The Evolution of Normal

Chapter 1

Normal.

Do I even remember what that was like? No, I don't. Not really. It's been much too long. Can I even remember my name?

Of course I can. My name is Chloe Bell. Why wouldn't I be able to remember that? Those kinds of things don't change. Everything else has. My whole entire life has been transformed. I have been transformed. Lots of people think that gradually, over the course of time, a person will change, grow and develop into an adult, into the normal type of person they're bound to become. But I'm not an example of this, am I? I am not an example of growing up normally, no longer a normal human, even. Very far from average. As a child, though, I was normal. I think. I enjoyed playing outside, playing with friends, going places. That's normal, right? I had a doll house and a plethora of toys, like any other little girl. And like any typical family, we had a dog. His name was Scotty, and then I killed him. Now wait, that's not normal. But that was after. Let's see, kindergarten. Yeah, that was normal. I began at a younger age than most, almost a whole year. My classmates liked me, at least I always thought they did, and my teachers always had good things to say about me at those ridiculous conferences Mom and Dad were forced to attend. I was a good kid. The first time I had to go to the principal's office was in the second grade, and even that was an accident. It was recess and we were playing tag. I was It. The kid I was chasing was a gangly boy named Derek. I had a crush on Derek, so I was chasing him as fast as I could, giddy and laughing. Next thing I knew he was stopped and I was running into him at full speed, both my hands in front of me. He thought I was hitting him on purpose. That was the only time I ever got in trouble in grade school. Third, fourth, and fifth grade went by more normally than anyone could want. Middle school was when things started getting interesting again. Mostly because of puberty.

"Dad. Stop it." He was reading some sort of digital news pad thing, minding his own business.

"Stop what, honey?" He looked up at me.

"Stop interfering with my life. I've had enough of it."

"Chloe, I have no idea what you're talking about."

My Dad is always very measured and patient. But he's definitely stubborn. When he thinks he's right, he's right. No questions.

"Yes, you do Dad,"—I think I inherited his stubbornness—"you know I told you never to try and talk to my friends."

"I haven't," he insisted.

"Yes, you have! Cara told me this morning at school how weird she thinks you are! How embarrassing is that? Just stay out of my life!"

"Is Cara the strange one who always wears two pairs of glasses at the same time?"

I was outraged. How could he be so insensitive? In response I stomped out of the living room and slammed my door. Melodramatically, of course. But that was normal, right? Drama with the parents?

We fought a lot, especially me and my mom. Most—if not all—were fights for no reason. They were a normal dynamic of the family. We still got along otherwise, for the most part. Everything was average. Now I can remember what normal was like. It was nice, really. Having an average family, a normal life. Normal, that is, until I started high school and things started moving far, far away from average.

I think it happened in December of 11th grade. I had a very peculiar dream. It involved no characters except for me. I saw myself wandering through a haze of red mist, thicker than fog. It was very dark, and I had to struggle to move my limbs. The effort it took was momentous, and with each step, each move, it got harder. Eventually, I was stuck. No matter how hard I tried, I could only move my eyes. The red fog was encroaching, slinking forward, getting thicker, oppressing me. I could hardly breathe as it engulfed me. So far I'd say a pretty weird dream. But suddenly I felt extreme piercing pain in my arm, so intense, in fact, it woke me up. I was screaming.