Sub Zero

Chapter Two

I storm out of our house and stomp across the manicured lawn. OUR.  I can't wait until I'm eighteen and move out. When "our" becomes "my".

I begin walking down our isolated street, hands in the pocket of my hoodie, and jump up on the road side curb as a car passes by. I turn my head and look back at my house, with its drab brick walls and black shingled roof. A lump forms in my throat. My mom can be a person's worst nightmare when she's drunk, but she's a caring, although timid, person when she's sober.

She apologized, after all, but she still punched me. And hurting someone is wrong, with realization of it or not. That's the most complicated relationship anyone could have.

I can't wait until my birthday, which is approximately four months away. On the day of January first, I will be free. Ah, the irony of my birthday. The coldest month of the year.

I turn onto the road that leads me to my destination.  When the familiar, shabby warehouse comes into view, I quicken my pace and slink into the shadows that the trees provide. A variety of crab grass and weeds grow around the old run-down building. Most of the windows are barricaded from the inside, but on the outside, they're spider-webbed with multiple cracks from the rocks that have been thrown at them.

I tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind my ear, and listen. I hear nothing but the wind. I take this chance to approach the warehouse.

I cautiously make my way across the hot cracked pavement of the road, listening for vehicles as I do. My sneakers quietly slap against the road, their soles worn out. I'm lucky that I slept in my clothes from yesterday. If not, I would've ran out of the house in my pajamas.

I make it to the other side and sneek over to the warehouse. Finally, I approach the building and reach for  the barricaded door, which I have already loosened the nails on.

I gently yank on the top board. It doesn't budge. I pull on it firmly. It pops off with a loud squeek, and I hold my breath, listening. Still, just the wind. I remove the rest of the barricade with ease. I slip between the two doors.

The inside of the warehouse is dusty,  like usual, and it has a musky, earthy aroma to it. I walk around a tall heap of empty crates and pick up a roll of paper towels that I had hidden among the heap of splintered wood. I rip off a few peices of the towels, then wipe down a grimy window that hasn't been boarded-up.

A thin layer of grime is removed, and I can now see the train station about a hundred yards away. The depot is closed for today, the usual whistles of the locomotives replaced by an occasional call of a crow.

Knowing that I am alone, I begin to stretch, clamping my hands together and reaching up above my head while leaning slightly to the right. I repeat, leaning left. I make my way to the middle of the warehouse, and stand up  straight, rolling my neck as I do.

I stretch my right arm out in front of me, more than likely looking like a traffic director signaling for someone to stop. I almost laugh at the thought. I concentrate, my jaw clenched, my eyes narrowed. Then, I feel it.

My arm begins to tingle. My palm goes numb. An icy sensation spreads across my finger tips, and a blast of cold air erupts from my hand as a flurry of snow shoots towards a crate in front of me. For a second, the wood is covered in a film of sub-zero degree snow, then it begins to harden into a nearly impenetrable ball of solid ice.

I smile, then laugh. I discovered my powers at the age of eleven. Fortunately, I was wise enough to keep it a secret. I was frightened at first. I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to control it.

It was then that I found the warehouse. It was located on the edge of town, not  far from where I live. It was part of the local train yard back then, but was rarely used. It was almost perfect.

I've been coming here ever since then. My powers are the only comfort to me. I practice most of the time. I don't know what for, besides just blowing off steam and avoiding the loss of control.

Nobody else is like me. At least, I've never heard about my condition among others. I would often go to the library, searching the dusty shelves for any document, or even novel, that may  give me a clue as to what I am. I always come back home empty-handed.

I just remember the first time I was beaten by my mother. I had felt so alone and empty. I cried, as any child would have. I locked myself in the bathroom. She pounded on the door, screaming at me from the other side.

I backed away from the shaking doorframe, my hand reaching out behind me and grabbing the knob to the faucet. The water turned on. My shaking hands suddenly felt cold as the warm water ran over them. I was so afraid that I didn't notice the tingling feeling on my fingertips as the water began to freeze.