"You ungrateful bitch. I keep a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?"
"You could have killed her," I retort, trying to muster up confidence that I don't possess. "What if she goes to the cops, Dad? That bruise on her face is enough to...
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The scariest thing about teleporting through time and space is that you don't always know where you're going to end up.
For example, if I wanted to go to Ohio, I could go to Ohio. However, having never actually been to Ohio, I'd probably end up on the interstate during rush hour unless I selected a more specific destination. And even then, until I've seen a place with my own eyes, it's only so accurate.
I like to memorize the outskirts, the alleyways, the hidden spaces. I know every back door to every building in town, give or take a few. I've spent so much time in the shadows that I'm more comfortable behind a dumpster than I am in the light of day.
Teleporting through time and space is cool, but damn, is it isolating. I can't tell anyone the truth, not even my own girlfriend. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching me. Keeping my secret is an extreme sport that I'm tired of playing, a burden too heavy to carry alone.
Thank god for Layla. At least I have her.
Well, I had her. We haven't spoken since the day of her grandmother's funeral. That was four months ago.
I've tried to reach out. Jessica and I both have. Everytime I called, she told me she wasn't ready to see anyone. She eventually stopped answering the phone altogether.
To eliminate the horrible, albeit not insane, theory that her scum-of-the-earth dad had beaten her to death, I paid her a visit. I dropped in—literally—to her bedroom and found her sleeping soundly. She had no visible injuries, but the amount of empty liquor bottles beside her bed was cause for concern.
With school starting tomorrow, I'm hoping to finally confront her. I want to respect her need for space, but she doesn't have anyone to talk to at home. There, she's completely alone. Having lived in isolation for the past seventeen years, I know how soul-crushing that can be, how irreversible the damage is.
I miss my best friend. I just want her to be alright.
That's all I've ever wanted.
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I roll out of bed, exhaling an audible groan as I slap my alarm clock. I haven't woken up before noon in months. I am not excited to start rising at the crack of dawn again.
