It was good that this boy had the support of others to rely on. He looked very…squishy. He would not last long in the entity’s realm, she imagined, but he seemed to be handling himself well enough here. That was more than she could say for herself. Her stay would probably be significantly more pleasant if she had the ability to blend into the crowd, but it was only a fleeting thought.
Anna was pensive for a moment. “So you are willing to put effort into things that you might throw away later?” That seemed…like a waste. Of effort and time. Both important things to attempt to conserve. Time wasted might have been time spent gathering more food, or finding wood to keep the cabin warm. Although it didn’t seem that those were problems commonly faced by many here; it was something she was going to have to understand eventually.
“Creative…outlets…?” What was the definition of creative? Drawing, writing, dancing, singing? She didn’t really do any of those things. Well– perhaps she sang, but not in the same capacity that this boy was doing. After several seconds of deliberation she finally spoke again.
“I do not have a creative outlet. There is little time for creativity where I come from. I had seen people in the village do such things, but I did not partake.” Mostly because the only time she walked into the village, it was to ruthlessly slaughter people – it occurred to her to keep that tidbit to herself, fortunately for him.
“I seem to have more time here. I find myself bored. Maybe I now have time for such things.”
“Eh, it’s better than letting the ideas bounce around in my head.” He shrugged, the soft sound of his fingers on the strings again. He played a few notes for nostalgia, the simple theme tune he’d written on ukulele so many years ago sounded just as magical on guitar, and even with all these years since then. “At least when it’s in the trash, it means I got my thoughts out, even if they weren’t that good.”
That the way of traumatized teenage mind. He could come up with such amazing lyrics, perfect metaphors and creatives rhymes all at three in the morning, only to check his phone notes the next morning and not understand a thing he was going for. Maybe he should stop trying to write songs when he was high at three in the morning.
“You used to spend all your time working, huh?” He gives her his batted-eyelash innocent boy smile. “Yeah, I knew a few gems like that. They didn’t know what to do once they were freed, but that’s what school was for. You basically get to try a bunch of new stuff and see what fits.”
He switched from the theme tune to something a little sadder, a little warblier. This one didn’t have a name—another phone note song.
“If you’re bored, talking to strangers can be fun, especially in a place like this. I’m Steven—” He strummed a last note before offering his hand. He guessed by the mask, there was a fifty-fifty chance she wouldn’t want to share her name, and he respected that.
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