#kenodoxy

Mim watches House throw the ball. It does not move. Its head slumps forward as though its eyeballs are far too heavy and stares down at the ball that rolls to a stop three feet in front of itself. It peers at him, head still slumped (brow halving its eyes into a flat, sharp look) as if to suggest even tilting it back to better see him is asking too much of it. It thinks maybe it would mime throwing back the ball to him. But it can not mime. Its brain is not good at pretending like that. It does nothing. It is good at that.

Mim ruminates. Thinks about crying. About it crying. About what it’s cried about. Entirely undiluted from thought to mouth:

          “I cry at scritchy sweaters every so smalltimes. Upon a time I cried at the lines in my socks. The toe lines. I did not like the toe lines. I did not like the bump unsame feel. I cry at chameleons.”

Mim could keep going. But it does not want to. So it does not.

It thinks people do not talk about sad things because they are like allergies but in your insides. Except sad things do not smell nice or look pretty. The sad things inside you look like frog eggs, Mim thinks, and smell like wet cardboard.