desk stood between Edison and his destination. A nurse manning the station scratched the edge of her metallic eyes, the delicate area where the skin met the metal was red and puffy.
“Does it hurt?” he asked her as he signed the sheet on the desk that would allow him to see his mother.
“It’s only an allergy,” she said, her voice upbeat and almost musical. “They think it might be the nickel in the outer casing. They are doing a major recall on some of the models. Have you seen the 6.7s? My God, they’re beautiful .”
He didn’t do a good job of hiding his concern. Yet most medical professionals, apart from surgeons and a few other specializations, were equipped with Empathic eyes. Hiding one’s emotions from an empath was nearly impossible.
“Don’t worry!” the nurse said, initialing beside Edison’s own sloppy scrawl. “It is easy to fix. Dr. Barnard will take a look at the end of my shift. Really I should have let him do the upgrade to begin with. He really is the best. He makes the most beautiful eyelids. My friend Jane’s eyes look like open sores in comparison. Just look at yours. He gave you those adorable little lifts in the corners.”
“Thanks,” Edison said and had a brief but vivid vision of Dr. Barnard scooping his eyes out of his own wet, red and empty sockets, before carving and constructing those adorable lifts out of his remaining skin.
The gravity seemed to increase as he approached his mother’s room and became the worst at the threshold itself. He entered the dark room, one quiet step after another, in case she slept. It was hard to tell at first glance, so he spent a moment calculating her breathing pattern and muscle activity to determine that she was awake.
“Mom,” he said. Her skin was warm under his light touch, probably from the heat generated by the layers of bedding. “Hi, Mom. It’s me. Edison.”
She couldn’t do more than turn her wrists in the restraints, but she opened her palm in invitation. Edison curled his fingers into hers. He wanted her to say something, anything. His best memories involved her stories, detailed and impossible to him. But now he couldn’t even recall the sound of her voice.
She was still quite young, her face mostly smooth until his gaze reached the small indentions beneath her brow. The face mask hid the hollowed black holes where her eyes had once been. He knew the skin surrounding each socket was shrived into a pucker as if they still grasped for the missing Artist eyes they once held. He knew because many a time—though not this time—he’d lifted the silk cloth in order to see into the darkness for himself.
“Hold still,” she whispered. Her dark hair had fallen into her face and a few strands were caught on the grooves of her protruding eyes. “I’m not talented enough to work with moving targets.”
But it was hard for Edison to do what his mother asked. He couldn’t have been more than five years old as they crouched in the middle of the floor. He incorrectly believed he was sitting as still as possible on a plush cushion that his mother had dragged into her work studio from the living room couch. This was before Curie was born. Before his mother’s sacred work space was converted into a nursery and she’d given up painting, drawing, and telling stories.
Before she tore out her own eyes.
“I had the most wonderful dream last night,” this mother whispered, or at least she seemed too. Her voice rarely rose above the lowest of decibels.
“What’s a dream?” without an artist chip, Edison couldn’t dream himself. But he didn’t really care about dreams. He only asked so she would speak to him. So she would sit close, smelling like soap and looking at him carefully, as if to memorize every detail. This intense attention made Edison’s limbs go weak in a pleasant, heavy way.
“You were there,” she said, adding one line, then two to the drawing spread on the floor in front of her. “We were in
“Does it hurt?” he asked her as he signed the sheet on the desk that would allow him to see his mother.
“It’s only an allergy,” she said, her voice upbeat and almost musical. “They think it might be the nickel in the outer casing. They are doing a major recall on some of the models. Have you seen the 6.7s? My God, they’re beautiful .”
He didn’t do a good job of hiding his concern. Yet most medical professionals, apart from surgeons and a few other specializations, were equipped with Empathic eyes. Hiding one’s emotions from an empath was nearly impossible.
“Don’t worry!” the nurse said, initialing beside Edison’s own sloppy scrawl. “It is easy to fix. Dr. Barnard will take a look at the end of my shift. Really I should have let him do the upgrade to begin with. He really is the best. He makes the most beautiful eyelids. My friend Jane’s eyes look like open sores in comparison. Just look at yours. He gave you those adorable little lifts in the corners.”
“Thanks,” Edison said and had a brief but vivid vision of Dr. Barnard scooping his eyes out of his own wet, red and empty sockets, before carving and constructing those adorable lifts out of his remaining skin.
The gravity seemed to increase as he approached his mother’s room and became the worst at the threshold itself. He entered the dark room, one quiet step after another, in case she slept. It was hard to tell at first glance, so he spent a moment calculating her breathing pattern and muscle activity to determine that she was awake.
“Mom,” he said. Her skin was warm under his light touch, probably from the heat generated by the layers of bedding. “Hi, Mom. It’s me. Edison.”
She couldn’t do more than turn her wrists in the restraints, but she opened her palm in invitation. Edison curled his fingers into hers. He wanted her to say something, anything. His best memories involved her stories, detailed and impossible to him. But now he couldn’t even recall the sound of her voice.
She was still quite young, her face mostly smooth until his gaze reached the small indentions beneath her brow. The face mask hid the hollowed black holes where her eyes had once been. He knew the skin surrounding each socket was shrived into a pucker as if they still grasped for the missing Artist eyes they once held. He knew because many a time—though not this time—he’d lifted the silk cloth in order to see into the darkness for himself.
“Hold still,” she whispered. Her dark hair had fallen into her face and a few strands were caught on the grooves of her protruding eyes. “I’m not talented enough to work with moving targets.”
But it was hard for Edison to do what his mother asked. He couldn’t have been more than five years old as they crouched in the middle of the floor. He incorrectly believed he was sitting as still as possible on a plush cushion that his mother had dragged into her work studio from the living room couch. This was before Curie was born. Before his mother’s sacred work space was converted into a nursery and she’d given up painting, drawing, and telling stories.
Before she tore out her own eyes.
“I had the most wonderful dream last night,” this mother whispered, or at least she seemed too. Her voice rarely rose above the lowest of decibels.
“What’s a dream?” without an artist chip, Edison couldn’t dream himself. But he didn’t really care about dreams. He only asked so she would speak to him. So she would sit close, smelling like soap and looking at him carefully, as if to memorize every detail. This intense attention made Edison’s limbs go weak in a pleasant, heavy way.
“You were there,” she said, adding one line, then two to the drawing spread on the floor in front of her. “We were in
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