The Importance

Fitting Back In

Jane Mikaleson sounds like she has never raised her soft wispy voice once in her life. She is twenty-three, along with her husband, Peter Mikaelson. They aren't mean people, yet Detective Caller assured me several times that they are trained savagely in self-defense and many other "battle" techniques. I don't know what that means, and I certainly don't intend to find out.

The entire fifteen-minute car ride to their farm, I stare out the window, not seeing my surroundings, just blankly looking at my reflection in the blue and black Subaru's tinted windows. My face is sad but reluctant, and somehow, the real emotions I should be feeling I rather am harboring. It is a struggle, but I am strong and will not cry like a baby in front of these strange people. I feel bad for not answering or even hinting that I heard them with a simple head nod. 

When they show me to my new but temporary room, it's large, spacious with white walls and a single round light on the ceiling. They call me out to dinner soon after. I stare at the single piece of pizza on my plate, poking the pepperoni on top with my pointer finger, studying it like I would a person. Analyzing the inanimate object as if it is a particular project or assignment I need to finish.

It doesn't have a face or personality, and I am the same as the small circle. I was taken and put on a slice of pizza that I fail to comprehend, and I'm anticipated to blend with my new surroundings for the rest of my short-lived days. My only purpose is to deplete, so I will sit on this slice of pizza and do my job. I will be strong and taste good to the humans. That was their intent.

I tilt my head as I watch the diminutive round red meat glued to the cheese beneath it, daring it to move, alter, or crawl away from its definite doom.

Go ahead. You won't do it. You don't have legs, you can't escape, you are an inanimate object, yet I have developed feelings for you.

"Do you not like pepperoni? We have plain old cheese pizza if you would rather that?" Jane reaches for my paper plate but I haul it away, protecting my pepperoni and instantly discerning regret for showing such disrespect to the kind people.

"I...I'm sorry, I am not very hungry tonight. Thank you for making me dinner, though. I appreciate all you two have done. I don't want to be too much of a burden." Smiling sadly, I observe Jane search for words to comfort me.

Jane's hair curls the bottom of her tough cheekbone. It is dyed a calm white. She has bright green eyes to accompany her attractive features. She is skinny and only around as tall as me, just a little higher than my eye level. She and Peter are each 26 years old but look much younger.

Peter's a lot taller than Jane, by a foot or so. He has short brown hair kept in a clean and tight haircut. He possesses slight muscles as well, and I imagine he works out a few times a week when he isn't preoccupied.

I rush out of the dining room as quickly as possible, sprinting up the pff-white carpeted stairs to my temporary room, unable to stop the flow of tears that steadily begin to trickle down my cheeks. Closing the white door behind me, I bury myself in the freshly made bed and thank the dark pillows for being there as I cry. I don't know how long I continue, though I try to muffle my sobs with the amiable softness until I am empty, left with nothing to lose, no more tears left to cry.

I am okay with this.

And I fall asleep into restless darkness.

"She did all of her homework? She must be tired from all of that." Peter whispers as they both open the door to my disastrous scattered company.

Peter's voice is a low calmness that soothes my mind into desiring to rest more. I haven't heard him talk much before this, and I imagine he speaks to Jane much more than anyone else. He reminds me of a little kid who is scared to have a conversation with people he is not familiar with.