Homecoming

Chapter Three

I'm glad that those monsters still left us with water to bathe with.

Sure, it's not as luxurious as, say, an infinity pool in a seaside mansion with a view that's overlooking the deep blue, or even as standard as a creek that stretches all the way up from the mountaintop, but at this point in the earth's timeline where animalistic survival of the fittest is the new normal, there is no room for complaints. Either I work with what is left or continue to drench my body in my own sweat until something better turns up—which seems unlikely.

This puddle of rainwater in what looks like a sinkhole will do, I suppose. My fear of getting some skin allergies or gastroenteritis from soaking in here is just downright paranoia, is it? This is, nevertheless, where everybody else is taking their daily baths, and they all seem perfectly fine. Some of them are glowing, even.

Admittedly, the water isn't crystal-clear. It's milky, similar to what would come out of the faucet during cold months—because of tiny air bubbles, as they say. But, at least, I can still see a reflection (albeit distorted) of myself in its surface.

And, man, I've changed a lot in the looks department during my three-year stint in the nonexistent astral plane.

Okay, I still have the same green eyes, the same pale, thin lips and the same crooked nose that's twisting a little to the right. I can see that I even have the same hair, which is a light shade of brown, only longer. The Charlie Puth-esque slit on my right eyebrow is very much noticeable as well. On the whole, I'm still recognizable as Logan, just with some minor upgrade (or downgrade, depending on how one sees it).

These transformations come in the form of my cheek bones and my jawline. They are more prominent now than when I last looked in the mirror, which to me still feels like a few days ago. The only bright side of wasting away, perhaps.

Have I really lost that much body weight?

I look at my unclothed torso and realize that the lean muscles that I had gained from football are now gone. The slight belly that I collected from all the stress-related overeating that I had, following my exile from the popular kids' table, was now gone too. Now, I'm back to being the skinny kid from middle school: flat chest, flat tummy and maybe even a flat behind.

I hardly care, though. If I hadn't concerned myself much about my appearance when I still had a life, there's no point in making a big deal about it now.

Wendy isn't here for me to impress, after all.

That moment for me to woo her—overtured with days hunting for the perfect suit online and months saving for it, as well as that half hour I spent in front of my bathroom mirror fixing and redoing that hair—had come and gone. Maybe for good.

Stepping into the warm water, I untie my hair. As I run a hand through it, which is now greasy from the dust and humidity in the air, every strand falls to my shoulder. The tickling sensation of my tousled mop brushing against my skin remains to be something that necessitates some getting used to—along with the constant need to tie it.

It's funny I've never once fantasized rocking this hairstyle, and now I kind of dig it, making me look like a badass Jon Snow circa season six onwards. I can't deny it's invigorating to be able to take these liberties for once.

I wonder why my beard hasn't shown up yet, though. Or maybe it has, but Peyton's just constantly trimming them down because, you know, she's nursing not just my health but my overall well-being, which of course includes my grooming.

Really, the lady's a sweetheart.

If it weren't for my enduring devotion to Wendy, I maybe would've liked her. She seems to have everything I would want in a girlfriend. She's caring, empathetic, smart and strong-willed. Most striking of all, she's optimistic—a firm believer on humanity's ability to thrive beyond this temporary conundrum. One of the very few who has yet to lose faith.