The Outcast - Chapter Two

Some days are okay. They pass by in a blur. And then there are those days that take forever to end. Today's one of those days.

I open my eyes at seven, like usual on Saturdays, and go down to eat breakfast. Dad's down there, though. I didn't know that, he should be at work. I quickly change my mind and wander out of the house. I'm not usually home on the weekends, anyway. What difference does it make if I'm not there today? Had I known, I would have stayed at home. If I only knew... But I can't dwell on that now. The day's hot, pretty humid, but there's a slight breeze. I wander out of my yard and onto the streets. I want to get to the park to be with me, myself, and I. And my place, of course. Alone, where no one can tease me or throw things at me.

Of course, sometimes things don't always go as planned, as I'm going to learn.

The sky is clear and sunny. I walk to the river's edge and stalk along its side. My reflection shimmers as the wind blows faintly, a slight echo in my ears. Gazing around, there's no one there. No one but me, of course.

And that's just how I like it. Alone. Peaceful.

I walk to my usual spot, and climb up the tree to rest on one of its branches. I'm out over the water now, and quite content to lie there for hours on end. It's a quiet, peaceful spot, and serves me my privacy for doing whatever I want. Sometimes, though I hate to admit it, I come here to cry. Being the Outcast is quite lonely, and sends one spiraling into depression. It's done so to me a few times, and this is the best spot to cry, for no one can see you through the limps and leaves of the tree, unless they're directly under you, but I'd see them coming before that happened. I like this spot; it makes me feel like I'm in charge, like maybe I have a little control over my life. I like that feeling very much.

Sighing, I let my gaze wander out over the shimmering water. Ducks are swimming in it and making their noises, but they ignore my presence, just like I want it. I like watching the wildlife in this area, for there's no one to disturb it, and that's how it should be.

Sometimes I bring my journal here to write, but usually I don't, unless I absolutely need to. I don't want to risk it falling out of my hands and into the endless depths of the water. I normally write in it at home, in my room with the door locked. I always lock the door, for I don't want to risk Dad coming in on me in one of his moods.

I like drawing in this spot, too. I hadn't the time to bring my sketchbook out today, but I might tomorrow. I love to draw. I write some, too, but not as much as I draw. I keep the journal so I might someday be able to rid myself of this pain. If that day comes, I don't want to forget what I've learned in these hard years, so I keep the journal for that day so I might look back upon it.

Lying on the large, thick branch of the oak tree, I listen to the birds chirping somewhere above me. I look up slowly, and the sun's rays filter down and into my eyes. The limbs above me sway in the breeze, but my limb's sturdy and keeps me from moving. I start humming to myself to rid myself of yesterday's fiasco. I don't want to remember what happened.

Sirens start ringing a few hours later. I'm lying on the branch still, asleep, but the sirens wake me up. What now? Is it so much to ask for a little peace and quiet? Sighing, I look through the leaves and branches. Firetrucks and ambulances and police cars all drive past the road a little ways from the park. They look small to me, but I kno better. What could call for something like this? Curious, I climb down carefully, and break into a jog toward the road. I get there in time to see them turning right. Smoke rises from behind the roofs of the houses.

A fire.

Hmm.

Perhaps I should check this out. Yes, I think I will.

I break into a run and race after the vehicles. I know I won't catch up to them, for I'm not that fast a runner, but I can still make it to the fire.

Once I make it there, I'm out of breath and huffing and puffing, coughing through the haze of smoke that I seem to have stumbled into. Where did that come from? Oh well, that's unimportant now. I look around at the two-story house that's in flames, and something clutches my heart tightly, refusing to let go. There's a girl, lying on the ground, being tended to by about five paramedics. They're pumping hard on her chest and giving her CPR.

But even from here I can see that it's far too late.

The life has left her.

My poor Sandra.

I cry out her name and race toward her before I even know what I'm doing, and push a few paramedics away. In my head I'm in shock, but I can hear the words racing from my mouth, "Sandra, don't do this, please, I love you...Please, Sandra!"

Yes. Love hurts. I love her. I can't help it, there's just something about her. She's never been mean to me, though she does seem to ignore me a lot. But even being ignored I'll take as a good sign, for at least she doesn't throw things at me or call me names. At least she doesn't hate me. Not openly, anyway.

A hand. Gripping my should. Pull away, don't want comfort. Let go.

A voice. Saying something, but I can't understand it through the haze in my mind.

The hand. It's back. Great. I'm being pulled away. No, no, I want to stay, can't you see? I love her! Can't hear. They can't hear my voice. It's in my head. My mouth won't work.

"Kid? You okay?" someone is shaking me. Shouting at me.

Go away, damn it.

"Kid, can you hear me?"

Yes, I can hear you, now shut up and go away.

"I need you to answer me, kid."

No, I don't want to answer. And stop calling me kid, I have a name. A strange name, but a name nevertheless.

Hands. Poking me. Gingerly, it seems. More shaking. Stop it, damn it, you're going to shake my head off! I can hear you, now go away for a few weeks!

"Do you have a name, son?"

Don't call me son.

"Hello?" the voice is getting annoyed.

Well, let it. I don't care.

"Hello, are you okay?"

I'm fine, so goodbye.

"Hello?"

Goodbye.

"Damn it, kid, answer me! Are you hurt?"

Damn it, don't you ever leave?

The ground slips away. I'm being lifted. Lifted onto a stretcher. Being taken to the waiting ambulance. Damn it, I'm not hurt! I blink slowly, and a worried face swims into view.

"Are you with us now, kid?" he asks, blinking at me with brown eyes. He has a bony face that's scrunched up. With worry.

"Don't call me that," I growl, sitting up. I jump off of the stretcher.

"Are you okay?"

"M'fine," I grumble, and slowly stalk away. She's dead. Sandra's dead. Damn this smoke for making my eyes water. I rub at them, but they still burn.

I wish I'd stayed at home today. Dealing with Dad is so much easier than this.