Why Are You My Remedy? [Book 1]

22

It takes 5 years to walk to the elevator. 15 more to ride it up. I'm a million years old by time I make it to my room.

Luka is still, silent, perfectly put together and mechanical in his movements.

There's nothing in his eyes, in his limbs, in the motions of his body that indicates he even knows my name.

I watch him move quickly, swiftly, and carefully around the room, finding little devices meant to monitor my behavior. He's disabling them one by one.

If anyone asks why my cameras aren't working, Luka won't get in trouble. This order came from Agreste which makes it official.

This makes it possible for me to have some privacy.

I thought I would need privacy.

I'm such a fool.

Luka is not the boy I remember.

*Flash back*

I was in third grade.

I'd just moved into my town after being thrown out of- asked to leave my old school.

My parents were always moving, always running away from the messes I made, from the playdates I'd ruined, from the friendships I never had.

No one ever wanted to talk about my "problem," but the mystery surrounding my existence somehow made things worse.

The human imagination is disastrous when left on its own. I only heard bits and pieces of of their whispers.

"Freak!"

"Did you hear what she did . . .?"

"What a loser."

" . . . got kicked out of her old school . . ."

"Psycho!"

"She's got some kind of disease . . ."

No one talked to me. Everyone just stared.

I was at the age where I cried because of it.

I ate lunch alone by a chain linked fence.

I never looked in the mirror. I never wanted to see the face everyone hated so much.

Girls used to kick me and squeal and run away. While boys used to laugh and throw rocks at me.

I'm pretty sure I still have scars.

I used to watch the world go by through that chain linked fence. I watched parents dropping off their kids, wishing I were them.

This was before the world went bad. Everything was fresh and innocent. Back when all our problems had solutions.

Back then, Luka was the boy who used to walk to school, or ride his bike.

Luka was the boy who sat three rows in front of me.

His clothes were worse than mine, and his lunch was nonexistent. I never saw him eat.

One morning he came to school in a car.

I know because I saw him get pushed out of it.

His father was drunk and driving, yelling and flailing his fists for some reason.

Luka stood very still and stared at the ground for a long time.

I watched a father slap his 8-year-old son in the face. I watched Luka fall to the floor and I just stood there, motionless as he was repeatedly kicked in the ribs.