Starshine, Sky, and the Power of Rock

Weekend in Fall

I've never quite grasped the elven fascination with wood. Or plants. Or... even nature, for that matter. It's not necessarily that I dislike any of these things, but my kind seems infatuated with them on a level I'm not equipped to understand. Actually, it's not that. My understanding is that nature was once important to elves but modern technology was just too cushy to resist. Elves, being elves, compromised by making a show of still honoring nature by sticking to  "tradition." This manifested itself in, among other things, naming our children after things one would find in a forest (hence how I got saddled with a name that's just a nice way of saying spiderweb), holding dances in the woods that no one remembers the cultural significance of, and ensuring that anything that can technically be carved from wood will be, even if there are countless other materials out there that would be much more effective and result in less deforestation.

The thing that leads me on this mental tangent so early in the morning is watching my left hand - the prosthetic one - glide the purple plastic razor down my shaving cream-lathered legs. The bathroom is basically the only place I allow the heavy layer of fake skin to evaporate so that the wood of my arm can breathe for a change. I savor these moments because they're fleeting. But bathing and whatnot bring their own challenge in the form of water finding itself in every groove and crevice of the wood that it can. The newfound weight of my left arm combined with the unique sensation of water sloshing around in my joints is something I've never enjoyed. I can't help wondering if this problem would be at least minimized had my arm been made of a less porous material.

I nick myself. I should be more mindful, considering I'm dragging tiny blades across my skin. Thinking about shaving that way makes it sound much more exciting.

I rinse the razor after another stroke and inspect the blades closely to ensure there's no excess hairs. I remove a couple green ones, which don't upset me. It's the white ones that do.

After reapplying the skin to my left arm and throwing on my plush yellow bathrobe, I stomp out of the bathroom.

"SKYLAR!" I bellow, lifting the top lid of her casket. She's not there. I stomp into the living room to find her kneeling by the coffee table across from Crescent playing some card game. "Do you have an explanation for this?" I ask, holding it up to her face.

Skylar sets her cards down. "Are you trying to set some kind of record for how fast you can ruin my morning?"

"Cut the attitude and answer me," I say.

Skylar squints and tilts her head at an odd angle. "It... looks like a razor?"

I scoff. "Obviously. Who's razor is it?"

She blinks. "I'm assuming yours?"

"Exactly. So why am I finding white hairs in it?"

"Maybe you're graying from the stress of yelling at me every morning."

"Or maybe you're using my razor!" I make to fluff her bangs as a way of reminding her that she's the only one here with white hair, but she catches me by my wrist. Her rough, corpse-like hand on my skin is one of the worst sensations I've ever felt.

It brings to mind stories of soul-sucking creatures born dead yet moving anyway. On the surface close enough to a person that they may draw the unwitting in, but truly dead on the inside in body and in heart. They subsist off the life of others because they have none themselves. It's why Skylar is always so unnaturally still, even now as she holds my wrist in her surprisingly tight grip.

She pushes my hand away. "Don't touch me," she says.

"Please don't fight again, you guys..." Crescent says, wringing her rabbit ears in her hands.