Webbed Shadows

Chapter One: Memories

2081

A white coat, a stethoscope, a first aid kit. The essentials.

At least, to an eight-year-old you.

You scribble the items down on a folded napkin without much thought in a sloppy scrawl. Behind you, your parents stand, eyes glimmering, waiting for you to finish your list. After crossing the final "T," you hand them the napkin and tuck your little hands behind your back, waiting for any hint of a response. Your dad's calculating eyes rove over the paper as your mom chuckles.
Placing the napkin in his back pocket, he sighs.
"Why can't my daughter ask for normal things?"

Three little boxes sit pleasantly beneath your unsightly Christmas tree a month later, wrapped tightly in pink wrapping paper and adorned with silver bows. Curlicues of dark red text spell out, "From Santa, To Y/N." Shaking the boxes, a grin breaks across your face as you pretend to discern what each present contains. Your mom rolls her eyes and clutches her heart sarcastically.

"Oh, the suspense!" She says, leaning into your father who sits beside her on the couch. "I wonder what could be inside those boxes!" He scoffs.

Now, it was time to put on a show. With some difficulty, you unwrap each box slowly, careful not to damage any contents. After sliding off the remaining wrapping paper, three brown packages of varying sizes are exposed. Lifting them above your head, you proclaim, "I will now commence opening!"

You place the boxes back onto the carpet and unfold the flaps to each box. After revealing the contents, you sit back. Take in the sight in front of you. And let out a holler that nearly wakes the entire neighborhood. It was Christmas morning, and there you were, finally. A true doctor. With your creased white coat, plastic stethoscope, and red first aid kit, you were ready to take on the world. You were ready to help people.

It began with small animals and insects. You would rescue bees with missing legs from the hot pavement and take them back into your room, placing them in Tupperware containers with sugar water and leaves. You would shelter fledgling birds caught outside of the nest in rain storms, building unorthodox huts using old jackets and step stools, hand feeding each shivering sparrow granola, blueberries, and sunflower seeds. With every hurt animal you released back into the wild, your aspiration of becoming a doctor grew closer and closer. It was beaming, just out of reach, a shimmering beacon bent over the horizon.

In the sixth grade, you were accepted into a prestigious charter school on a full scholarship; one of the best in the nation. When you received the letter, you ran into your small kitchen to where your parents were eating and tore open the envelope. When your lips had barely formed the word "Congratulations," your parents rushed towards you, jumping with ecstasy. The card, accompanied by a small transmitter, displayed a repeating hologram of falling confetti as celebratory horns blared in the background.

On the first day of orientation, you made sure to wear your best dress. It was sky blue with a fluffy skirt and intricate floral details along the bodice. Your mother's face had nearly gone gray when she saw the price tag in the local boutique, but she picked it off the shelves and held it up to you anyway. "You'll look beautiful, Y/N."

And you did, until you arrived in the gymnasium amongst all the other new students, and realized with horror your dress was not beautiful at all. Whereas moments ago you were grinning ear to ear, skipping down the marble halls, feeling the weight of the skirt shift against your legs, you were now confronted with a feeling of inadequacy. Judgment.
As you squeaked into your seats, you received preening glares from parents and children alike. Their pristine collars and luxury garments seemed to sneer with them. You held your mother close, and she held you back, giving you reassuring squeezes. A girl behind you scoffed and whispered to her mother that your dress was horrid. You pretended not to hear.