(no subject)
It wasn't like Ionia to be still. To do nothing. Her hands were almost never empty -- small fingers carefully wrapped around a soldering iron or a marker, flipping through a manual or textbook, wrapped around her plush Tessie or F-Zero's neck. Now, they didn't move. None of her did.
"You have to stay still. Do not move. Do not make noise or trouble. Do not make messes please." Petunia chided her. "When you squirm it is very hard to brush your hair." Her tiny pikmin hands had a very hard time holding onto the hairbrush. It was mean of Ionia to make something that was already difficult even harder to do.
It was not very comfortable to sit here. Those broken unicorn heads were hard and jagged and too hot in the sun, and there were ugly patches of rust all over them. They did not cut Ionia, though. Ionia was very tough so she would not be hurt. This was what she believed so this was what reality was.
...Reality was much more vague than she'd ever remembered it being, though. The colors were artificially bright, everything painted in marker-strokes. Down below, a childish doodle of the boy who was DJ was wearing a helmet. The helmet had teeth. It was chewing and chewing but he just waved up at her.
Ionia wanted to go to him.
"You can't," Petunia reminded her. "No girls allowed."
"Then I am a boy."
"Everyone that you have ever known has said you are a girl. The one who is wrong is you, sister." Sister sister sister. "Girl means can't and there are many things you can't. You can't drive. You can't punch a building in half. You can't punch anything in half. You can't reach the top shelf and you can't go with Papa but you can't go far away by yourself. You can't go to the garden anymore, sister. You can't."
She did not have an argument for that.
"Anyway, you could not join him if you were a boy. He is not real."
"But he is real."
"Not in the way you want him to be."
"But I love Papa when he is Papa too."
"He is still not real."
"That is a very stupid thing to say, sister. I know Papa is real because I can hug him." Ionia was getting annoyed. Petunia was brushing her hair too hard. It was starting to hurt.
"You know I do not mean that kind of real," Petunia whispered. "He is not real and you are not real and I am not real and you are only playing pretend. You are a very big shell with a very small inside. A loose screw rattling around."
"I have a birth certificate," Ionia began. "I have a name. I have been alive for two whole years. I went to a courthouse and they made a piece of paper that says Papa is mine and I am Papa's."
Somebody scribbled all over the doodle of the boy that was DJ.
"And that is why you are not ours anymore, sister."
The tension on her hair, the painful pulling on her scalp. It stopped. The vague marker world had become even scribblier. There were giant leaves, flowers that stretched far above Ionia's head. Sloppy, scribbly blobs that Ionia somehow knew were scrap parts. She ached to put them together, to straighten the scribbles out, to create, to help, to make something beautiful and wonderful and permanent.
"You can't," Petunia reminded her.
[Ionia is being very boring. She's out in the football field, sitting at the top of the bleachers, staying as still as a statue.]
"You have to stay still. Do not move. Do not make noise or trouble. Do not make messes please." Petunia chided her. "When you squirm it is very hard to brush your hair." Her tiny pikmin hands had a very hard time holding onto the hairbrush. It was mean of Ionia to make something that was already difficult even harder to do.
It was not very comfortable to sit here. Those broken unicorn heads were hard and jagged and too hot in the sun, and there were ugly patches of rust all over them. They did not cut Ionia, though. Ionia was very tough so she would not be hurt. This was what she believed so this was what reality was.
...Reality was much more vague than she'd ever remembered it being, though. The colors were artificially bright, everything painted in marker-strokes. Down below, a childish doodle of the boy who was DJ was wearing a helmet. The helmet had teeth. It was chewing and chewing but he just waved up at her.
Ionia wanted to go to him.
"You can't," Petunia reminded her. "No girls allowed."
"Then I am a boy."
"Everyone that you have ever known has said you are a girl. The one who is wrong is you, sister." Sister sister sister. "Girl means can't and there are many things you can't. You can't drive. You can't punch a building in half. You can't punch anything in half. You can't reach the top shelf and you can't go with Papa but you can't go far away by yourself. You can't go to the garden anymore, sister. You can't."
She did not have an argument for that.
"Anyway, you could not join him if you were a boy. He is not real."
"But he is real."
"Not in the way you want him to be."
"But I love Papa when he is Papa too."
"He is still not real."
"That is a very stupid thing to say, sister. I know Papa is real because I can hug him." Ionia was getting annoyed. Petunia was brushing her hair too hard. It was starting to hurt.
"You know I do not mean that kind of real," Petunia whispered. "He is not real and you are not real and I am not real and you are only playing pretend. You are a very big shell with a very small inside. A loose screw rattling around."
"I have a birth certificate," Ionia began. "I have a name. I have been alive for two whole years. I went to a courthouse and they made a piece of paper that says Papa is mine and I am Papa's."
Somebody scribbled all over the doodle of the boy that was DJ.
"And that is why you are not ours anymore, sister."
The tension on her hair, the painful pulling on her scalp. It stopped. The vague marker world had become even scribblier. There were giant leaves, flowers that stretched far above Ionia's head. Sloppy, scribbly blobs that Ionia somehow knew were scrap parts. She ached to put them together, to straighten the scribbles out, to create, to help, to make something beautiful and wonderful and permanent.
"You can't," Petunia reminded her.
[Ionia is being very boring. She's out in the football field, sitting at the top of the bleachers, staying as still as a statue.]