Webb's a dead guy with no memory of his life, and that's how he likes it. He'd sworn he'd protect After, the city of the dead, from monsters, but the monsters have all been killed off. Now he has only one thing left to do: go through the Gate and fi...
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Golden light streamed through polished windows, igniting every speck of dust floating in the air.
I found myself in some house, a cozy little kitchen, to be precise. From my vantage atop the counter, I gazed down upon an alien landscape. Illuminated by stray patches of morning sunlight, mismatched furniture lay about the kitchen, all unused at the moment. Instead of plates, laundry and scattered toys covered a table that seated twelve. Crayon drawings were displayed on the refrigerator, held strong by alphabet magnets. Tiny handprints smeared any exposed part of the fridge. It was a domestic disarray of checkered dish towels and the pungent smell of floral hand soap.
It was all so foreign—so different from After.
Yet hauntingly familiar at the same time.
Something spilled from my nose. I sniffed and wiped my face on my sleeve, which came away red. I balled up my childishly small fist at the sight.
Over the hiss of the faucet next to me, someone sighed. A woman turned away from the sink and knelt before me. I only had enough time to notice her tired, brown eyes cradled by crow's feet and her wiry hair before she pressed a clean, wet dishcloth to my face. I winced at the pain in my bloodied nose and tried to pull away, but the woman held me firm. "You can't keep fighting other kids, Ryan," she huffed at me.
My child self continued to flinch as she dabbed at me. I wanted to snap a retort, but that was hard to do when you were being smothered. She only eased up when another woman, older and with the face of a bulldog, marched into the kitchen. "How's this kid, Margeret?" she asked, her lips pursed in distaste as she eyed me up and down. "The other little boy has a huge bite mark on his face."
Miss Margeret's eyes widened, the bloody cloth forgotten for the moment in her hand. "Ryan Alexander Webber," she said to me. "Did you bite Peter? In the face?"
I wiped my still-bleeding nose on my sleeve again. I couldn't hide the smirk creeping across my face. "He's a jerk who deserved it!" I blurted. "He's always picking on us smaller kids!" Peter'd gotten me good. But I'd made sure he'd think twice about bullying the other kids for a while.
Miss Margeret crossed her arms at me. She wasn't like the other women that managed the group home who'd all grown cold and crotchety after looking after unruly boys for so long. She was more like a mouse, soft-spoken and gentle, even after all these years. "Was he picking on you?" she asked.
Another sniffle. "No, but he kept teasing Sam. And Sam didn't want to stand up for himself, so I did."
Sam was seven, a little older than I was, but barely stood taller than my shoulders and had a meek personality to match. The other boys in the group home found the tiny Filipino boy to be an easy target for ridicule, especially Peter, the biggest and oldest of all the boys, and he got a kick out of throwing his weight around. The memory of seeing him corner Sam made my blood boil. I balled my bruised fists up tighter on the counter, relishing the memory of pummeling the bully of the house.
