CHAPTER ONE:
Reincarnation?
My eyes snap open.
There’s bright light streaming in through the window, and I block my hand against the light. This is when I look at it.
Wow. Has my hand always been this tan?
My stomach growls and my hand go to my rumbling stomach.
Man, I’m hungry.
I’m in the mood for waffles.
I pull my blankets off, and prepare myself to get out of bed. I see my feet touch the floor, and I propel myself up.
And that’s when I fall. Hard, face down.
“Ouch…” I mumble though the carpet. Weird. My voice is low and husky. Has it always been this husky?
There are footsteps getting heavier outside of my door. I look up, just as a hairy, bear-looking man rushes in.
“John!”
Wow, that’s my name? It’s nice.
Simple.
The large man kneels down beside me as he flips me onto my back. His touch is strong, but gentle. His eyes are brown and watery as he looks down on me in his thick beard.
“What were you thinking, John?” his deep voice sounds hurt, worried. “You know you’re supposed to call for me when you wake up.”
My mouth seems to work without me thinking about it, “Sorry George.”
George. My father?
I look at him carefully, his strong face and wrinkles, all his facial features. I see the $50 note sticking out of his pocket.
No.
He’s my foster father.
He pulls me into the sitting position. He lets go and gets up. I’m unsteady, and I wobble. My hand grabs the corner of my bed sheet and I’m somehow stable again.
Weird.
Something rolls towards me, George pushes it from behind.
Realisation hits me.
“Ah.”
He comes around and kneels down. My arm reaches over his shoulder as he wraps his arm around my waist.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
George lifts me, grunts as he drags me. He props me down in my wheelchair and heads out the door.
“You okay to get changed yourself?” he calls from beyond the room.
“Yeah,” I reply.
I turn my wheelchair around and took a good look at my room. It’s pretty small, green paint is cracked and peeling on the walls and my bed... is small.
Really small.
There’s a desk in the corner with a mirror hanging above it. I wheel over to it, and finally see what I look like.
Pretty average.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s dark, short, and I notice that my nose is pretty straight. Brown eyes.
Not bad for a cripple.
I see a cardboard box on the end of my bed. There’s a pile of clothes in it. I pull on a red shirt and awkwardly pull down my sweats and replace them for loose jeans. My finger pops through a hole at the knee.
Great.
There’s a buzzing sound. A phone sits on the desk. I grab it, and roll out of the room, checking my messages as I get to the kitchen.
There’s a small blonde girl sitting at the counter, spooning Coco Pops into her mouth. She looks up and scowls at me.
“You look gross, crip,” her voice is high pitched, snarky.
Her name pops into my head.
“Shut your fucking whiney trap, Angelica,” I snap.
Angelica’s bouncy curls bob along as she bursts into tears. I wheel past, grabbing the cereal box and a spoon as I head to the front door. On the left a door opens, and it’s George, holding my backpack. I grab it off him.
“Thanks George!”
He scolds after me as I escape successfully out of the hell hole. I wheel on the sidewalk, and kept wheeling down a block to the Ridler Public Secondary School.
My school.
*****************
Ridler Public Secondary School. It looked pretty crappy.
Red brick, slightly washed out, some graffiti scribbled all over the walls. Even the main door’s window has a huge crack in it when a student showed up to school with a gun and tried to shoot the principal.
Funny how I remember that. It doesn’t feel like my memory.
I go up the ramp, and suddenly, I feel something pushing my chair. I crane my head around.
Ah. Crap.
“Hello Mr Kingsley, how are you today?” It’s the helping hand committee, consisting of one elderly, annoying, super involved woman, Mrs Porter.
“Fine,” I mumble. She tuts as the chair hits the wall.
“Now, John,” she says. “What did I say about mumbling? I can’t hear your beautiful voice if you mumble.”
I put up with the abuse as she wheels me to the front of my locker, the only one standing alone, made for people with disabilities.
AKA. Me.
She finally leaves, and I open my locker. The bell rings as I grab my iPod, and wheel to the elevator. At least this school wasn’t that crappy to not have an elevator.
The doors open to the roof. It’s breezy, but not uncomfortable. I head over to the open area, passing some of the pot heads and the couples that are making out. There were a couple of moans, but I put my earphones in and block them out as I eat the cereal out of the box still on my lap.
The music in my ears is heavy on the rock. Sounds like an indie band.
I shovel more dry cereal into my mouth and look up to the sky. A couple of clouds pass by and I close my eyes. Inhale.
I really want to run.
*****************
School goes quickly. I actually bother to show up for music, before heading back out to the roof. The final bell rings and I’m lost in the hallway by a crowd of students.
I ignore the stares, and push my way through slowly. I hear a yelp, and stop.
I wheel around, and I sag in my seat.
Crap.
The students suddenly part, lining up along the lockers as I’m at one end, and the rugby team at the other. The vice-captain, his name escapes me, rubs his foot, as the rest of the team glare at me. He straightens up, and he joins in on the glares.
“What the hell, crip?!” he barked. “You ran over my foot!”
The feeling I’m having feels too familiar. Like I’m used to this.
God I hate bullies.
“My bad,” I apologise. “Wheelchair’s a bit rusty.”
“Well, you know what I think, crip?” the vice-captain walks towards me, and soon towers over me. He leans forward. “You’re the rusty one.”
The vice-captain pokes my legs. “See? Your legs are so rusty they can’t even move anymore.”
He pokes them again. Being the idiot that he is, he doesn’t realise no matter how much he pokes, I won’t feel it.
“No shit,” I say sarcastically.
There are some giggles from the people around me. I don’t feel their enthusiasm as the vice-captain’s face twitches in anger.
Oh, that face is familiar too.
He nods to the rest of the rugby team, and they surround me. They grab my bag, and then suddenly, the wheelchair and I are hoisted into the air. I laugh nervously as I’m carried out of the school to the dingy swimming pool.
Once I see the swimming pool, I panic.
“Stop!” I yell. “Put me down!”
They laugh; I hate their laugh, as they begin the fun game of swinging my wheelchair back and forth until it gained a higher momentum for release. I grab the jersey of the guy closest to me, but as I glide through the air, the jersey rips and the guy remains standing.
I really hate school and their cheap budgets.
When I hit the water, it’s as if I slammed into a concrete wall. My chair sinks from underneath me, as I struggle to breathe. I’m instantly cold, then hot, then cold again, hot and cold flushes, thrashing my arms to reach the surface.
The water turns me sideways, and I open my eyes. The chlorine stings and I shut them tight. I’m crying; a natural response since my eyes are on fire, but it still hurts.
I flap my arms again and my right hand touches something solid directly below me.
Shit.
I’m at the bottom of the pool.
I’ve been in the pool for a while now. I wonder if the rugby team is still up there.
But that’s highly unlikely.
Oh man, I’m going to drown.
A burst of bubbles escape my mouth as my lungs scream for air. I think about how wet and cold I am.
And how alone.
In my dying moments, the name of the asshole that orchestrated my glorious death re-entered my mind.
Keith.
What an ugly name.
*****************
I remember coughing.
I’m on my back, soaked, but on solid ground. My eyes flutter open. I see the sky. There’s no water around me, my energy is drained.
I’m alive.
My head rolls to the left, and I see someone, sitting with their head tilted back, breathing heavily.
I prop myself onto my elbows, and wipe the hair off my forehead. My vision clears.
He’s thin, pale and his clothes cling to him. He’s soaked head to toe.
Ah.
He saved me.
The guy leans forward and looks at me. Blonde hair, speckled blue eyes, good looking.
I wipe the remaining water off my face with my arm.
“You alright?”
His voice surprises me. It’s deeper than mine, and a twinge of a British accent escapes. A Pom.
I nod. He stands up and offers his hand. My eyes search for my chair.
Found it, still in the pool.
Pom’s head follows my stare. I can see light bulb in his head switch on.
I watch him jump back in. Seconds later, he comes out through the shallow end. Hauls my wheelchair over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
Show off.
He puts it down in front of me, and helps me sit in it.
“Cheers,” I thank him.
He shrugs, “It’s no problem.”
My hands go to my wheels, but my arms are floppy. Must have pulled some serious muscle when I was drowning.
“I got it.”
The Pom pushes my wheelchair, even picked up my backpack that was in a puddle and hands it to me.
Nice guy.
It’s quiet as he’s pushing me back out of the school. There isn’t to speculate, and the look on his face already knew what happened to me. Didn’t ask questions of the obvious.
A real nice guy.
“Where do you live?” he asks when we reach the main gate.
“Uh, here’s fine,” I mumble. “Thanks.”
I begin to wheel away onto the route home, when I hear him shout after me.
“What’s your name?”
I stop; turn my chair so I can see him over my shoulder.
I shout back, “John! You?”
A wide, toothy grin breaks out on his face as he waves at me.
“Nice to meet you John! I’m Peter!”