Dear Day 1,
My name is Andrew Jones, and this is my sermon.
That's kind of how I'll start my story-.
No, wait, I don't start off my story that way.
This time, I wake up with a start.
And once I sit up, I stay up. I stay frozen in my spot, eyeing my feet like they walked away and left. I hurriedly rushed to look at my hands, and there in place, and not covered in dirt and snow and blood.
I feel my face and my hair, and my hands and I shakily let out a breath. I turn my head, eyeing my door mirror, my scared face staring back at me, blonde hair and blue eyes looking hauntedly uncanny, like I didn't recognize my own reflection in the mirror.
It's such an odd feeling, to be able to recognize yourself in the morning, like you're meeting yourself for the very first time again. I think that feeling alone scares me, but today it frightens me, because the dream I had was real—too real—and I suddenly feel lonely in my own bed. What a way to start off a weekday, huh?
By the time I know who I am again, I race out of bed, eyeing my dresser as I stretch and reach for my phone to check the time. I glance at the notifications from Jessi and Kyle before I glance at the time—8:00 A.M.—and school starts at 8:30, so I already know I have to hurry with my morning routine.
I collect my bathroom supplies and clothes from my dressers before I head to the bedroom door, but I stop once more at my reflection. I stare at myself one more time before I leave, but at the corner of my eye, I swear I saw a flash of white hair from my bedroom window.
…
"Andrew?"
I turn my head, snapping out of my stupor. I was staring at the big window to my left, watching the snow softly hit the ground like petals. It's so weird; it's snowing in October? It hasn't even been that cold up until today.
"Yeah?" I look away from the window, meeting eyes with my best friend Kyle, his soft features relaxing my nerves. It's probably the big brown doe eyes and curly brown hair that makes him look like a 6'3 baby deer, but it helps in times of crisis, because weird enough, Kyle always makes me worry less at times where I tend to worry the most.
Jessi, the girl rolling her eyes at me from next to me, doesn't, but that's okay, because I still love her.
"You're losing me man." Kyle grins. "Are you worried about practice or something? You've been spacing out all day."
"No-nah-I-." I clear my throat, looking down at my feet, thinking about the reasons why I feel so out of it today. "I don't know I-it's-today's just feels weird is all-."
I flinch, backing up and looking up, and there is the new kid, I think his name is Sebastian. He's tall, 6'6" with dark hair, pale skin, and an unusual blank face as he bumps into me. He flinches and pauses in his step, looking down at my 6'1 statue. I was expecting him to ask me "what" while also trying to intimidate me, but he only looks apologetic, bowing his head and murmurs a soft apology.
"I'm sorry," he said, and by his tone, it seems like he means it.
"It's fine, it-uh was an accident." I said, but I feel so small because he's staring at me so big and he opens his mouth, like he wants to say something else, but his eyes land behind me, and he shrinks, turning his head and walking away.
"Wait-," I said. I turn my head, reaching out for Sebastian, but Kyle stops me, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me away.
"Come on dude. Forget him. He's weird. Let's get ready for practice." Kyle said.
I stare at the back of Sebastian, and maybe I'm staring hard, because he turns his head, his grey eyes piercing me, begging me to chase after him, and my body wants to move on its own, but it's on snooze mood, because I let Kyle drag me away.
…
"Yo, Andy?" Kyle asked. He swings his sports bag over his shoulder, sweat beading down his forehead. I look for a change of clothes in my bag, a blue towel loosely wrapped around my wide hips. It's after football practice, and not once did I catch Sebastian, who usually always go to practice. Weird enough, it's the only thing currently on my mind, and I can't shake off the feeling something's wrong. Maybe I should call him? Would he even like that? He gives off the energy that he hates me? Honestly, it makes me kind of sad, because for some weird reason, I really don't want him to hate me-.
"Andrew," Kyle hisses, smacking me at the back of my head. I flinch, holding my head and staring him with wide blue eyes. "What the fuck is going on with you lately?"
"Oh, um." I stutter, and suddenly I feel my cheeks burn in embarrassment, realizing that the reason I've been so spaced out lately is because I'm thinking about someone constantly, and it's driving me insane, and I have no idea how to interpret it. "Nothing, God I'm sorry. I'm probably just stressed. The upcoming game. Homework. You know. Um, right, what's up?"
"Do you want me to wait for you, or can I take my ass home?" Kyle asked, looking slightly annoyed, making me feel bad.
"Oh-oh no, it's okay." I said, drying my hair with a towel, "don't you have to go home?" Kyle nods, but he looks like he's fighting with himself to decide on what to do. "Dude, it's fine. Go home, okay?"
"But-."
"I can take care of myself," I said. I continue to dry my hair, the water flicking around the place and the towel around my hips loosens a little. I move my hands from my head to my waist, tightening the towels' grip. Kyle watches my moments, an odd expression on his face. "Kyle, you need to go home."
"Andy," he frowns, eyes on my waist, "b-but it's late and-."
"No, it's fine man," I laugh, "You need to go home to your mum."
Kyle frowns, ruffling his hair. "But, she-."
"Wants you to be home earlier today." I continue to dry my hair. "So go. I'll be okay."
He gives me a look, his eyes roam down my frame once more, and then he leaves with the shut of a door. I let out a snort, drying my hair more before continuing to look through my duffle bag. I pull out a pair of sweats and slip them on before I finally get to my socks. I roll them up and reach for my other pair of sandals before I hear a bang behind me.
"Well that wasn't a good idea." There's a static voice from behind me, I turn, freezing in place and dropping my towel. I stare at the person behind me; they're wearing an all black outfit and a matching mask. They look relaxed, leaning against a pair of red lockers with their legs crossed and a whip adorning their hands. "You know in horror movies, this is kind of the time were the victim becomes, well, a victim."
I drop my duffle bag on the cold tile floor, confusedly staring at the person in front of me, waving a spiked whip around.
"Who are you...?" I asked, eyeing the stranger, "and why are you dressed like its Halloween. We're not there yet, you know?"
The masked stranger silently stares at me before they clear their throat, rolling their shoulders like they're ready to brawl.
"Listen, listen." They said, their voice covered by a static filter, "I know right now you're confused and worried, based on your expression."
"V-very," I said, backing up near where my duffle bag is. I slowly pick it up, my eyes not once leaving the stranger.
"Right, and that's like totally normal for kids your age." The masked stranger said, "but I'll let you know now, um, you should be, because I am going to kill you."
I freeze, staring at the masked stranger staring at me. Neither of us move before suddenly, the stranger does, and I do too, throwing my duffle bag at the masked stranger's face and making a run for the outside world.
"So, you want to play with snow?" The masked stranger said, "got it. Your wish is my command."
...
I'm running fast, slipping through the snow and trudging through the foot of white feathers like my life depends on it. Ironically, it does, because the next thing I know, I feel something hit the back of my calf. I ignore the tingly feeling until it tingles so much it becomes painful, and I don't realize it, but I'm screaming, yelling with snot running down my nose at the pain.
My knees buckle, I look at my calf, realizing the large gash spilling out blood. A large part of my skin blankets the snow, leaving a piece of me in a vast field of white. I shake my head, fearing for my life, ignoring the large flashes of pain in my leg and forcing myself to keep going. I'm limping, trying to run away, but I can't, and I feel useless, like a doll caged in a box.
I felt an ache in my side next. This time the pain is instant, and I croak in response, hacking up salvia mixed with blood as the pain shoots to my head, instantly making my knees buckle again.
This time I fall on my back, laying in the snow, my blue eyes staring at the stranger walking towards me, a hop in their step, like there happy to see my bleed.
I cough, turning my head, my blonde hair touching the wet ground. It's the last days of October—not even touching the tips of December yet—and it's snowing, the white ground painted red and stained with shadows of my agony. I think I also see clear liquid touch the snow—and now that I think about it—this liquid is coming from my eyes and spilling on the ground, blurring my vision. I realize, finally, that this liquid is tears, and I'm producing them, creating small rivers in the form of tears across the ground like I'm across an ocean.
I look up, the night sky adorning my vision as I absorb the stars and quarter moon. My hands twitch in anticipation, waiting for a star to fall in my palms and touch my hands. It never does.
The next thing I hear is screaming. It's coming from my murderer and another voice. This voice I recognize. This voice I've heard often, it's from the quiet kid in my class—the tall Asian one—the 6'6 giant with pale skin and jet-black hair, yet when my blue eyes lay on his frantic form, he has white hair and blue eyes. He wears all black: black boots, tight, black long sleeves, black jeans, yet his hair is a stark contrast to the dark persona his clothes give off, but white hair suits him. It makes him look like an angel that fell from the sky. Maybe that's why he's here, to take me home.
"Why are-. He's. Who-. How. Why." Whatever he's saying, it's getting lost in my hazy mind. My murderer, the one adorning a black mask with a matching outfit, is shouting back. There fighting, tussling, and trudging through the snow as my murderer—let's call them Masked Face—is swinging a whip at the tall Asian kid—oh, by the way, his name is Sebastian, but the version of Sebastian I see everyday isn't like this (bold, rough, and has white hair, which is really weird if it isn't dyed), so I'll call him Not-So-Sebastian for the record, are fighting with each other like cattle. There swinging and yelling and kicking and shoving, yet I just lay there, feeling more useless than I've ever at 17-years-old.
I try to sit up, but I fail, feeling my body tense at my efforts to sit up. Not-So-Sebastian must have noticed, because he shoves Masked-Face as hard as he can before he's rushing to me, falling to his knees, holding my bloody body in his big arms.
I feel so small, so helpless, so lost in reality that I don't think is that—real—and it scares me even more. That's when I start to silently weep, feeling my eyes burn and my stomach burn and my heart hammer faster, faster, faster, like it's going to explode like the stars that refuse to fall in my hands.
"Andrew-I'm-I'm so sorry-I." Not-So-Sebastian is holding onto me, shaking me, my angel watching me leave for home, "fuck this-this wasn't supposed to-I'm sorry-I'm-."