped up every so often down the road, each having an abundance of abandoned toys left around. It was still fairly early in the morning, enough for them to hear other children laughing as they walked down the road to school.
Natasha noticed Norman’s staggered walk, halting in response. She stopped him with a slight brush of his back, listening to him sniffling and hardly acknowledged as she called his name. He let the lighter fluid hit the ground as he released his hand from its handle.
„Norman… are you okay?” Natasha said, sticking her hands in her shallow pockets as the sharp air attacked her fingertips.
He didn’t answer. He just looked past the fence and gripped her arm tightly.
„My muzzer and I used to live at a place like zhis,” he started, tugging at Natasha’s hair, „Vee had a cat.”
Her name was Scuttles. Norman made it up when his mother had scolded him for bringing a stray cat in his room, because he hadn’t thought about naming it beforehand. He recalled hearing it in an old children’s book he trashed along with the rest of personal junk in his room. His mother used to tease him about how big of a hoarder he was, keeping stacks upon stacks of his fathers belongings in boxes that she didn’t want to throw away. Scuttles liked to nest in the box filled with his father’s old bedding. Norman laid with her, once, taking in the musty smell of the sheets and tracing his finger along the stitching that had been ripped from, he was sure, years of use. He remembered the warm succor as Scuttles purred on his cheek.
Norman cupped Natasha’s cheek. She smiled.
„Are you cold? You’re cold, right? It’s really cold, so… yeah. Yeah, you’re cold. Obviously. Um. You can use my scarf, if you want,” she said, unwrapping the triple wrapped crocheted fabric starched around her neck. She nudged it at him, yet he only placed his hand on top of hers, separated by the thick layer of yarn.
„Her friends used to come over and call her sveet. Scuttles. She vas really sveet. My muzzer would cook for her. To make it up to me. I…” he muttered, leaning onto her shoulder and keeping the same monotone demeanor, „I vant to taste her cooking again. Before she missed him less zhan she loved me. But going back vould be dooming me, I sink…”
Natasha let the words hang in the air. She wiped her nose with her sleeve before continuing, „I think you look happier now. I don’t know anything about her, but I think you just miss the little bits you have left of her, you know,” she said, before immediately realizing his facial expression turning sour, „Um, not like that! She might’ve been a nice lady, I just…”
„She vasn’t… I sink,” he said, voice cracking. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and leaned into her, letting Natasha take the brunt of the force. She stumbled back before being forced to use a hand to stabilize herself with the fence. She slumped down the fence as her bottom hit the then melting snow, Norman still clamped to her chest. She reciprocated his embrace as he sobbed into her chest, droplets of liquidized despair melting into her teal sweater, his soft whimpers carried through the crisp air.
„I’ll cook for you, one day. Um, I can learn! Let’s get a small place near the seaside, and… yeah,”
He looked up to her with his puffy round eyes and sniffled, „Zat’d be nice.”
They decided that it was best to scout the residential area as Norman insisted upon swiping it from some apartment they could not possibly get access to. It went as far as going up to the front door of Apartment 206, where Natasha begged Norman to stop since he practically threatened to just break the lock to save them both the embarrassment of trying to lockpick it. They then rested on the staircase leading up to the rest of the apartments, taking up an entire step of space.
Natasha couldn’t read Norman’s expression anymore, and he played with the hem of her socks, pulling the elastic and letting it snap back on her leg. She supposed it was his way of coping with their evident lack of success, because he always kept his hands busy. To prevent something or to soothe himself, Natasha pretended not to know. She wouldn’t ask, either. Not about the bruises, the white lines crossing his arm, or about why he was so scared to go back to where he came. That was the unspoken rule she made up for herself, to keep the peace.
In some way, it was reconciliation for dragging him away from his host, that damned devil himself, knowing that it’s probably slowly killing him. He was bound to himself and forced to see what a disgusting excuse of a man he was made, and Natasha couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Norman was made into such a mess. Norman’s host was an egregious excuse for a human being, and she took some sick pleasure in knowing that his inability to mature and his evident lack of humanity is probably a gracing factor. Any pleasure, however, was crushed by knowing that Norman couldn’t be away from his host for much longer without risking withering away entirely.
She knew taking him away like this was selfish. And, for once in her life, she struggled to care.
„Maybe off some old couple’s front porch?” Norman started, turning his eyes up to Natasha in puppy-like fashion. Natasha chuckled at the sight.
„That could work, maybe. Yeah,” she said, looking over at the few actual houses on the other side of the street, protected by, somehow, a pile of snow and a show of knickknacks sprinkling each property. She scanned the area, picking apart the contents of each yard before realizing she can’t see much of anything, „Let’s go over there.”
Struggling to stand, Norman lugged the lighter fluid up with both hands and trudged with Natasha to the other side of the street, Natasha supporting him with a hand pushed in the divots of his back. They observed each house as they passed, peering over the fences of varying sizes. Most had dirtied clothes hanging over a small wash barrel and remnants of abandoned projects started by the boys after school— or maybe their fathers, who could tell— some had an assortment of canned or bottled goods being saved in the snow. The place reeked of generational misery, Natasha couldn’t stand that god awful smell, and it seems Norman couldn’t either, crinkling his nose at the sight. It was a short road, both ends blocked by a fence that stopped no one. They were only halfway though, however, as the houses that adorned the streets were barely enough for two people.
„Mr Nakemi lived in a street like this. It was, um, equally as depressing, haha,” she smiled, taking each step haphazardly and bumping shoulders with Norman every other step, „But his house was nice. I never talked to the neighbors, I wasn’t allowed to, but even though the house was… small and musty, it was always warm inside,”
„It looks like it’d be far from vorth it, zhough,”
„Maybe not… but I…”
She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. So she didn’t.
Norman gasps in excitement and points with overwhelming enthusiasm, „Zhere! Right Zhere!”
Natasha looked over to see pretty pink flowers topped with small gears and artificial sage leaves, all left in a plastic pot with a styrofoam base, painted half heartedly to look like dirt and instead closer resembling feces. Norman hopped in excitement and looked at Natasha with full eyes, „Yes, yes, come on! Take watch!”
Dragging Natasha by her cuffed sleeve to the wooden gate, he grinned at her before hoisting himself with one leg over the flat ivory boards, rather quickly, Natasha noted. He easily landed on the snow lined pathway, and jutted over to the synthetic beauties resting on the ground. He barely checked if anyone was there before ripping it from its base and dashing back. Nobody else but a few truants were on the street or sidewalk, sure, but the person who was clearly visible in the window didn’t take long to notice the ginger haired idiot who stormed onto the lawn. With a bang at the front door and some young woman with pitch black hair screaming at him, Norman pulled Natasha away to the dead end at the end of the street, making an attempt to hop over the fence that was way taller than the both of them. He started up the fence, latching himself onto the ice cold bars, but Natasha couldn’t maneuver her way up fast enough for him.
„Nat, come—„ he gripped her hand as tight as he could, tugging her body weight up,”—on!”
He lost his balance, and they both crashed with a large thud on the other side of the fence into a bed of white. They both stared into each other, hair roughed up and clothes now covered in powdery snow. Natsha’s clothes were soaked, or at least, were going to be, the ash grey jacket already turning closer to a blackish tone. The tights she wore were completely ruined and torn, part of the thinly woven fabric snagged by the fence and bending in the breeze, along with the crimson scarf being hung over the top of the fence. Her hair clung to her cheeks, her face stretched into an immature grin. Norman sat across, red hair darkened, his clothes completely soaked and crooked teeth beaming. He punched her arm and snorted, „You totally almost busted us,”
„Oh, whatever! She was barely chasing us, anyways, dummy,”
„Still! If ve got caught, it’d totally be on you! Jump over more fences!”
„Why don’t you jump over more fences?”
„Don’t ve silly,”
Norman grasped a lock her hair and sighed, „Let’s go, let’s do it! We’re already in a field.”
Norman held the flower by the stem and shook it hard as he could to get as much of the beads of water away as possible. That mostly worked, but many of the small beads were just made into microscopic beads. Meaning, still wet. He looked over to Natasha anxiously and frowned.
„Zhis is so stupid,” He scoffed, tossing the flowers to the ground.
„You haven't even dried it yet…”
Natasha walks back over to the fence and snatched the scarf off the fence, ripping it in the process. She swore under her breath, which Norman heard as a „Damn,” and staggered towards the flowers. Bringing the scarfs dry wool to the synthetic petals, she meticulously dried each one. Norman stared over her shoulder and watched religiously. The whole thing felt like a ritual, almost, and Natasha giggled softly at the thought. Norman’s cheeks were flushed red from adrenaline still, and the warmth felt comforting on her neck.
“Lighter fluid!” Norman sang, holding up the jug and popping off the lid. He threw the cap as far as he could, which actually amounted to far enough that he couldn’t see it at all. He poured a generous amount of the petals with one hand, and handed Natasha the matches in the other. He emptied nearly the whole tin, before stopping and scratching his neck, “I’ll save some, actually,”
“We won’t need any,” Natasha spat back. It’s oddly harsh, by Norman’s standards, but maybe she’s just cold.
Natasha held the stem, as far away from the fluid, and positioned it sideways to prevent it sliding down and lighting her on fire, too. She shook at the thought. Natasha took a matchstick and pressed it against the igniter, watching Norman’s anticipated squealing carefully with a simper. She dragged the matchstick swiftly to the side, a wavering flame appearing immediately after. She didn’t hesitate to throw it onto the petals, which burst into a flurry of cool hues. A blue glow ate at the base; and grew into a rich apricot color at its tips— the glow blasted on both their faces, as well as the heat which forced Natasha to flinch back and reflectively gasp.
“It’s so cool! It’s so— its’s so huge!” Norman beamed, bumping against Natasha,
“Okay, okay, stop, I’m gonna drop it—“
“Vatever!”
Maybe this would’ve been those small fleeting moments of happiness. The ones Natasha would recall when she was inevitably caught again after Norman inevitably dies in front of her. He’ll lean into her and crumple in her arms, or maybe disappear in an instant. Maybe he’ll just bleed out and die right there. Right there. She didn’t want that moment to come. Not yet.
“Norman, I… um…” she whispered. Norman focused his attention on the flowers, but nodded to let her know, at least, that he was listening, “I… hope we both die today. As soon as possible. Um. I don’t want you to leave, yet. It’s not fair,”
He let her words marinate in the air, focus unbreaking. His facial expression stayed consistent, shaking his head slightly, “Silly! I von’t ever die,”
He got closer to the flowers and let the blazing heat overtake him. He giggled childishly, yelling feverishly,
“Plus, tomorrow is farzzer zhan ever, isn’t it?”