L'Appel du Vide (Nocebo Effect P3)

don't talk to me or my son ever again

"Are you ready to go, Dallon?" Kenny asks, halfway tilted out the door frame and out into the street as if he has just reminded me of the location unknown to me to which he's transporting me.

I had been immersed in a men's fashion magazine to try and regain my sense of self, testing whether or not the old Dallon Weekes was a person totally into that kind of thing, but so far I've only been drawn to the greys and blacks and blues, not anything else inside the vast expanse of the flashy, garish catalog, and it's becoming clear that the old Dallon Weekes tended to stay out of those matters. He doesn't seem like one for appearance anyway, except for the appearance of being all right.

I glance up from the magazine, confused at the sudden shift in our usual routine of Kenny leaving for work and me lounging around the house with a lost sense of worth, inquiring, "Where are we going? It's Sunday. You don't have work, which means you wouldn't be shipping me there anyway."

Kenny only looks a bit disappointed, a minuscule flash of hurt honing his emotions, and he says, "I'm taking you shopping for new school clothes, remember?"

"With your salary?" My brow balances on the ledge of my forehead, not quite believing that Kenneth Harris can afford to go out and buy masses of clothes for his newly acquired charge when all he cooks for dinner is mac and cheese and the occasional dinner roll when we're lucky, but even that isn't as splendid as the piles of cook books in the kitchen make it seem.

Kenny used to work at a pharmacy until I came along and required him to feed and clothe more people, if only one more, and now he's working heartily at a local bank with some experience he's obtained from his dad, and his salary is rapidly increasing each week to the point where the bags under his eyes are slinking away to provide joy with a dash more of space.

"I got a raise. Now come on."

Groaning, I detach my lazy body from the couch to join Kenny by the door, knowing full well that once we go shopping for new clothes, school follows promptly afterwards, and I really don't wish to go back to that cesspool I knew played a part in almost killing me. However, I also really don't wish to trouble Kenny with my stubbornness after all he's done for me in the past few weeks, so I clamp my jaw down and meet the wind of the street head on.

"Thanks for coming with me, Dallon," Kenny acknowledges, back turned towards me to lock the door so that his limited provisions will not be stolen from him and will not cause us to spiral into yet another pit of bankruptcy.

I swivel towards him, a plea supping the calm blue jay color of my eyes. "Just don't prepare mac and cheese tonight please. This is the tradeoff."

Kenny only smirks devilishly, because it's always mac and cheese, forever and ever. It's probably all that he knows how to cook judging from the lack of desire to read the cook books he's hoarded in the kitchen over the years, and when he does get around to reading them, he's just sitting at the dining table with a taunting laugh embracing his mouth because there's no chance in hell that he could ever whip up something as perfect as the pictures in the manuals, and I doubt that he's even trying to accomplish that anymore.

I slice through the connection between the car's body and its door, folding myself inside of its tiny area, which shrinks tinier in the passenger seat where I'm situated, and Kenny joins me once rounding the car from the sidewalk and shuffling the key into its holder to light the engine like one would light a match for a fire.

The car ride is lathered with Kenny attempting to spark a conversation with his disinterested charge, which fails flatly against the pavement upon which the wheels of his used automobile are rolling, for I am only gathering my surroundings in my distorted organ of a brain to process what all of this means, process what attachment I hold to this city, process how I'm going to ever regain my memory of something as personal as my identity.