The amount of direct sunlight in Michigan between January and late March is a few hours a week. When you're in school you're lucky if you see any of it.
I am in school.
It feels like I've been in school forever. I'm seventeen, a senior in high school, and I have no friends.
People avoid me.
I used to have friends, but I, well. Killed a bunch of
I may be crazy.
Until last fall I wasn't a killer, and then, suddenly, I was. I think it sticks to you. Like, when parents say, "What's different about you?" After you've had sex. Or so I hear.
I'm a virgin. I'm tall I'm well built. I used to be sort of funny, in a sarcastic kind of way. Maybe.
Summer seems infinitely far away. Last summer was good. I had a friend, we were close.
I'm pretty sure she electrocuted me the last time we talked.
Now, I can't stop having these --I dunno-- call them episodes.
So I sleep, but I don't get any sleep any more. Well, usually I don't get any sleep. I mean, I don't wake up rested, I just wake up and my eyes don't immediately try to close themselves.
Monday. It had been four ZZZZZZ months since I had killed anyone or been killed. (All of my dreams end with my death, and then I bolt upright. And then Monday. I snapped upright and sniffed in the darkness. No pancakes or syrup or bacon. Not even coffee.
I slid of my bed and walked through the dark basement, up the stairs and into our kitchen. It's just mom and me, now. I don't know where dad went, Mom doesn't talk about him at all, but he hasn't been back since, well, since the killings and the dreams started.
The kitchen was lit with a single, dim, night light, plugged into the breakfast bar, next to the quiet coffee maker. The sun wouldn't be up for another few hours, but usually -- nope.
There was a note, stark white paper and Mom's spidery hand writing, stuck on the fridge with duct tape. I turned on the overhead light. The note read: "Gone for a week. Be good. Remember to eat and brush your teeth. Love you!"
"Huh," I said. Remember, this isn't unusual for Mom, but a midnight exit sort of was. But she left a note, and it wasn't like I couldn't take care of myself.
I worked out, showered, dressed, packed a lunch and studied History, then Spanish for fifteen minutes each.
My phone buzzed: Time to go.
I turned off the kitchen light, made sure my keys and wallet were in my pocket and slid into my jacket. My pride and joy: my from-the-future motorcycle jacket. It's dark grey ZZZZZZ bullet proof, the inner lining is knife proof and insulated. It's warm and there are micro-servos that lock and push and pull and generally make me stronger.
Outside was cold, with grey, hard snow. It'd been unseasonably warm a few days ago, but not so warm that all the snow was gone and now there was a thick sheet of ice coating all the front yards.
Mom and I live in a sub division behind the High School I go to. My friend
My ex-friend, Mercedes and I used to walk to school together. For a while she drove us to school. Now, well, you know.
I trudged through the cold and wished it were warmed. I wished I'd brought a hat, or gloves, or put a hooded sweater on under my coat, but, I decided, it was too late to turn around now.
Standing in the cafeteria atrium, my ears immediately started to sting. I rubbed them and stomped snow off my boots. I waited in line for coffee, and didn't respond to the stage whispers of, "freak" and "murderer" and "weirdo."
I grabbed a large cup, filled it, lidded it and