You're covered in bandaids. Not because you need them, but because you like to wear them. You go through a box of bandaids like they're stickers with princesses and superheroes and ponies and Disney characters. You turned around on the car ride, craning your neck to ask me if I ha any cuts to be doctored. You were excited today when I came home and asked for your help, showing you my mangled fingers. I laughed when you said how bad it was for a doctor to hope people need them again. Not because it's wrong, but because you're so smart. When I told you you talk in your sleep, you said "What else is a chatterbox supposed to do?" You'll talk my ear off and stick it back on with a bright pink bandaid, all the while talking off the other. I'm not sure if you realise how special you are, knowing my favorite color was once "TARDIS blue", specifically, or being able to sing along with less-popular Beatles songs. It may be my fault or my doing. They always say how much we are alike, but you are going to be so different.

When we were small, Marienkaefer and I had this ongoing collaborative story featuring Logan Craine and Donna Briar, a sort of pseudo-Sherlock Holmes type of thing. Logan was mine, and Donna was Marienkaefer's. The characters were these absurd geniuses. Donna was a certified doctor at 15, Logan was a detective. After developing and progressing the story for a few months, it was decided that they were actually the children of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, respectively. It was almost fanfiction, to be honest. We had a lot of fun with those stories, but they eventually sort of died off until recently, when we dug a few up from the archives of our Google Docs. I've been using Logan Craine as my name since we came up with the idea, and I've included Logan in my current storyline because I nearly forgot how much I loved our characters and how much went into developing them, and I wanted to hold onto that.

Once upon a school-day dreary, while I studied, weak and weary,

Over many a long and tedious chapter of old English lore--

While I nodded, nearly dreaming,

Suddenly there came a ringing

As of someone loudly screaming, screaming out the classroom door.

"'Tis some junior club," I muttered,

"Screaming out the classroom door--

Only them and nothing more."

Open here I flung the window, when,

Like only a desperate weirdo

In there climbed a uniformed Senior then collapsing on the floor;

Not the least of noises made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, determined to be late he

Perched atop the filing drawer

Perched upon an old test folder just atop the filing drawer

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

"Prophet!" Said I, "thing of evil!--

Prophet still, if man or devil!

By that college that looms before us--

By that grade we both adore--

Tell this soul with sorrow laden,

Is this class you disobeyed in

Worth the work for the grade you made in

Can you do the work, mentor?

Will you give the time and effort for a better grade, mentor?"

Quoth the Senior "Nevermore."

And the Senior, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the long-null old test file there atop the filing drawer.

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is scheming

And the lightbulb o'er him gleaming

Throws his shadow on the floor.

And my soul from out his shadow that lies looming o'er the floor

Shall be lifted--

Nevermore.

He was blind. His hands moved of their own accord, with no regard to anything but their target. They flew with remarkable speed. Slicing, stabbing, separating. They were good at their job.

He was also deaf. His ears understood that his hands would my be able to fulfill their duty if the resulting sound was heard. The ear-splitting screams of agony. The tortured breaths of the dying. The ears knew that his conscious would put a stop to it if it could hear what the hands were doing.

His conscious, like the hands' target, was dying slowly. Larger chunks of it were cut away with every swing of the knife. The hands would continue to draw blood until the conscious was finally destroyed, because they had the power to.

The conscious had made a mistake long ago. It succumbed to the urge, allowing the hands a moment of power, but being hands, they held on to it as hard as they could, and the power was never returned.

His body would continue to destroy everything, until the day when it ultimately would destroy itself, drawing nearer with every swing.

they pull the strings tighter

to make her look how they want

and they know it's killing her

her voice silenced

because she can't breathe

but they pull tighter still

shaping her into what is "beautiful"

until the boning snaps

or she is killed from the pressure

I'm amazed at the quality of your show.

Your magic act.

You had me genuinely fooled.

The way you flit from person to person,

All your "friends"

They all think you care, don't they?

Your little show is the best I've seen in a long time.

The way you make them care about you, manipulating them

When really, you never thought about their feelings

Their perspective

Not even once

So when you leave, unexpectedly, unannounced, a void is left

A void that, while they know is better than your presence, still wounds

A void left when you drop us, replace us, like we're broken toys you're tired of

A void that makes us feel like we did something wrong even when we know everything is your doing

It's truly great how easily you mask all the pain you leave behind

The wreckage

The trust issues

The depression

Of course, you can't take the credit for everything.

Some things you only encouraged

Not anymore

I'm sorry, but despite the grandeur of your show, you will not find me there again.

Would not recommend.