Yet You're Still Here

~ 2 ~

My body jolts into a survival-instinct, upright position, eyes snapping open in alarm. I can feel my chest heave up and down at an abnormal pace, and my hand doesn't force it into any mercy by resting it atop of the unsteady pair of breasts. Instead, it only causes me to feel the intense beating of my heart, King-Kong seeming to be having a blast in their with his drum sticks. Adrenaline is coursing through my brain, creating a swishing sound when I sat up too quickly. Panic is evident to anyone that walks in and notices my current state. And as if my body was just now realizing this (if I didn't stop freaking out), it forces itself to attempt deep inhaling.

The nightmares such as these aren't a rarity. In fact, it's almost every night that these occur. For some people, they wake up, and can't seem to remember all what happened - just that it was terrifying. But for me, it's not that luxurious. I can recall every detail of every moment in this particular frightening scene. It's the same one every time too. The setting is cold and dark. A pitch blackness surrounds all inches of the air, ground, or further distances. There's a sort of hollow vibe crawling towards me, but I can't pin-point why it is that way. It's as if different insects with many tiny tickling legs are groping my back, neck, and thighs. I feel as if I am waiting for something to grab me or attack me or kill me. I'm terrified.

And then, very far away, a spec of a moving figure stops moving. It's a person from what I can tell - a woman. Even from this distance, I can see her eyes staring deep into my own, trying to send me a message. For no particular reason, words are bouncing around inside of my head. They turn into voices and scream themselves into existence. Black, fast, help, strong, protect. These words that don't make any sense whiz and fly around my head, created by these invisible voices that I can't recognize. But I don't think the "Who" is important. It's the message they're trying to tell me. And the entire time this goes on, the woman only nears closer, and in an extraordinary calm manner despite the howling and crying of transparent noises. Her hands are behind her back, a gentle and familiar smile gracing her lips. Only when she comfortingly reaches out and softly grazes my cheeks do the scream halt.

"Black...fast...help...strong...protect," she mumbles happily, slowly, as if I were a child, "In this order you will recognize it."

My own hand rests against hers that lies upon my skin, and in a whisper I reply, "Recognize what?"

I ask this question every time, and every time it tumbles from my lips in an even more pathetic approach. Every time, it only increases in helplessness and perplexing thoughts. This woman never answers, and then slowly fades out of existence. I never get an answer before she does this, and instead the screams come back. And this time, there are voices that can be seen - or more - the owners of the voices. People begin to walk toward me, much more threatening than the previous woman. Their jaws are propped open with some sort of unseen stick when they screech the description of whatever I'm supposed to recognize over and over again. I just turn around and start to run, only to be stopped by another group of strangers in dirty clothes and wide mouths that could swallow a glass of ocean. Everywhere I turn, these dead-but-alive creatures are encircling me, singing a chant much different than mine. Much different than my "Stars" poem. Mantra. Whatever you want to call it.

Eventually after spinning 'round and 'round, staring wide-eyed at the monsters, I fall onto my rear end and tuck my knees close to my chest. The palms of my hands place too much pressure onto my ears and my body shakes with every sob I release. I'm screaming too, but nothing comes from my vocal chords. I've become mute. I can't speak like before. My voice has been stripped from me. And now I can't call out for help.

This is the part where I wake up - just when the screamers have gotten close enough to poison me with their breath. Sweat covers my body, and the scenery of a blank room in the darkness reminds me that it was only a dream. A reoccurring dream that means nothing. Maybe I'm just exhausted and think too much into the nightmare, so it's on replay without my consent. For whatever reason it keeps coming back, I don't care. I just wish it'd stop.

I get out of bed, throwing the covers off of my body in haste. When I go to bed, I don't have the comforter on me. I feel trapped and suffocated, much like the effect of the room itself. Wearing sheets don't help my claustrophobia, yet my conscience seems to pull them all the way up to my neck in deep sleep anyway. It's infuriating, and sometimes I just wish I could crawl inside of my head and murder that tiny voice- that little manipulator.

My feet touch the floor again, and I walk into the bathroom. On my way in, the clock reads: 5:43 a.m. It's not the earliest I've woken, but it's early nonetheless. I sigh and turn the handle on the sink, cold water rushing from the faucet in a waterfall drop. For a moment, I just watch it fall in a peaceful bliss. I'm in complete control of how hot or cold the water is, and when it comes out. I'm in control. I wish I could have that sort of power over my emotions, my life.

I cup my hands underneath the tap so they can gather a small pool of liquid before splashing it onto my face. The heat created from the night terrors vanishes with a newfound cold. I repeat this one more time before grabbing a towel and softly dabbing the water from it. Rubbing would only cause more red-faced hotness.

After a little freshening up in the bathroom, I return to the room and flick on the light. As silently as possible, I find clothes to change into: A grey hood, black leggings, and some knock-off Converse. My hair is kept up and out of my face- the preferred hairstyle of mine. I hate it down. Of course, I'm unattractive either way, but at least this option allows me to do basic tasks without it obstructing anything in the day.

Soon everyone in the house has woken up, and have slowly gotten ready due to the drowsy state. I'd quietly found my way into the kitchen pantry and made up the smallest bowl of cereal. I've never had Cookie Crisps before, but they tasted pretty colorful. I didn't like them.

Ear buds stay inside of my head, playing different songs from Shawn Mendes and Nirvana and Alicia Keys. All different genres. But they're all on the same playlist. Disorganization is organization in my mind. I make it function. It's all in a random order that I understand, and that's why the songs are jumbled as they are: Because only I can understand. It's something no one, not even the FBI, can take away from me.

A tap on the shoulder interrupts my music, though, and I shift my eyes over to June. I'm seated on a stool at the island bar in the middle of the kitchen as everyone bustles around. Rose has a cup of yogurt in her hand as she reads some newspaper, and Mr. Williams is stirring a white substance into his coffee with a tiny silver spoon. Although he thinks he's being subtle, I can notice every few seconds how his eyes flicker over to me, watching me. But at least his eyes are warm when they do so.

"You ready for the day?" June asks, barely audible through my buds. I take them out and watch her smile radiate positive energy. "I'll show you around school and stuff, if you need it."

I nod, but don't verbalize a reply. She widens her grin for a split second before going back to her hustling around every which way. It takes a bit before everyone is seated at the island bar, and Mr. Williams' clears his throat. My orbs flit up to him expectantly, and I sigh when a look from him means to remove my other bud. Reluctantly, I take it out and let the strings hang around my neck and shoulders. June stops scrolling on her phone that was laid on the tabletop to look up as well.

"So," Mr. Williams starts. "Did you get a good night's rest, Lakota?"

He said my name correctly.

"Yes."

He nods. "Good. Because you have a long day ahead of you, and we have some ground rules that need to be set. Also, I have a list of things to consider both in public and at school."

I've already heard this before. "Okay."

Mr. Williams folds his hands over the table. "Firstly, there will be no going or being out past nine in the night. That's a set curfew, and there will be consequences if broken. Any delinquency of any sort at school or in the public in general will have even greater consequences. Something to think about is making friends and being kind. If not that, then try to stay on the down-low and blend in as casually as possible. As for identity concealment, there will be no removing of contact lenses, hair dye, and ear piercings. Those are key assets to your new look. We will keep up to date with those details when needed and-"

I sort of tune out the rest once I realize that there's no point in listening to what I've already heard a hundred billion times before. The Witness Protection Program is repetitive. You'd think that constantly changing your identity would help, but that's what blinds people. In fact, that's exactly the flaw in the system. Obviously if I have to keep changing how I look, it's not working. However they still don't change anything. As long as I'm not dead, then there's no point in changing it apparently. Only when it's too late do government alliances let their stubborn ways slip up and warp. Only when something bad happens do they say, "Oh. I guess we should change a few things to improve." Although even that's rare. They're convinced that they're perfect, and that no one thinks like they do. Like they have the intelligence of a human unheard of. In reality, all the FBI does is keep things hidden from the public and use propaganda to make things seem a lot less worse than they actually are. Sure, they've protected me. They've kept me breathing. But I'm not alive.

At school, the only class I discovered I really enjoyed, just partially, is math. I like numbers. I like how there's something to prove that something is true. It's just comforting, and I've never found comfort in anything for awhile, except for those stars. And now even that's stripped away from me since moving here. But I also might like mathematics just because I'm good at knowing quantities. People call me a freak because of the way I can do things inside of my head. I've never been diagnosed with it, simply because I try to keep it undiscovered from anyone, but I believe I have savant syndrome. I have a photographic memory, definitely, and math comes so naturally. They can never seem to place me in a high enough math class.

June has a scar on the back of her ear, that today, is hidden my her beautiful locks of hair. But I caught a glimpse of it at some point. At what point I can't remember. Mr. Williams has three diagonol specs of gold in his grey eyes, mostly in the right part. But he does have a few more in different areas. Rose. . .I remember too much about Rose. The annoying ones stick out more than the rest. In numbers. . .I have currently taken an approximate number of 2,430 steps already. And counting. Anything with quantity sticks out to me, really. And I guess that means everything sticks out to me.

I sigh as I close my locker shut, backpack slinging around my shoulder. I stop when I see a boy in his freshman or sophomore year being pressed up against a locker by a large guy with large arms. The boy is crying, tears spilling from his eyes as the stocky guy shoves a stick onto his back. His mouth is close to the victims ear, and I can practically feel the venom seep into my skin as he speaks harsh words into his head.

I begin walking towards them. I'm not supposed to get into trouble on my first day. I'm not supposed to be anything except for friendly. I'm not supposed to interact with people unless I'm befriending them. But that boy is being bullied. I know what that feels like. My father bullied me. Albeit it was much worse than a stick scraping my skin, but it's still awful. And everyone is either watching, recording, or ignoring. It's sickening. It's unfair. But more than anything, it's pissing me off.

Without thinking, I reach up and grab the jock's backpack loop at the top and yank back. He stumbles in surprise, and I snatch the stick out of his left hand. The younger boy spins around, eyes wide and hands trembling. The jock has fury etched onto his face, following the bombshell in his eyes. A couple of the people in the ignoring category finally stop to watch, jaws ajar, an invisible pole propping it open.

I roll my eyes and turn to the hurt boy. "Are you okay?"

He nods quickly in response, expression unchanging.

Before I can look back at the jock, a force knocks me back into the lockers. The metal shakes and clangs on the impact, handles digging into my back flesh and spine. I wince and look into the eyes of the same bully.

"Who the hell are you?" he growls.

I keep my lips in a straight line and stare daggers through his skull. Not into, but through. I don't have to answer to him.

He shakes my shoulders violently when I don't reply. "Answer me, you bi-"

Crack!

A series of gasps fill the hall as the jerk falls onto the floor, jaw surely knocked out of place. Heavy breathing spares my nose some time as it files out through my mouth in short splurges. It evens out soon, my fist slowly uncurling and arm going back to my side. My anger subsides, and everything is dead silent. My hood had fallen off of my head. The jerk looks up at me, not saying anything. It's like screws were un-tightened in his mouth, and the screwdriver got lost forever.

I give the boy previously bullied a quick and minuscule grin before handing him the stick. He flinches when it touches the palm of his hand, and I turn around, pulling my hood back over my head. The crowd surrounding the scene parts like the Red Sea, and I'm Moses. A few people in my way - approximately sixteen of them - stop my fluid movement, and I carefully make my way around them. One had red hair with icy blue eyes, one had black hair with deep green eyes, and another had brown hair with charcoal black eyes. It didn't matter who was the obstacle. I'd get through them to flee the event. I couldn't be in trouble on the first day.

Soon I find the outside of the school building, and I let the cool wind stroke my cheeks softly as I close my eyes. The door opens again, and June appears by my side. She looks frozen in an eternity of sickly pale expressions.

"How. . .have you ever. . .when did you learn to. . ." No matter what she does, or how she tries to form it, she can't seem to build a coherent sentence.

But she doesn't have to.

"A personal trainer is how I learned," I murmur. "Once the FBI found out that my dad was still on my case, they made me learn how to fight back. That guy didn't have any form, I could tell, but he was strong."

"But. . .how did you even do that?" she exclaims, hands gripping her hair. She comes closer to me, the initial stun now over. "You knocked him onto the ground with one hit!"

I shrug and look out onto campus as the sky filters in a few grey clouds. I know the answer. But that's another thing I like keeping to myself: time.

I haven't slept for twelve months, four days, and two hours.

I hadn't gone to a public school in seven months, eighteen days, and eight hours before now.

I can calculate those things easily. I can calculate how long I've known how to fight too.

But I don't need to do any math to know that throwing fists became a part of me once I earned the desire to kill my father when I find him again.