Permanent Scars

New Kid

September 4. Monday. 6:47 a.m.

Morning has come like a bullet to the chest, my alarm startling me from an already garish dream. Unable to decide if I'd rather still be asleep in my terrible land of nightmares or deal with my now-overreacting heart, I've been on my back for a spell, staring at the ceiling. When I check my phone again, I realize it's been twenty-seven minutes since that dumb alarm freaked me out, and my heart is still racing, adrenaline still coursing through me. I was supposed to be ready by six-twenty. Shaking, I slide out of bed and put on some clean clothes, step into the bathroom to wash my hair in the sink, towel-drying it vigorously. After that I comb it out, hope it looks alright, brush my teeth. Grab my things and head out, locking the house behind me. There's no time for breakfast; I have a long walk and it's raining, so bringing food along would be a poor idea. Today is just like any other day—rainy, cold, miserable. Oh, and it's Monday.

   I hate Mondays. I know most people do as a general rule, but I really hate Mondays, and for good reason—my mother died on a Monday.

   I was only four years old when it happened, but I remember it vividly. Things like that aren't easily forgotten, no matter how young a person is. At least that's my philosophy. I remember where we were, the time of day, the transport we were on, all of it. The smells. The sounds. The air quality index, even. Heck, I even remember the name of the medic who treated my minor injuries. His name was Dobbs. He was really nice. Young, too. Couldn't have been any older than thirty.

   We were riding a bus, just Mama and me, returning from a weekend-long visit with my grandmother, whose health was failing. The bus was self-driving, as they don't really have a need for people to drive them, but things like that have a tendency to fail and Mama and I were unlucky enough to be passengers on such a one.

   As usual, it was raining. Some important panels had been exposed by a lousy government repairman; the bus stopped working correctly and crashed. In later years I overheard some people say that the bus was rigged to do that since at the time we were the only people on that bus and my mom was the wife of a high-ranking military man whom the government secretly despised, but that just made it seem like assassination, and I never wanted to believe or face that. Besides, it was just a lot of gossip. People were just saying things to be mean to me. That was in middle school.

   I remember the heat of the fire, watching Mama slowly melt. She died saving me. The real miracle was that I was hardly affected physically. However, it left an everlasting impression on my little mind, and I've been scarred ever since.

   My dad got there faster than the medics did. The last words my mom ever said were, "Take care of her, James. She's sensitive."

   Daddy promised. And for many years, he did all he could, and we were very happy together—he, my siblings, and I. My sister married and moved away. Then my brother was deployed. Months later, he was killed with poison gas. Through all those tragic life-changing events, Daddy was there for me, keeping his word. But a couple years back, he basically broke that promise.

   I haven't been very happy with him since then.

   Lifting my head somberly to look up at the black sky, endless and yet seeming to stop right above me, I wonder if I'm crying or if it's just rain pouring down my face. You'd think everyone living in a city like this would constantly carry an umbrella, but I do not possess one; as far as I know there are none in the house. I just hope the school isn't cold, or I'll be sick for sure.

   Pulling my hood up over my head, I shiver and plod along the wet sidewalks. A drizzle of thick, oily liquid snakes past my foot, and I step quickly aside to avoid it.