Two years earlier
I was walking along the road, still sore from the late night run. The air was cold, the moon and stars bright, lighting my way with a silvery flowing light, while the storm from the day had dissolved into the heavens. I breathed in the fresh air. The quiet seemed almost ominous. I climbed into the tree, it's worn bark gently scratching my arms, as I refused to wear my jacket or hoodie on runs. As I reached the highest branch I could climb, I closed my eyes and listened. The sounds of the people, crunching on the ice and snow below me, the sound of the occasional animal in the small wooded area near by, and the low rumble of cars in the distance met my ears. The world was somewhat peaceful. And so of course that meant something bad was bound to happen.
So I jumped down from the tree, into the street below me, and stood, ready for what was coming. Just as I hit the pavement, I heard the sound of tires screeching, and the crunch of metal. The car had hit a patch of ice on the road, and lost control. But I stood immobile, holding my hand up, a slight bend in my elbow, and braced for the impact. The young woman behind me shielded her child, fear conquering her. I stood my face calm and blank, as the vehicle impacted my hand, the door crumbling, and my arm bending slightly more. As the impact continued, my arm snapped, so I lowered it, and transferred the impact to my shoulder, my feet cracking the pavement, and broken glass scraping against my bare skin. Ignoring the pain, I leaned into the car, crumpling it in a slight fold, as the driver's airbag deployed. As the car finally stopped, I sunk to my knees, pain taking my last thoughts away, and darkness coming to the edges of my vision. When I lost consciousness, the lights of ambulances splayed funny shadows on the walls.
I awoke in a hospital. I didn't know where I was, and only barely remembered what had happened. The pain in my arm had diminished, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I opened my eyes and pressed the nurse call button. It was time for me to get home. My family still called me thier son at that point, and couldn't know where I was. A nurse walked in a few moments later, confused on why I was awake.
"How are you even close to conscious? We had you on a strong dose of morphine. You shouldn't have woken up until tomorrow." She said.
"Chalk it up to a high metabolism. Also, I need to get home. My parents are surely worried. Could you give them a call and ask them to come get me? Their number is 1405-332-5211." I replied, just wanting to leave already.
"You still need to recover. You broke your arm in two different places and have massive lacerations along your shoulder and chest. You need to stay."
"Have you treated those wounds?"
"Yes, but we still need to cast your arm, and check the stitching on your chest."
"Then hurry. I don't need to be here. Are the young woman and her child alright?"
"What are you talking about?"
"There was woman and a child behind me when I stopped the car. Are they alright?"
"Oh, those two? They are fine, minor scrapes on the mother, the child was uninjured."
"Good." They were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn't just let them die.
I went back to sleep, glad that they had lived. When I awoke again, I saw my mother sitting in the chair next to my bed.
"You flat lined." She said, tears in her eyes. "But you were still breathing like you were just asleep. it was like that for a full minute. What are you? What changed you? You're ice cold. and your heart has been very faint. You don't even look like you're in pain. What's wrong with you?"
She wouldn't understand, because even I didn't understand what had happened that night. I didn't know what I was. I didn't even know I was different. Not for a long, long time.
The following week I was back in school. And people looked at me differently. The scars along my arm and chest seemed out of place against the pale skin underneath them. They didn't know what the red and angry marks were from. They were jagged, and raw. But now they form beautiful etchings in the stonelike muscle of my arm. they do not detract from me, only improve. They tell the story of who I am, how I suffered, how little it matters, and how far I would go to save someone I didn't know.
How little I had know then, that the scars where the excuse they said to avoid me, when the truth was instinct. Like birds in the forest, who are silent when something dangerous is nearby, they avoided me. They knew at the most primal level, I was only part human.
