That morning, in the still-dark hallway outside her room, Charlie was a boy pressing himself against the wall, nervously waiting for his girlfriend to let him in, terrified that someone would see him before she opened the door. A drenched girl watched her silently as she brushed her teeth, blood dripping vaporous and insubstantial from half-transparent wrists, towel soaked pale red with watered-down blood. Charlie dressed in silence and pointedly ignored her - she didn't feel like conversation today.
Outside, morning fog drifting lazily across school grounds, she was telekinetically bashed into a massive toga-clad statue by a vengeful ex until blood oozed from her skull and she lost consciousness. As soon as she snapped back into her own body, an echo of fear still twisting her insides, she broke out into a run.
Charlie loved to run. When she ran, nothing could touch her. Her power needed time to ferret out memories, and as long as she never slowed down, she was blissfully free to be herself without fear of interruption. She ran until her legs were shaking and she couldn't breath, and when she finally slowed down, panting and sweaty, she was at the beach.
There, a cheerful little boy half mummified with bandages babbled endlessly to her about being abused and alone. If she had to guess, he'd probably been killed by his abusive parents. He didn't seem to realize he was dead.
She ran even faster on the way back to the school.
In the showers, hot water beating against her shoulders, she was running her hands through her new girlfriend's wet hair, giggling into her lips at how daring they were being, and she was sobbing breathlessly underneath a freezing-cold stream of water and watching blankly as the blood that streamed from long gashes along her wrists stained the towel wrapped around her a pale red.
In the abandoned lounge, she turned the TV on and cranked up the volume to drown out the sobbing of the drenched girl who had followed her in from the showers. It was the same girl from that morning, the same girl she had just been a few minutes ago, and Charlie still didn't acknowledge her, staring pointedly at the toy commercial blaring on the TV. An ancient episode of Sesame Street came on and her stomach twisted instinctively. The memory of the five-year-old at the beach, overly talkative and annoyingly cheerful, blissfully unaware of what he was, overcame her, and she hastily changed the channel, landing on ESPN and dropping the remote lightly on the couch next to her. It was Saturday, around eight in the morning, and everyone else seemed intent on sleeping in. Just her and Ms. Suicide, then. She yawned heavily, stretching sinewy arms above her head, and settled back to watch what promised to be The Greatest Moments in Football.
Outside, morning fog drifting lazily across school grounds, she was telekinetically bashed into a massive toga-clad statue by a vengeful ex until blood oozed from her skull and she lost consciousness. As soon as she snapped back into her own body, an echo of fear still twisting her insides, she broke out into a run.
Charlie loved to run. When she ran, nothing could touch her. Her power needed time to ferret out memories, and as long as she never slowed down, she was blissfully free to be herself without fear of interruption. She ran until her legs were shaking and she couldn't breath, and when she finally slowed down, panting and sweaty, she was at the beach.
There, a cheerful little boy half mummified with bandages babbled endlessly to her about being abused and alone. If she had to guess, he'd probably been killed by his abusive parents. He didn't seem to realize he was dead.
She ran even faster on the way back to the school.
In the showers, hot water beating against her shoulders, she was running her hands through her new girlfriend's wet hair, giggling into her lips at how daring they were being, and she was sobbing breathlessly underneath a freezing-cold stream of water and watching blankly as the blood that streamed from long gashes along her wrists stained the towel wrapped around her a pale red.
In the abandoned lounge, she turned the TV on and cranked up the volume to drown out the sobbing of the drenched girl who had followed her in from the showers. It was the same girl from that morning, the same girl she had just been a few minutes ago, and Charlie still didn't acknowledge her, staring pointedly at the toy commercial blaring on the TV. An ancient episode of Sesame Street came on and her stomach twisted instinctively. The memory of the five-year-old at the beach, overly talkative and annoyingly cheerful, blissfully unaware of what he was, overcame her, and she hastily changed the channel, landing on ESPN and dropping the remote lightly on the couch next to her. It was Saturday, around eight in the morning, and everyone else seemed intent on sleeping in. Just her and Ms. Suicide, then. She yawned heavily, stretching sinewy arms above her head, and settled back to watch what promised to be The Greatest Moments in Football.