Went back on my words; here's another snippet of Part III. I'm unsure if I'll make the deadline for next week since this chapter in particular is being uncooperative - Oskar and Levi are contradicting my expectations of them - so consider this my preemptive consolation prize. Just in case.
Experimenting a little with this chapter, one example being the insertion of character name-stamps to more easily establish perspective transitions, and another of course being Oskar's never-to-be-mailed letter to his mother (a habit of his mentioned in Part I). Let me know if I'm moving in the right direction.
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LEVI
1985, January 2nd
Levi’s eyes gently fluttered open to greet the first rays of morning shining through his open window. Cold air drafted in and wafted over his sweaty body, tattered rags of bed sheet and blanket sticking to his seething skin. He swallowed, rolled over so that he faced the wall, and let the hot tears slip down his cheeks.
Again. Always again.
The same dream; yet not. A memory, wrapped in a dream. He was whittling wood with his father, working to coax the shape of a butterfly out of the blank canvas of the block. The wood was resistant, but Levi’s hands were strong and the gentle encouragement of Papa helped him when his confidence in his work faltered. Butterflies were the symbol of transformation – from banal to beautiful.
‘Anything can become beautiful,’ Papa always said.
‘As long as you’re willing to commit to seeing it reach its beauty. It takes time and patience above all else. Focus on what you want to see, and then make it a reality.’
And it
was beautiful – the most beautiful carving Levi had ever made. It was so real, so life-like, he held it carefully for fear it would flutter its wings and fly from his hands. He felt so proud.
And then he woke up. In that moment between sleep and wakefulness, before the weight of the day came for him, he didn’t think about his father’s death.
‘Blessed are the forgetful, for they shall get the better even of their blunders.’ Levi wants to laugh at the thought.
Blessed, indeed, so long as they
remain forgetful.
He shudders, and wipes his eyes. Rising from the ruins of his bed, the young man examines the steadily darkening nails of his fingers, grown three inches from the night before and beginning to curve into an arc. Running the barest edges of his fingers against the wall, he is unsurprised when they push easily through the wallpaper and plaster, leaving five puncture marks in the once pristine surface.
The sight ignites a hideous hatred in him, and he
screams, slamming his fist into the plaster of his bedroom wall, his arm driven up to its elbow into his personal addition to his home’s
Mise-en-scéne. Storming forth with heavy steps – heavier with each day – into his lightless bathroom, he finds the medicine cabinet above the sink and rips its door off, throwing the obstruction into the bathtub.
Claiming his prize, he holds the pair of scissors in his right hand while stretching out the fingers of his left.
A moment’s hesitation.
‘Focus on what you want to see, and then make it a reality.’
Gritting his teeth, Levi puts two black nails between the edges of the blades, and applies pressure. The thick keratin resists him, but he growls and forces the scissors to snap shut. The scissors fall to the floor with a clatter, his growl transformed into a scream as he clutches the bleeding stumps at the tip of his fingers, where the quick had been cut and dark blood seeped from the wounds.
Levi hisses between his teeth, and rises to let his fingers drip into the sink while he rummages through the cabinet once more, until he comes away with a roll of steel wool. Shoving the roll into his jaw without any care for discomfort, he retrieves the blood-slicked scissors and rests the edge of his palm over the sink, letting cold water run down between his fingers to drip pink-tinged down the drain.
This isn’t me. It doesn’t hurt. It can’t hurt because it’s not part of me. I’m not-
Not.
With trembling hands, Levi continues his work. Blood and onyx chips of nail circle the sink drain and slip into the abyss.
∆
1985, January 2rd
OSKAR
Detroit
Letters to Mom, Entry # 102
Dear mom,
I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter. Guess I let time slip away from me a little. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not worrying over every second of every day, counting the hours, every one. I think that’s made these waits easier for me. Almost two months have gone by – only three or four more to go. Five, if Eli decides to be lazy. You’d think there would be some kind of consistency to these hibernations, but they never quite line up. Sometimes it’s a month early, sometimes it’s a month late. Remember that first time, when Eli woke up for a little bit and then went right back to sleep for another six days after eating? That was the worst. I’m glad that hasn’t happened since.
But that’s the past. Here’s the now: spent New Year’s with Eli. I’ve gained a little of my weight back, started eating regularly again, getting out more. The treasury is getting low, though. Paying to get over here to America without getting caught took a lot of Eli’s wealth. We almost had to sell the egg. Pretty soon, I think I’ll need to try getting some kind of employment here. But that needs papers and history I don’t have. It’s a puzzle, but I’m getting better at solving puzzles. I almost beat the Rubik’s Cube this morning!
It’s still very hard sometimes to get out of bed, but I have to do it. For me, and for Eli. Every time Eli wakes up, I want him to see an even better Oskar than the one he knew before. And I want to see that better Oskar, too. Tried to give some money to a homeless guy, but he wouldn’t take it because he wasn’t homeless. At least, he said so. I guess that was wrong of me to just assume – maybe it was because he’s a little dark skinned. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge like that. But in my defense, he was running around like it was early fall! It was twenty-four below, I was freezing my rear off, and he’s just sitting slumped on this bench sleeping.
Something scared me, though. For a minute I thought he was dead. He was breathing lightly, and I was too confused by the whole situation to really notice it. And I thought…I started thinking to myself, ‘how fresh is his blood?’ Could I have time to bleed him a little, fill up my coffee mug with it and keep it warm somehow until Eli woke up? That’s the trick. It has to stay warm, or it spoils.
I was about to reach for my knife when he woke up. And I felt so…ashamed. Embarrassed, even. He looked at me like somehow, he knew what I was thinking. Or maybe I just thought he did. I don’t know.
I told him my name. Even said I lived in the area. Stupid. I’m not supposed to do that. It leaves a trail, leaves witnesses who could make our lives harder if we ever caught too much attention again. But it was like…I don’t know. I just wanted someone to know I existed. I’m so alone now.
Tomorrow night I’ll visit Eli again. Maybe sleep over. I can’t stand the emptiness of this place. Wish I could hear your voice again.
Love,
Oskar"The dark is patient, and it always wins. But its weakness lies in its strength: a single candle is enough to hold it at bay. Love is more than a candle. Love can ignite the stars." - Matthew Stover
) but have always been corrected in the nicest of ways.Metoo is a hard taskmaster but he has taught me so much (he has such a depth of knowledge about the story and Sweden) his advice is always gratefully received.As is the advice of our compatriots in the recent hook-up.All (except me) are accomplished writers and are full of wonderful ideas and facets of the story that I hadn't even thought of (as you have done too).Well I might not have any writing talent but I have loads of enthusiasm and passion so if anything rankles I'll tell you.(in a nice way.. 
