Stitches

Thirteenth Stitch

thirteenth || Perci

"I'm home," I say to an empty house.

Nobody and nothing is waiting for me as I enter, except for a pile of dirty dishes, a note stuck to the fridge with smiley magnets that read, "Be home before dinner. There's food in the fridge if you get hungry. Don't forget to pick up Luke from soccer practice. Mom," and an overly hyped dog rushing to the door to greet me, wagging his tail and pawing at me like he hasn't seen me for decades.

I toss my bag to the floor and scratch behind his ears. "Hey buddy! Good to see you too," I say. Shirou's automatic response is to lie on his back and ask for tummy rubs, which I give him, his barks echoing through the room.

"Mom left you all alone again, huh? Poor baby. C'mon let's get you some grub," I say, and Shirou replies with a loud bark.

I grab his dog food from the counter and poor some in his bowl. Once the food's out, Shirou looses interest in me completely and gobbles everything up, making a mess of the kitchen's tiled floor.

"Slow down, boy. Mom will throw a fit," I say, sweeping up his mess. Shirou gives me a look, and in moments like this I understand why they call it puppy eyes. "Fine," I mutter, and give him some more. "But that's all you're getting." Shirou barks his thanks.

I run around the house, cleaning things up. I want everything to be spotless, because today is Wednesday, and Wednesday's the day when we have our family dinner, in which both my parents sit down with me and Luke for food.

Now I know this might be incredibly normal for most families, but in this household it isn't. Mom and Dad are doctors, which is a fancy way of saying that they dart in and out of the house due to the brain tumors and cancer cells they need to cut out of somebody, which in turn always makes them miss out on most family bonding opportunities. Like sitting down for dinner, for example.

Being a doctor means being on call 24/7, even during the holiday season. Especially during holiday season, where fireworks, snow, fatty food and other dangerous things are scattered across the land. Me and Luke practically lived with our grandmother, for all the times that our parents dropped us off in her care in midst of their medical emergencies.

It became official though, when one particular holiday, Grandma came to visit us instead. I was 10, it was 3 days before Christmas that time, Mom and Dad were out again, and I was trying to salvage anything I could from the fridge so that I could make a decent dinner for me and poor Luke. I gave up and had called Grandma instead. Grandma came knocking on the door with a worried face, snowflakes in her hair, giant bulking bags filled with food and Shirou—who was still her helper dog back then—barking anxiously behind her. She cooked us up a feast and threw a hissy fit at our parents when they came home.

"Leaving your children all alone in the middle of a storm?" she scolded. "What on earth were you two thinking. I'll have none of this, let them live with me from now on."

And we did. Luke and I moved in with Grandma, well fed and well taken care of, and the absence of our parents from her house never bothered us, since Mom and Dad were never in our old house in the first place.

Grandma would even set up dinner plans. She declared that we would all sit down together for dinner during Wednesdays, and work was no excuse. Mom and Dad never dared to argue. Soon the whole thing became a tradition.

The set up was good and we were happy and for a while. But then Grandma died, and the world went topsy turvey.

Luke and I went with our parents again. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), Mom and Dad had bought a decent house near their work, so they could "take better care" of us, so we had to pack up and move. I'm old enough to cook for Luke when our parents are out, or at the very least, buy take outs from the shops a few blocks down the street. We adopted Shirou the helper dog, just so he won't be lonely. Just so we won't be lonely.

We try to keep up the family dinners, though. Barely.

The phone rings. I race to the livingroom to pick it up.

"Barrett's residence," I say. There's some noise on the other end, and then, "Hey, sweetie," Dad says.

"Hey, Dad. What's for dinner? It's Wednesday," I remind him.

"That's the thing, Perci. You see . . . " and he didn't need to finish for me to know what's next.

"Some emergency again?" I say.

"Yes," he says, sheepish. "Might run a bit late. I'll try to make it home for family dinner, though." But we both know "might run a bit late" translates to "I won't be able to come," so I nod, even though he can't see it.

"Okay. Is Mom coming?"

"Not sure, love. She called me up to tell you the same thing. Sorry."

" It's okay," I say, even though it's totally not. My mood sinks.

"She's delivering a newborn today. The mother's in labor this very moment. Might come any minute."

"Really?" I say, cheering up a bit. "Will you find out the name for me?"

"Sure, sweetie. Mom left you food in the fridge?"

"Yeah, she left me a note here."

"Good. Gotta go now. Say hi to Luke for me." And the line goes dead.

I sigh and put the phone down. Shirou comes padding into the livingroom, slumping down on the couch and laying his head on a pillow that Grandma knitted, softly whining into it.

I sit next to him and pat his head. "I know, buddy. I miss her too." He whines some more as if he understood.

And this is my life recently. If I'm not dragging myself through school, I drown in the silence of our house, talking to a dog that's almost as upset as me.

When I'm upset, I paint. But seeing that is not a very good option as of this very moment, I have no idea what to do with life. I suddenly remember Simon though, and his writing, and the stuff he asked me to write, so I take his journal from my bag and balance it on my lap.

I flip to a clean page, where Simon has written "The Start" at the top.

I try to gather my thoughts. I couldn't though, because usually my thoughts are mostly scattered and messed up like bird seed thrown in parks for pigeons. That's the point, I could almost hear Simon say. Scattered thoughts are the best part. You're writing to get your shit together. Now write.

I smile despite myself, finding it amazing how snarky he still sounds, even in my head. I plug in my earphones and set my creativity playlist on play.

About a good two hours or so, I ended up with a useless cluster of words I feel like I've written half-asleep. I was about to rip it out, but then I notice Simon's handwriting on the bottom of the page. It read: Don't you dare think of tearing out the page if you think your work is crappy. I want to see this footnote tomorrow still in intact, okay? DON'T. YOU. DARE. —S

I roll my eyes and let out a laugh. Simon.

By the time I left to pick up Luke from soccer, I came up with this:

The Start

How it started?

I don't know how it started. I don't remember any particular day or date or moment it had begun.

I guess it had started out with nothing. We started out as strangers, like everybody else did.

And then, I guess, it had happened in a way that the stars happened, how the planets and the sun and the galaxies started.

Slowly.

Floating through space and working through time and building itself, until it was this great celestial being. Until it was big and bright and blazing. Until it was something.

That's how we started.

Like stars.

* * *

Author's Note: It's pronounced as /SHI-roh/, not /Shai-row/ or /Shee-row/ or any of that Western slang.