#plasticked

the knife is sharp in her hands; leaves grooves upon the cutting board as she methodically dices vegetables for that evening's dinner; a picture perfect rockwell housewife caught up in the twilight glow of a mid august evening. tap, tap, tap. the pot on the stove hisses, bubbles. in goes the celery. her kitchen table is always full these days - elizabeth and her friends, her classmates. the squeak of their sneakers against the floor, the wobbling of the table despite the cardboard she'd neatly folded underneath the front left leg, the muffled sounds of laughter and am after school music special - they're happy, she thinks. they're together. this one is not.

laura palmer is not so much a future prom queen teenage dream as she is an ocean storm; all shaking hands and wet eyes. she's been quiet today; withdrawn instead of smiling, silent instead of laughing. it's unlike her. but then, perhaps that laughter is unlike her, too. tap, tap, tap. the knife flashes. the housewife stands still, back to the table, face to the window; and watches laura's pale face reflected in the glass. ' you know - ' tap, tap, tap. in goes the carrots. she can see it, if she looks close enough. the uncomfortable sensation of having been here before, of having sat at that same spot at the table and had this same conversation with another mother. how many times she had tried to scream, only to be ignored. how many times she had slipped under, and never found peace. teenage girls have appetites for self destruction. she knows this intimately. tap, tap, tap. ' it isn't a bad thing, asking for help. needing it. it's better to call for a lifeline when the tide is still low, rather than wait until you're... washed out to sea. '

don't tell me what to do.

there's acid there, and the knife stops; freezes, gleams cruelly in the incandescent lighting. she's been here before, not so very long ago. she has. and so, she endeavours not to bristle - endeavours to keep her voice low and soft and gentle with a deep breath that rattles her shoulders. ' laura. ' says the stepford wife. only, she's not smiling now; eyes squeezed shut. ' i'm offering advice. ' and like an automaton, she starts up again. tap, tap, tap. the lid covering the pot rattles, steam spiralling up, up, up. she wipes her brow. she'd never sat in her mother's kitchen like this.

' there will come a time when you are going to feel alone, like you're lost in the dark; like there's no light left to help guide you. and you will feel so consumed, so frightened. ' tap, tap, tap. tomatoes, fresh basil, rosemary, thyme. her hands are getting callouses where they were once so soft. one day, laura will have this same conversation in a different kitchen at a different window. the soup will still be simmering, and laura will be the one to wield the knife. ' i want you to know that it is never too late to ask for help, only easier when you are not drowning. ' a pause. she hasn't turned around. ' and even when you feel most alone -- my hand will always be there for you to grab. '

SHE   LOOKS   JUST   LIKE   HIS   DAUGHTER     ━     well. . .     the   image   he   has   of   her.     long,     blonde   hair   straying   in   the   soft   breeze,     playful   eyes   caressing   every   outline   they   trace,     gentle,     rosy   lips   dancing   with   each   word   she   utters.     but   for   all   the   youthful   vigor   she   displays   &   the   hardened   tenderness   she   gives   off,     there’s   an   edge   to   her   exuberance:     like   a   chain   dragged   with   each   step,     a   shadow   tainting   the   corner   of   the   PRETTY   PICTURE   SHE   PAINTS   WHEN   SHE   STROLLS   INTO   THE   DINER.     this   entire   town   radiates   unease   underneath   the   layers   of   tranquility   &   friendliness.     patrick   smiles   at   her   words,     creases   at   the   corner   of   his   eyes   showing   when   he   does,     follows   her   gaze   &   the   reason   for   the   unprompted   declaration:     the   rest   of   his   colleagues   have   been   stranded   by   the   entrance,     awaiting   his   return   when   he’d   promised   to   grab   nothing   more   than   a   tea.     turned   out   the   pie’s   pretty   good,     too.          ❝     sorry   to   say   i’m   not   here   to   arrest   you.     ❞          SMILE   LINGERS,     THOUGH   NOT   AS   WIDELY,     blue   gaze   returned   on   her.          ❝     i   don’t   have   that   kind   of   authority.     ❞          he’s   dragging   the   jest   a   moment   longer,     deciphering   the   dread   behind   her   presumably   feigned   confidence.          ❝     i’m   sorry,     i’m   patrick   jane.     i’m   just   a   consultant.     and   you   are?     ❞          a   hand   extends   from   where   he’s   seated   on   a   bar   stool,     expectantly   awaiting   her   reply.

          There’s a book--The Suggestible Universe. He listened to it once. It discussed a phenomenon the author calls vacillations: what reality does when no one is watching. A fascinating listen, and likely a whole lot of pseudoscience and mumbo jumbo, but it did leave a question itching in the back of his mind, that is, what reality does when we are watching? Surely things don’t simply cease to happen just because someone has their eyes on it.

“Maybe it’s not.” Quivering slender fingers flick at the spark wheel of a lighter. Maybe the entire planet is experiencing the greatest case of shared psychosis known and because enough people have agreed this is real, this is reality, everyone else collectively agreed that this is, in fact, being. These thoughts are far too absurd to share, though, so he only regards the woman with a steady, curious gaze.