Christopher

Fate has it out for me. I learned that when my mother was hit by a truck that really had been meant to hit me. She’d pushed me out of the way and died in my stead.

Fate has it out for me. It’s so painfully obvious that I’ve started living with it, expecting it even. So, no, I’m not surprised when my chairs break or my seatbelt is the only one not to work properly. I’m not surprised when I’m picked out for routine inspection literally every time I pass a border or board a flight. I wasn’t surprised when my father buried himself in his work and developed a drinking problem and I won’t be surprised when he ends up dying because of me, too.

None of that, though, has prepared me for the explosion that has me currently suspended mid-air, about to probably break my neck as soon as I hit the pavement.

In my opinion, that’s taking it a bit far. Seriously. A fight between superheroes in the pedestrian zone? Couldn’t it at least have been something targetted? Like, another car? That way, my death would’ve been my own. This way, my name’s going to be just one of many.

Thirteen dead after incident in the pedestrian zone.

Collateral, for fuck’s sake!

The fact that it’s collateral of a superhero fight only makes it worse. Because they are the literal opposites of me. They are the chosen ones. Not that I would want to be one, mind you. I just want to be left the fuck alone, but apparently that’s not on the table.

Being flung through the air like a rag doll really isn’t what Hollywood makes it out to be. I can’t see. The world around me is a single colourful blur. There’s no way I could somehow twist and turn and pull a cat-like landing on my feet. The momentum is far too strong and the airtime is much too short anyway.

I’m good as dead.

Well, why does fate have it out for me, I hear you ask.

Glad to see your attention to detail, I’ve got to say. Keeping a cool head in the heat of battle, impressive.

To answer your question: I don’t know. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about me, except maybe my extraordinarily bad luck.

I do okay at school, live in a large-enough apartment with my Dad. We’re not exactly close, but I won’t blame that on him. It’s not his fault Mum died and left him to deal with her absence and my continued presence. I leave him alone, most of the time, go around town, or stay in my room. It’s better that way, I’m sure. Maybe, if I spend less time close to him, he won’t die as well.

Well, lucky him. He’ll still be at home, far away from all this.

I don’t have any friends, really. The kids at school avoid me instinctively. They aren’t idiots. But I don’t care, anyway. I don’t need friends. I suppose it would be nice to have somebody to talk to and keep me company when I’m out, but I don’t need it.

I’ve been alone for such a long time now, I barely know the difference anymore. The only friend I ever had was in kindergarten and that’s almost too long gone to remember. The memories are fuzzy, like those of Mum.

And now I’m following her.

I’m strangely uncertain how I’m supposed to feel about that. I don’t know whether she’s going to be happy to have me with her and greet me with open arms or hate me for everything I did to her and Dad.

But either way, there’s no getting around it.

As time speeds up, I close my eyes and brace myself for the impact.

I don’t feel it. Everything simply goes black at a snap and I’m no longer inside my body. I no longer have a body.

-

As I wake, it doesn’t take me long to realise that I’m not dead. My head’s throbbing with pain.

Not just my head, actually. It’s just that my head hurts even worse than the rest. So much worse.

But just as it’s about to get unbearable, the pain begins to lift away. It takes a long time, I can’t say whether it’s hours or minutes, but the steady improvement makes it easier to endure.

A voice says something somewhere above me, but the words have no meaning. There’s a hand resting on my forehead. The soothing feeling originates from it, it feels like, and spreads from my head to my entire body.

I try to move a finger. Seems easy enough. It moves and touches some sort of fabric. There’s a little give. A mattress?

I follow with my whole hand and put it against the surface and my brain finally has the capacity to address the elephant in the room.

How the fuck are you still alive?

I’m being healed right now, aren’t I? I must’ve been brought to the trauma centre, but that means that I was still alive after having been hit by an explosion.

I try to open my eyes. Definitely a mistake. The light singes my eyes and I press them shut again immediately.

“Hey, can you hear me?” a female voice asks from above me. The same voice I also heard earlier?

I groan. My throat feels like it’s on fire. Nodding isn’t an option, speaking isn’t either.

“Alright. Stay still, I’ll finish healing you, everything’s going to be alright, okay? You’re at the hospital, you’re going to be okay. Just concentrate on your breathing and this’ll be over in a flash.”

I give a short hum to signal that I’ve understood, but then halt.

My voice.

It’s different. Higher.

I try again.

Not my voice. Not my voice.

How?

“Wha-” I try. It’s already getting easier to talk, but I barely realise. My voice sounds like it’s not me talking, but a girl sitting right next to me, reading out my thoughts.

“Why do I-” I have to pause, swallow. My throat is really dry. “Why do I sound like that?” I finally manage to croak.

“Like what?” the other voice asks.

“Like a-” I break off because I realise that my voice isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I’m shorter. There’s feeling in places where there shouldn’t be and none in places where there should.

I reach up to my chest.

What the fuck?

Suddenly, I don’t care that the light’s too bright for my eyes. My eyes snap open and I sit up.

Strands of long hair fall into my face, make it hard to see. The world spins and twists in unpredictable patterns, but I still manage to fight my way out of the bed.

My bare feet hit the cold floor and I almost fall, but delicate hands find the railing of the hospital bed and I can keep myself upright.

I need a mirror. Where’s a mirror in a place like this?

“You should really get back-” the healer starts, but I interrupt her.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?”

Even more importantly, why? I’m supposed to die, not be… changed.

I don’t wait for her reply. Waving my hands through the air in an uncoordinated effort to keep my balance, I reel forward, crash into the swing door, fall onto the corridor, get back to my feet.

A mirror. Where the fuck-

I halt. Green eyes meet mine, lock me in place. There’s a boy sitting in a bed in the room before me. His hair is brown and getting a little too long. His features are strangely soft for a person this lanky. His face is full of pimples.

I know that hair. I know those features. Fuck, I even know the pimples. Because that face I’m staring at… it’s supposed to be mine.