Sub Zero

Chapter Three

After freezing a few more crates,  my sudden urge to punch someone is replaced by a dull ache in my chest that can only be caused by a heart on the verge of breaking. The process of using my powers is draining.

Drenched in sweat, I urge myself to calm down. The neurological side of my powers kick in, and my skin begins to become cool. Heat is my weakness. Every time I just get warm, I feel sick to my stomach. And it's hard to stay cool when you have a gift that requires a surprisingly large amount of concentration to put into action. Not to mention that the climate of Arizona in the summer is sweltering hot.

I clean up, then slip back out of the building. I put the boards back in place, then make sure I'm not being followed or watched by anyone.

When I return home the kitchen is empty. So is the living room. And the bathroom. "Mom probably went on a beer run." I shower, then change into some shorts and a lime green tank top that are lying in the couch.

As I head to my bedroom, drying my damp hair, I stop in the hallway. I glance at my mother's wedding pictures. At her as a young girl, her natural blonde hair curled expertly, pinned back by a glossy, white veil. Her pristine  gown seems to glow. Her silk train trails behind her. She looked so happy. I look at him.

My father. He has dark hair and smile wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. I remember mom always telling me that he was a marine.  I remember the celebrations we had every time he came home. I also remember the day he died. The soldier that gave my mom that cursed piece of paper. The apology as my mom crumpled to her knees.

Ever since then my mother has been drinking. I usually just lock myself in my room, but sometimes her episodes are unexpected, and I suffer, like that very first time.

Up until I was ten, I had tried so hard to hold on to my father's memory.
But as I began to forget what his voice sounded like, how he hugged, how he made us all so happy- his memory slowly began to slip through my fingers.

Now, I have to see his picture to remember what he looks like. I used to deny it. After all, they never found his body. But how could he survive for this long being lost? I finally let the reality sink in. He was gone, and he left me with a monster.

I angrily turn away from the photograph. I make my way into my room, throw my towel in my dirty clothes basket, and lock the door. I sit on the edge of my bed, the blue sheets wrinkling under my weight. A small desk sits in the corner of my room. Old textbooks from school are piled on top of it, abandoned.

My window looks out over our quiet neighborhood. It's not much of a view. I sigh, laying back on the white pillows and closing my eyes, my legs still hanging off the edge of my bed.

"She may be at work." I realize with disgust. No wonder she was dressed like that this morning. "Revealing" would be putting her outfit lightly. After all, prostitutes need to show as much skin as possible to draw in clients.