Softer Bandages Please

From the horrors of Cumhaill’s room, some explaining had to be done, resulting in an embarrassed boy on his knees and head hung low as two disturbed and infuriated girls stood before him.

“Big brother, why did I even fall in—ahem—think you could do the bare minimum.”

Cumhaill is struck by emotional damage. “I cooked dinner yesterday…”

Marce places a hand on her hip and prepares to dish out some serious sass.“Y'know now that I think back to it. All you did was chop the veggies and place them in the pot when I asked, and they were too small!”

He flinches as if taking a gun shot.

It didn’t end at Marce’s severe whipping, however, as a fiery gaze of disappointment burned straight through his heart by none other than the beautiful, illustrious, and dangerous student council president.

“You’re still as big an idiot now as you were ten years ago.” The Pres grit her teeth. “Now you’re faking injuries on top of acting a fool. I’m out of here!”

The Pres threw the envelope of his assignments to the ground and turns heel for the door, but before she leaves, Cumhaill; bowing his head so intensely it smacks the floor, pleads for her to listen to him.

“Please Pres! I was really injured.” Cumhaill prays to her as if his life is on the line, and then extends his mirror arm as proof. “My arm. It went through a lot last night.”

“I don’t know why you painted it so strangely, but whatever you use your arm for at night does not excuse being absent at school.”

The Pres takes her first step away, but now Marce becomes an obstacle.

“It’s true. That arm was bleeding all over the place last night, and I bandaged it myself.” She demonstrates an invisible wrapping of her own arm.

“Now you’ve got your sister tied up in your silly charades. Despicable.”

Cumhaill grasps at the air behind The Pres with his mirror arm and places his other hand on his heart. “We’re not lying. There’s bloodied bandages to prove it, and my arm can talk.” He shakes the arm about towards her, hoping it forces a response. “Say something you damn arm!”

The Pres creates distance as if the two are contaminated with a virus. “You’re both insane. I have to get out of here before you kill me or something.”

From The Pres’s perspective, the two were reduced to psychopaths, frightening the otherwise stoic girl into rushing for an exit. It was then that Marce and Cumhaill joined forces to keep her from leaving by one grabbing her wrist and the other on her ankle. It was an act of desperation from both parties, and in the ensuing chaos, The Pres shrieked.

When the two hear her cry, they let go and realize their mistake, but it was also a terrible misjudgment to free her so suddenly as she slung out of their hands into a particularly valuable piece of furniture; an old vase that sat beside the door.

The three gasp as it topples over.

“Oh great heavens!” Goes Cumhaill.

“Goodness me!” Says Marce.

“Blimey!”  Exclaims The Pres.

When it strikes the ground, the vase detonates into a plume of black smog before spreading its fragments about. The smog lingers briefly before sucking out of the room through Cumhaill’s conveniently open window, and the three are frozen in place.

“Aw man, that was the vase the old fuck said I should never put in a vulnerable spot, but I thought it looked so cool there.” 

“Look what you’ve done Pres; broke a valuable vase.” Marce speaks calmly and holds out a hand. “Now you owe us. Pay up!”

“Like hell that was my fault. You two were like rabid animals when all I wanted to do was leave.” The Pres shouts with such ferocity that a vein is bulging at her temple. "And Cumhaill, that is an ugly as fuck place to put a vase."

Marce shakes her head in disappointment. "Tch! Excuses..." 

Cumhaill crosses his arms and pouts. "You're an ugly place to put a vase."

"Both of you can go fuck yourselves!"

The mystique voice of Mirror Arm reemerges from what seems to be a disturbed slumber and interrupts their bickering. "Oh kill me already."

They all screech—Cumhaill has the highest pitch of the three—and jump to a flight response as if they're getting attacked. Cumhaill rolls across the floor, mistakenly into the vase pieces that jab out a series of curses. Marce runs for under the bed, but trips over Cumhaill's rolling body and falls face first into the floor. The Pres—close to the exit—makes for a sloppy escape as she forgets to even open the door and just bumps into it and falls back, stepping on Cumhaill like a logroller briefly before slipping into a fall.

After the chaos settled, the three groan in pain. If it weren’t for how thick-skulled they all were, they’d probably be unconscious, except Cumhaill, but that’d only bring him peace in his bed of a hundred dull knives.

“What spawn of Satan just spoke earlier?” Said The Pres, the first to regain orientation. “Is it some prank of yours Cumhaill? You bastard.”

She kicked Cumhaill’s squirming body, but all that really answered her with is a yelp. 

Then Cumhaill, through the stinging pain of crunching shards beneath him, turned over to face The Pres, and presented his arm one final time. “‘Twas this fella right here madam.” He wheezed before clocking out in an instant.

“Sup.” The arm stayed up and flapped its fingers in a sock puppet fashion. “Honestly, it’s so hard to sleep when attached to and surrounded by brainlets. You must be the latest addition.”

She gave him a mean slap across the hand(face?). “What kind of bullshit is this? Keep this thing away from me.”

“It’s as bro says.” Marce crawled toward her in a cat-like pose. 

“Why are you still on the ground?”

She ignored and continued to speak. “Last night brother punched his bathroom mirror and it turned out to have some spirit in it. This spirit got trapped back in his arm, and now his arm looks like that.”

“Alright. I’ll go with your wild story, but why skip on school now. Looks healed to me. Just wrap it back in bandages so nobody sees.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

“I’ve got a massive headache and just want to go home now.” 

“True. You can leave then. Just keep this a secret between us.”

“I don't need your permission to leave, and If I said anything I’d be in the same crazy boat and lose my position of power.”

“Hilarious.”

“I can have you expelled. Try me.”

“Ugh!” The mirror arm slouched (just a slight bend at the elbow). “You’re gonna suffocate me with those damn bandages and sit me through high school? Can you just expel Cumhaill or something for me?”

“No chance Cumhaill’s… Arm—thing? You’re going to school whether you like it or not.” The Pres scratched her chin and her eyes wandered as she got slightly flustered. “I’ll make sure of it by walking him to school or something…” Her voice trailed off into a murmur in the latter half.

Mirror arm overheard her mumbling and gave the first rendition of what could be described as a hand smirk. “Ay toots. Got a thing for the dweeb? I can’t believe it. You must’ve hit your head real bad earlier.”

Rage filled her as she lifted a clenched fist. “I said I’ll make sure to drag his lazy ass to school if he doesn’t, because I hate his guts!” She shouted and punched the Mirror Arm right on the knuckles. It was more like a fist bump, but the message was conveyed.

Shortly after the altercation, she opened the door and gave a ‘blegh’ with her tongue out, then left, slamming the door as hard as possible in the process.

“What’s her deal?” Marce snuck up on the mirror arm.

“Who knows. I wanna sleep. Try and get this kid killed while I’m at it.”

“As if I'd do that!”

“Oh well, worth a try.” The mirror arm yawned. “Make sure them bandages are nice and soft.”

Mirror Arm drifted to sleep and flopped on the ground while Marce looked on at the mess and scratched her head.

“Where to even begin…”

***

The following day was awkward, but the siblings spent their free time at home cleaning the mess and catching up on any forgotten chores, and like that, the next day quickly arrived. The two set out for school, and Cumhaill's arm was neatly wrapped in bandages with extra used to hold it up. Mirror arm mentioned that it felt like he was cocooned and hammocked, which was very comfortable, so it killed several birds with one stone. Just at the big red torii gate to their home is a girl serenely posing. It's The Pres, and despite how she acts, there's clearly some exhaustion in her stance and a sheen on her skin from sweat after trekking up the mountain.

She pretended not to see them when they exited the house and stared off into the mountain woods at nothing in particular because she thinks it makes her look unbothered. Cumhaill is sold on her theatrics, but Marce can clearly see her intentions and drags a hand down her face scornfully to the point it pulls her lower eyelids.

When the siblings arrived at the gate, Cumhaill stopped to wave and Marce groaned while continuing down the steps.

"Hey Pres. Guess this means I can't skip out on school. I wasn't planning to anyways. You know me."

"Right." The Pres sighs. "I do know you. How unfortunate." She started moving down as well.

"Hey what does that mean?" He chased after to walk close enough he could lean forward and look her in the eyes.

The Pres gets flustered and pushes him away. "Get out of my face trash."

Cumhaill falls into some shrubs beside the path and the two girls continue without him as he lies stuck. "Hello? Help!"

Eventually he escaped and caught back up, but he never tried to bother The Pres for the remaining journey. Despite this he still received another shove from the back when he tried chatting with Marce. 

"What the hell is her problem?" He thought while continuing the pace forward that The Pres pushed him into.

Arriving at school, Cumhaill stopped at the gate to look on at the building as if it were some menacing boss or impending journey. He then looked down at his wrapped arm and smirked. "Loser boy returns to school with a mysteriously wrapped arm. What secrets does he keep? So cool. Watch out bullies. I might just reveal it to you. Then you'll be begging for mer-oof."

"Watch where you're standing fuckface." Big Bully arrived on scene —exceptionally early for someone who plays the delinquent role— and shoulder checked Cumhaill from behind, causing him to lose footing and fall to the ground.

Cumhaill growled at Big Bully as he walked away. He prepared to stand up for himself and say something, but then the rest of Big Bully's posse followed suit and trampled him one by one.

By the end, Cumhaill was just a dirty roadkill laid out flat by the gate. Eventually he pried himself from the ground in tears, but he wasn't strong enough to leave his knees. That's when a savior presented themself to extend a helping hand.

"Cumhaill, are you ok?" Nyoah's heavenly cuteness graced him like a ray of light from above.

Cumhail squinted and raised his normal arm overhead to block the brightness. "Nyoah? Oh man... It's so good to see you."

"Come on Cumhaill, take my hand."

"Right." He reached out.