The Scissors Child -

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Just because you’re:




Nice and sweet –






To the point of bitterness;




Funny-smart –






With dark, satirical happiness;




Persistent –






To the potential of beasties;



I won’t regret,




But listen, at least

The Scissors Child loomed darkly towards my direction – a complete five foot six measurement of Asian-ness, cynical scowls and depressed masochist ideal. Black monkey hair lolled around symbolically deaf ears and obscured glossy, blank eyes. Tan skin dulled the remains of a sensible child deeply interred inside. With a bland shirt, he wandered aimlessly in a void of emotion as if in search of Kingdom Hearts’ Mickey Mouse. He seems like a pretty decent guy, so long as people don’t tick him of by lying, uncomfortably penetrating his bubble and/or insult his unnatural addiction to Mickey Mouse. If done so, they will find themselves backed up against the nearest wall, construction scissors at their throat. Hopefully, the savant idiots prepared and packed a fair amount of cheese sticks in their lunch box – seeing the infamous dairy product poisoned his throat and corroded his stomach. Yes – such a person does exist in a world that shares our faith.


It was the beginning of 8th grade when rumors about the Scissors Child roamed around the school and attached themselves to any who would listen. Of course, my stubborn mindset accused others of being delirious and psychotic until I actually crossed paths with him. It was a B-day. I stood in the auxiliary gym, socializing with my friends: Video-Game Cyborg and Discordant Mathlete. The Cyborg was laughing his head off silly at the Mathlete. He, however, coiled into an air-sealed ball, due to the fact that I repeatedly probed my finger into his side – a location he was overly-sensitive to. Although we were simply joking around, a dark figure around the same stature appeared and gave the must unaffectionate, drawling stare.

The stare wasn’t what peeved me, though. It was the uncomfortable metal point sticking out of his pocket cloth, as if deviously announcing his identity. Without so much of another word, he reached in, fished out industrial-sized scissors and flipped them in ways that shears themselves would fear. Another minute passed when the Scissors Child finally opened his mouth, only to over-explain the unwanted physical contact manifesting into sanity of an abducted patient’s humanity. In other words, he called me a pathetic bully with devil horns or alien antennae.

Although the vision proved to be humorous, one thought still pertained: he – pisses – me – off. Sadly enough, the provocations didn’t stop there. A month passed – and so did a couple more, before I realized that the time totaled into four months and my loathing fed off of him. He irritated me to unspeakable peaks. I fantasized about hurling balls and pointed objects; shoving him off a cliff and smushing his face silly with whatever book he’s reading. I can’t even pass him peacefully without getting a nervous, almost seizure-like itch that tempted me to hook the top of his foot and trip him. With any luck, he would fall flat on his face – or at least stumble into a semi-awkward position and I would freely break into hysterics. I was even shallow enough to grant him a death wish, where he would die in solitary because he would never get a girlfriend.

As fate loved to prove me wrong, I was shut up a year and a half later and forced to eat my own words. I mean, who wouldn’t be upset? Rather than daydreaming about lovey-dovey relationships that make a teenager feel all frou-frou and bubbly, I should be plotting explicit details on how to run the Scissors Child over with my daddy’s pick-up truck, making the whole incident seem like some inevitable accident when we both know it isn’t. But – crud! – I couldn’t do it. And before I realized it – I was his friend.


Heartbreaking to say, the past four paragraphs were flashbacks – intangible artifacts that may fade or remain, depending on how they’re kept. Memories simply faded as soon as it came – much like our current friendship. Everyone always rants on about the cliché proverb: time heals all wounds. Has it ever occurred to them that it could destroy patched skin and rip seams of prickling lesion? Maybe, but some foreign council of love probably decided that information overwhelmed commoners and concealed the given truth. (To heck with them – as Damien and Isaku cursed.) So, sitting here, staring at the sadly filled screen of random crap, this little remaining excerpt if for the Scissors Child:





I hate loving you –





I love hating you –





Goodbye for now –





Scissors Child…





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