My blue-gray eyes stared emptily back
at me, reminding me of the way Mom had transformed in my mind the night before.
I looked as though I hadn’t slept a wink, which might have been the truth. All
I could remember, however, was the history of my parents replaying like some
horrible family film, always ending with Dad leaving, never to see her again.
I didn’t want to go to school; it was
the last thing I wanted to do. Everyone would be talking about yesterday, about
the girl who lost it—and more. My mind thoughtfully simulated the jeering faces
and deafening silence. Half of me questioned why the past couldn’t be left
alone, but the other half argued I had done my fair share of digging.
Turns out, I should have stayed home.
The moment I stepped onto campus,
everyone shushed. It seemed to thrill them to peek around the corner at the
girl who went psycho not even 24 hours earlier. Giggles echoed everywhere,
nearly as much as the stealthy tiptoes and retreating footsteps of pathetic
children lacking anything better to do.
In my locker was a note from Sara,
apologizing profusely between her ravings of doing nothing wrong. Half of it
denied any responsibility on her part. It ended with her begging me not to kill
her, which hadn’t crossed my mind before that point—not that I would seriously
contemplate it.
My first three classes I kept to a
back corner of the room, having noticed in homeroom how everyone seemed to
avoid sitting too close. Nothing changed during those classes. I seemed to
radiate an aura of “fear me” so that even teachers were contented when I didn’t
offer my usual participation. I could feel the waves of relief washing from
them every time a question was posed and they glimpsed my way to see I hadn’t
volunteered to answer.
Lunch was when the message became
undeniably clear this was not just a one-day phase. Our school newspaper—the
same one that managed to inform the student body of student news after it had
ceased to be news—had published and released an edition focusing solely on moi.
I easily glimpsed the cover page,
sporting an artistic version of myself floating, glowing abnormally, and
resembling an earlier sketch of a popular weather controlling mutant. Everyone
seemed to be reading the fresh copy, and an occasional finger found its way to
my current position. The raucous of the room had hushed into a murmur of gossip
and rumors from the moment I entered. If I neared a table of whispering girls,
or chuckling guys, the energy and sound was vacuumed away until I passed; only
then did it once again explode and infect the table’s occupants.
I had just decided on not eating in
the lunchroom when someone stood and shouted, “Look! There’s the freak!”
Bursts of laughter and agreement
echoed through the room and swam in my ears. Feigning deafness, I calmly exited
the cafeteria through the rear door and only then allowed myself to sprint
quicker than humanly possible to my car.
My eyes fell upon my poor vehicle,
cluttered in teasing graffiti, sticky notes, toilet paper, and eggs. I dropped
my backpack and stared horrified at my once beautiful, blue hybrid. Tears
threatened to fall as I fled from the representation of my destroyed life. En
route, I promised myself never to lose control again—regardless of what it
required. My livelihood was ruined because of it, as well as everything inside
of me.
At home, I found the house devoid of
life. I was alone, as I was starting to realize I always had been. I’d been on
my own since my mom left me to this supposedly better life; since my father
traveled endlessly trying to escape her memory; since Kenzy tried to control
everything I was when she couldn’t even begin to imagine. That realization shattered
my world.
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