→ ฬђєгє เร ๓ץ ๓เภ๔? → norman x reader

25. orpheus's song; to the owl

♗ ♔ ♕ ♘

"ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴏᴡʟ ꜰᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴀᴛ 12 ᴏ'ᴄʟᴏᴄᴋ", reads the small note in Normans hand.

He swiftly puts it away and continues to play with the complex pentagonal rubics cube. The angel-haired boy can hardly contain his anticipation.

12 months.

All he has to do is wait and organize and further formulate his personal plans for no more than 12 moths. 

12 months this day and all hell with be let loose. You will be sixteen, and Norman will be just on the edge of fifteen.

Norman could hardly focus, even though all he has to do now is focus on being alive, on making it through.

He can't wait. Norman can hardly wait to see you, his heart aching whenever he thinks about you, and what you might be going through.

12 months. 365 days. 8760 hours. 525600 minutes. 

Yes. Norman is counting.

⁵²⁵⁵⁹⁹ ᵐⁱⁿᵘᵗᵉˢ. . .

♗ ♔ ♕ ♘

You walk alongside Dr. Dolores. 

The classical music in your ears blocks out everything, including your own thoughts. For once you are grateful for this often-infuriating quality of the headphones.

It's all blank. 

Mind fuzzy and limbs moving automatically, somehow, as if you are a machine. And just like a robot you walk into the hallway, your palms slightly sweaty, but otherwise baren of any indication that you might be a human. There are no signs that you might be feeling things, experiencing emotions normally experienced by normal people.

Well, you guess those standards don't really apply to you, as you are hardly normal— much less have the ability to healthily manage the humanly burden of having a heart.

Who knows at this point? Are you unimportant or unparalleled?

It's getting hard for you to tell whether you even have a heart or are just an elaborate, occasionally sentient, case of mechanized meat and bones. 

It's a different room, the one you've walked to, you didn't realize it until you find yourself standing in front of the door. The door opens and you walk in. Dr. Dolores doesn't go in with you.

You stand for a moment, observing the room. It's similar to the classroom but a bit more friendly. It's less intimidating and less prim and proper. It looks like a recreational room that you remember having at Grace Field.

Did they do that on purpose?

There are soft blue colored bookshelves, white shelves for art supplies, black shelves with vinyl records on them. Not that you would be able to even listen to them.

In the corner, Nova sits on a medium green bean bag, staring at you. You watch him as his purple eyes scan you for a hint, any tiny clue of what might have happened. You notice he is clutching a dark wood brown and black guitar. 

It's odd, seeing someone so artistically inclined, you distinctly remember him drawing during break time in the academic room. You never really got interested with it, sticking to books. Of course, that didn't mean you couldn't appreciate good art, so, watching him choose to spend his time in such a way has made you (admittingly) a bit curious.