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NAIL POLISH.
How healing a simple action can be– how strange.
.
.
.
Ticking of the clock is one of the sounds that came along with the tap, tap, tapping of his feet. Anxiety boils under his skin with the feeling of sizzling, the one you feel when the skin glares at your skin like it’s wagging a war with your cells. It buzzes, buzzes, buzzes until all Kevin can hear is the tick, tick, ticking of the clock on the wall with the drum of his heartbeat.
A steady, ready beat that rings in his ears– the drum, drum, drumming in his ears overpowers the tapping of his feet; loud– far too loud, louder than he thinks they should be– with a twitching in his hand. His leg bounces– up and down, up and down, all over again and again.
The silence is loud, loud, loud– not louder then the ticking, not louder then his feet colliding with the floor, not as loud as the drumming of his heartbeat ringing in his ears like a scream ricocheting down dark, dark halls–
(“Stop bouncing your leg. It’s distracting– the Media likes to get distracted.”)
(The feeling of hands grasping at his legs– grabbing and holding, forcing his leg to still with force that sends his world colliding to the floor, rushing the cloud out of his ears; forcing the sounds to surround him like a drowned man’s lungs begging to devour oxygen.)
(Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the whip flying through the air– hissing as it lands with a snap, snap, snap. A punishment he deserved– he should sit still, leg kept fine so the media doesn’t spy with their big, beady eyes. Like hawks, Kevin thinks– watching, preying, finding.)
–and all he wants to do is run into a room, lock the door and hide.
(Hide, hide, hide.)
(“You always knew how to hide, Kevin. It made the chase better.”)
Glancing around the room– empty, isolated, lonely– Kevin realises how quiet it is– no one is here; all at their lectures, or on the rooftop away from the world’s prying eyes, or even just at a shop. For some odd reason, Kevin remains on the couch– he hasn’t lifted, hasn’t moved despite the fact he knows someone offered–
“Would you like to come with, Kevin?” Nicky asked– a smile playing across his face, the same usual softness it always held. Aaron stood by his side– a scowl across his face, but when was there never?
(It was softer, this time. If that was possible.)
(Maybe people can heal.)
All Kevin could manage was a simple shake of the head– whether or not he saw the concern that slowly etched its way across Nicky’s face, was another tale. One that Kevin himself didn’t think he’d be the one to recount– because he didn’t know, and he was hoping that maybe, just once, Nicky hadn’t seen through him like a piece of glass.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hear the soft whispers as they left– or the backward glance Aaron threw, trying his best not to be obvious in a way that felt all too easy to notice. Like a bee trying to be sneaky. It’s buzzing always gave it away, but maybe it didn’t know that.
(Maybe it didn’t care.)
(Whether that was bad or good, Kevin didn’t know.)
–for some odd, odd reason. His legs wish to move– wish to run, run, run; maybe then all the rushing thoughts may be slowed down by the pound, pound, pounding of his own heartbeat. A heartbeat that ran as if it were a river, loud and rushing and drowning– uncaring of the land it erodes.
Maybe the thought of taking was what did it– all he did was take, take, take–
(“Greedy, aren’t you? Do you think you deserve to be?”)
(“You know you want it. You’ve always been selfish– don’t start begging now.” Voice dark, words haunting– maybe sometimes Kevin wished he could forget, wished he could erase the words he heard from long ago.)
(Maybe that, too, was selfish of him.)
(Was he ever selfless? Or was he too tainted to be anything else?)
–and he wished someone would pry his hands open and take all he had. Maybe– just maybe– he’d finally be where he deserved; alone, with nothing to be tainted by the blood he can still see in the mirror, even after he’s showered thrice that day. No matter how much the water hits his skin– cooling yet burning, erasing yet leaving no trace– the blood never seemed to leave. It stayed, it wavered, it ebbed like the flow of water and it never truly left itself from his skin.
If he was a canvas, he’d be painted in red by the blood others have spilled because of him.
(And his own.)
(“So red– so pretty, don’t you think? Everything about you has always been pretty. Rather unfair, isn’t it?”)
(But maybe he didn’t want to see that.)
He could still feel the knife gliding, rising, falling– taking its time, with a slow descent down his arms only to fall back again and again and again. The way his arms raised with the heat of blood falling, as the blood painted his skin in the way he knew was a mistake, mistake, mistake–
But Riko would never care for that.
(“Now, now– don’t complain. You did this to yourself– all the mistakes, all your actions. This is the consequence– I’m merely teaching you to be better.”)
Shifting his gaze away, he turned his drifting, floating attention towards the nails– ones he hadn’t realised he’d been picking, destroying, removing– where blood would hide underneath, dirt build when he was pushed to the ground with a splat on the rare occasions there would be a day he could see the outside.
(Sometimes those days weren’t blessings at all.)
(He wonders if it was to discourage him from escaping– that no matter where, the talons on ravens would always grasp him even if he was far from home.)
He knows it’s bad– bad to destroy what he needs, to destroy his hands when people would always look and stare and notice and ask. He’s been taught better– he should know better– so why doesn’t he stop– why can’t he stop–
(“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Again, Kev? Always destroying things, aren’t you– even yourself. How comedic, don’t you think?”)
(No, he doesn’t, but maybe it was an irony in itself.)
(A rough hand would cradle his own– not in a soft, gentle manner, but one that wished to control where each of his movements went in the palm of their own hand; like a puppet on a string– as it teared his hands away, moving it around and commenting on every broken nail, every slightly short one, every sharp one–)
(“This one is sharp, no? Maybe you want it to be– hah, of course you do. Always to destroy. You’ve always managed to do that, haven’t you, Kev?”)
The sound of shuffling was somewhere in the distance– pat, pat, patting of someone’s feet colliding with the floor. Not violent, not loving– existing.
(Why couldn’t he do that–)
(Why did he always do worse?)
Murmurs, whispers, voices– he could hear something, someone. The ticking of the clock was not the same– they did not tick, tick, tick– you can tell by the humming of their voice, the way it scratched against his ears. It was like one of those songs– a singer on a stage, but you can’t see beyond the chairs or terribly bright lights that glare into your eyes.
“...kev…can you…” Swimming, floating, diving. Like a crashing wave that only tickles.
One moment Kevin is alone on the couch, the next he feels it dip– dip like a ship sinking, falling, dying.
(He doesn’t want to sink.)
“--eath, kev… brea–!” Water fills the lungs as easily as oxygen, but it doesn’t help. It swallows and consumes– not the same as the gentle way oxygen cradles. Oxygen may leave him without warmth, but at least it does not cuddle his body with love to then deprive him of his life– a sweet deceit.
Panicked, all Kevin could do was look around like a wild animal– not ready to bite but teeth are shown, claws beared with the same fear traced in every twitch of his limbs– but deflated as quickly when it saw one of its own. Like them– not identical, not completely– but similar in the way fear was etched into their bones like their name has been carved into records.
Next to him, Kevin sees Allison. Blonde hair– pure, not dirted by anguish or the dark that Kevin feared in the night; not like his hair that hide the same shadows he wished to run from until his legs couldn’t carry him anymore.
“...vin? Ke…” A voice fades in as quickly as it fades out– in and out.
Grey, dusty eyes– like that of mist; that hides away mysteries and tales that some aren’t ready to hear, nor do they wish to understand. The same mist that conceals, can be a comforting blanket to those who wear it and to those who don’t wish to discover what lies beneath– whether there’s treasure or monsters, they do not care to ask nor dwell on.
For some reason, Kevin can’t tell whether he wants to know, or if sometimes some things are left unknown.
(Maybe it’s best that he doesn't get that choice.)
(He’s never been good at making decisions.)
(“Can’t pick, can we? Ohh.. how sad! Little Kev, so conflicted, so confused… why don’t I make it easier for you?”)
A shiver racks its way up his spin– annoying, involuntary. Kevin sometimes wishes he could stop all the movement in his body– stop the way his muscles convulse at fear. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so easy for people to read him.
(An open book.)
(One that refuses to close– because is it not in your nature, to wish to be understood?)
(“So easy– so simple, aren’t you? So easy to read. You’re a coward, aren’t you? You fear– and you hide. So cowardly… I wonder how I put up with you.”)
(One day people will read beyond the first page.)
Being lost in thought distracts Kevin from noticing the outstretched arm– waiting, holding, wishing to grasp; maybe it wishes to take with greedy hands, or to soothe like the ones of mothers. Only when a hand makes contact with his arm, does he move– not much, or not by his own volition at all. A flinch, some call it.
His eyes wander down; a hand is placed upon his arm– not tight, not gripping, simply resting against his arm with a gentleness that would depart if he so much as moved the wrong way–
(“You always did know how to drive people again. So harsh, aren’t you? Like a cactus. No one wants a cactus. You’re so lucky to have me, aren’t you?”)
–and he can’t help but focus on the fingernails; ones painted, not torn at the edges or ripped off like his. Not ruined, not tainted– no blood hidden underneath her nails, no dirt or grim placed beneath them. Painted with a vibrant colour– even if there was anything there, it’s hidden under layers of colour that please the eyes. No one would assume otherwise, no one would care.
Maybe Allison saw him looking– maybe he’s easy to read, once again, like he always was. Maybe she had planned something– bored and alone, with only a few people in the dorms. Maybe she hoped she could wear him down till he agrees or gather some sort of entertainment for herself; either way, the sound of ruffling and a bag opening is all Kevin hears before three different colours come into view.
“--evin… Kevin! Are you even in there?” Allison asks– her face is turned in a frown, but somewhere beneath the underlying anger, there is something like fear; concern maybe. Kevn tried his best to know.
(He always had to know.)
(If he didn’t know, he didn’t react right– reacting wrong is the way you find yourself hurt.)
(“Kevin– sit.” The master said, voice commanding and tongue twisting in japanese, expression tight and controlled– it had always been difficult to read, but Kevin usually could. It’s bad he didn’t today.)
(Kevin did as he was told. He always did– if they have authority, you listen. If not, you deserve whatever happens next to you– at least, in the Nest you do. Kevin knew better than to challenge what he was told. Knees tucked under, hands resting on his thighs with his palms down.)
(“Do tell, why are you here?” The Master asked. Kevin knew the answer– knew he had to be straight forward. Apologies mean nothing when you’re here.)
(“I disobeyed your orders. I didn’t do as I was told, and so I’ve been summoned here.” Kevin recalls. Maybe he wouldn’t have to explain it all– maybe that would make it easier to escape shame.)
(And maybe Master felt nice today, because– “Good. Now; hold out your arms” –maybe not.)
(“Yes, Master.” Just like that, Kevin found himself with his arms upturned– an easier place to cover, to hide– and moments later–)
“For crying out loud– breathe!” she snapped, her voice breaking through his thoughts like a knife through skin.
For the first in a while, he gasped the air like a man who’s been deprived of it for so long– deep, shaky breaths as he takes, takes and takes. However long it took him to breathe somewhat normally, was when Allison shoved different nail polish colours in front of him; a deep blue, vibrant pink, the same orange the the palmetto stadium has, a black and white and run that looks too much like–
Seeing him dwell on his thoughts, Allison slips away the red one– whether she saw his reaction and understood or simply thought he didn’t like the colour, he doesn’t ask– and then asks, “Which colour?”
Before he can stop himself, the word falls out of his mouth, “What?”
“Colour. For your nails. Pick.”
With that, Kevin eyes the colours again and points towards the orange– “That. Please.” – as much as he hates the orange, it reminds him of home better than anything else. A place that didn’t leave bruises of fear, but ones where he enjoyed the game and the training he had. A place he was– is – loved.
“The Queen has manners. I’m impressed.” She retorts– yet, it lacks any of that venom when they first met. It’s softer– warmer, but not burning.
Without any true conviction, Kevin mutters, “Fuck off, Reynolds.”
After that, they fall into a soft, lulling silence.
Slow, slow– so slow, in fear that any faster and he kicks up like a deer awoken from its trance– but with a softness he hasn’t felt since his mother ran her fingers through his hair, with a voice that sung in the wind and chimed amongst the walls of their home. A softness that whispers reassurances Kevin doesn’t think he knew the name of–
(Not for a long time.)
(Maybe never at all.)
–yet existed nonetheless, in a way he can’t seem to decipher or understand or–
“Do you love us that much?” Cutting through the fog of a brain gone askew– thoughts going off track, never sticking to the plan the rails designed it to follow.
(Kevin used to be good at following orders– now he seems to step around them awkwardly, like he’s lost the rehearsed ability to obey.)
(Part of that scares him– not because it could kill him, but because he doesn’t know what else to do.)
“I– What… nonsense are you spewing, Reynolds?” Rough, harsh– perhaps too much so, but a response means he’s real and breathing and alive and–
A snicker interrupts his thoughts at the same time a kick to the leg does– “Ow– real mature.”
“I won’t spell it out for you.” Another drag across a nail, another layer added– that same, cold feeling tingles across his fingers in a way that makes him feel alive– “But, if dealing with you means I get someone to test colours on, then I don’t care.”
Part of Kevin feels like he should be offended. Part of him isn’t sure why he isn’t– “Whatever. Are… is it done, on that hand?”
“Yes.”
A pindrop might be louder- drop, drop, drop, falling to the floor and the sound ricocheting through the hallway- than the silence that occupies the space. A twitch in his left hand reminds him of why– his right is done, the colours are bright and loud and– they remind him of a home. Something he hasn’t been able to name for a long while– afterall, how could you name something you lost long ago?
(By finding people who fill the gap left behind.)
“It makes your right hand stand out, the colour.”
(“Your left hand isn’t yelling for attention, isn’t calling out in agony to be questioned everywhere you go. Isn't the first thing a reporter sees when they look for the all-too-well-known scars, and not the hand now gleaming in your colour.” is left unsaid.)
(“Now they’ll have something else to focus on. Something to feast on that reminds you of home.” is hinted at.)
A moment, two, three– “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A conversation heard but not spoken, an agreement that trust is not something they give out left and right. Trust is a topic they understand, one that has left them open and exposed and bruised– time has yet to heal those wounds, some still festering with itches and long left untended. Some day it could be possible to redo– to try again, to trust a little more next time.
Today was not that day, and neither commented or batted an eye because they knew the risk of trust.
(One way or another.)
“Did you hear about–” She starts, and her voice continues in a way he doesn’t quite follow but knows she knows. A voice used to bring something to lie against, a stream of notes to follow even if none made it through to processing.
For now, with one hand and it’s orange nails and a scarred hand with its horrid history, both spelling out a history and a home and a place he can’t quite name, for worse or better–
He sits.
Waiting.
(“For what, do you wait for?”)
The one-sided conversation continues (for how long, Kevin could not tell you, but he could estimate far too long by the way Allison's voice strains to continue, throat running dry and hurt–
(Yet she continues.)
(Is hope what you wait for?)
(Or the guts to run after it?)
–but with no hint of stopping, no hint of halting) even after the rattle of a door knob reminds them where they are, even when voices return home, even when they join the stream of a melony. For a moment, he smiles– not because they said something funny (It’s a rare day when that happens)– but because they came home.
.
.
.
”Home? A funny word, isn’t it.”
”What’s so funny about it?”
“A home, when you think of it, is never a house. Not truly. A home is where the heart belongs, and the house isn’t what you love. It may never be. It will be the people who wait outside the door, knocking constantly.”
“Someone who comes back, even when they don't have to?"
"In some way, yes. Coming back even when the door is closed, coming back even when you wait. Waiting is the start of many things."
"Waiting is a form of love, in a way. A display of dedication."
"Feels like something we do, even if we don't know why."
“To some, it feels like an unspoken rule– something you do because it feels right. But just because it's unspoken, doesn't mean nobody knows. Just means nobody mentions it."
“So why tell me?”
“A thought shared is a thought remembered. If I one day forget, will you remind me?”
“Of home?”
“Of you.”
“Is that the same thing?”
“To me.”
“Then I hope to remind you every time you forget.”
“You are not afraid of me forgetting?”
“Forgetting does not mean I am gone. It means the brain has shoved, and you have faltered. I am still here even if the brain fumbles it– I will be in the wind, the ground, the songs you hear or the letters you write. I will be the one knocking at your door. The wind that messes up your hair for the simple fact it looks nice undone.”
“I hope the wind finds me no matter where I go.”