7 Skips

CHAPTER ONE

Owen

Today is the third to last day before the new year on Terra. Three short days, and the year will shift from 0457 to an even 0458.

The hospital window is barely fogged; outside the world is harsh, blindingly orange and dull. At least there's a good view. The canals bend and snap in random directions, and grey slabs of boats chug across them chaotically. I itch at the collar of my brown hospital gown, rub at the dirt specked frame of my glasses, rake my fingers through my mousy hair.

I've been here long enough.

I yank my stuffy jacket from the foot of the bed and throw it on, it's heavy sleeves clinging to my knobby arms. There's no need for me to overstay my welcome. I tug my fat boots on and wrap the filthy laces up. This hospital sees me more than a little often, and the visits are never productive anyways. Doctors don't know shit.

I gather myself, and peek out the door. Left, right, left again—empty halls, besides a lone, shuffling old man. A stare at the baldy, wondering which way the exit is again. Right... right?

The distinctive clicking of a nurse's heels ring out through the halls—whichever way, whatever way, it's time to go.

I take off—baldy and the nurse are a flash, I pass them in seconds. I look over my shoulder only to see buff nurse Lorie right on my tail—time to speed up.

Sometimes I think that there are better ways to handle my problems. Maybe I shouldn't be so rash. Cookie tells me I should learn to calm down, accept that things won't always go my way. Getting all worked up like you do doesn't fix much. I guess she's right: whenever I lose my cool I either end up in the hospital or waking up on Cookie's couch the next morning with a black eye and the taste of blood in my mouth.

But you know what? Sometimes it's hard, okay. It isn't easy as Cookie tries to claim it is. When I get mad, I just get mad, I don't get smart. I don't get strong either, unfortunately. I'm a 17 year old kid who is shorter than some 12 year olds. It's not my fault—I mean, what are these people feeding their children? Shouldn't that be the question we're asking, instead of why I'm so small? That's what makes sense to me, at the very least!

Whatever, I'm fine. It's okay.

My watch starts to vibrate.

I let it buzz. Sitting next to a dumpster, out of breath and having to bear the same Star Kiss Star songs play over and over in the shop next door, I don't really feel like talking. I peak out from my hiding place in the alley, into the streets crammed with streams of sweaty pedestrians. No, I don't feel like existing right now.

Sure, I escaped the hospital. I ran out like a loon and made an ass of myself, but I got out. On the other hand, I remembered I was in a hospital for a reason, and now I'm half conscious and dizzy by a stinking dumpster in some unknown alleyway crowded with drunks.

The world blurs and sways around. I feel a poke at my feet, and without even thinking, snap my foot up as hard as I can. I open my eyes wide enough to see a gross old guy, flat on the ground his bandaged hand wavering back towards my leg.

"Fuck off, man!" I land a hard kick right on his face. He lets out a long gurgle and crumbles back down.

Fucking gross old perverts. I feel my head begin to swirl again. This bullshit planet is filled with creeps and bastards and nurses. The apartments circling me begin to rotate until they fill the sky—am I upside down, too? Bullshit nurses that give me bullshit medications...

The world rocks and trembles. I think I hear someone talking...

Before it all crashes down.

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