The Evolution of Normal

Chapter 11

The road home was a long one. Seattle was almost three miles—in elevation alone—beneath Mount Rainier, God knows how many actual miles I walked. And I had to hitchhike across the city when I finally got to it. Dozens and dozens of cars passed me by, ignoring me completely or even speeding up. I couldn't figure out why until it dawned on me how horrifying I probably looked. As if I wasn't scary enough on my best day. I found a bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I was a mess. Dirty and haggard. My face coated with blood and ash and smoke. Lips swollen and cracked. Hair twisted and greasy, tangled in knots. My coat with bullet holes, bullets in my shoulder. I washed up as best I could. When someone in a rickety truck finally picked me up, I told her to take me to a hospital. It was the last place in the world I wanted to be, but my shoulder needed serious medical attention, infection and gangrene were taking hold. Which I was glad for, because if that hadn't happened, my skin probably would have healed over, bullets still inside. When I got to the hospital, the doctors immediately put me into surgery, cutting out the infection and gangrene, removing the bullets. They told me there would be permanent nerve damage. They told me I would never be able to have full use of my arm again.

And, of course, they had to report to the police that someone had been shot, but by then I had disappeared. Eventually, I made it back to my apartment. I spent many days lying in my bed. I'm actually lying in bed right now, thinking about it all again. My body quickly healed from all the physical trauma. My arm still bothers me though. It seems to be getting better, but I don't have any strength in it, or much control. I've had a much harder time dealing with the emotional trauma of it all. The betrayal of my parents, the murder of Rand. The overwhelming stress of being captured, experimented on, shot at, and nearly killed.

So I lie here. In my bed. I stare at the ceiling. I sleep. Sometimes I cry. And I feel sorry for myself. I still struggle with the knowledge that I'm only a mistake, that what they did to me went horribly wrong. Soon my thoughts turn to the fact that those people are still out there. My parents. And they still have to pay for what they've done to me. A current of anger flows deep inside me, deeper and wider than I thought possible. They will pay. All of them.

I just don't know how.

I despair, curling tighter under the covers. I don't even leave my bed for two days. I feel weak, empty, and listless, like I should just die in my bed. But then someone knocks on my door. I groan, burrowing deeper into my sheets. I never want to leave here.

The knocking persists.

And, I admit, I'm really quite curious as to who it could be. With one last groan I climb out of my nest, standing for the first time in days. I get dizzy, my vision fuzzy, almost blacking out. I brace myself on the bed frame, and then stiffly walk to the door, body not used to motion. I open the door.

Standing there, really quite unsteadily, is Sim, my landlord.

"So, where the hell have you been?"

Too tired to react, I just stare at him, quickly regretting my decision to get up.

"Cuz I've come up a lot and you haven't been around. Actually if you weren't here this time I was gonna have to take all your stuff and rent out the place again. You do know it's been almost two months since you last payed rent. . ." he trails off and looks at me. He sways, scrunching up his face in thought. He struggles to find what he wants to say. "Actually, you know what? The only time you've given me money was the first day you moved in."

"You're right, Sim, I haven't paid you in a while." I sigh and that's all I say. He looks like he's expecting more. With a slight hiccup he pinches up his face again, confused.

"Hmm. Now what was I saying?" He concentrates, scratches his forehead. There's a long moment of silence. "Oh yes. That's right. I'm here for last months rent." He seems proud he remembered.