Red Cure (on hold)

Entry 4-11

10:43 pm 

That’s what I grew up in, so if you find anything I say later disturbing, keep in mind that my father figure was a gruff Marine who taught me how to survive on my own, how to kill and how to eat five hotdogs in less than ninety seconds.

I had no adult female examples to teach me about makeup or clothes or any other useless things like that. Although Marine Stevens had pretty much adopted me, he didn’t have a wife anymore so, while I kind of had a father, I still didn’t have a mother. All the doctors that tested me and all the soldiers I came into contact with were men; the only females I came into contact with were the ones that lived in my wing, and none of them were my friends.

               The only friend I ever had was a young boy. I met him about a year before the wars spread to the facilities and bombs landed outside more frequently than the scientists took roll call. And they took roll call every time they did a test. And they did lots of tests.

The boy was a few years older than me, which should have been intimidating, but he was long and clumsy at first and I felt sorry for him the minute I saw him. The poor boy was shoved into the mess hall full of girls without a male in sight. He must have felt like the whole of Time Square was staring at him, silent judgment in their eyes. I spotted him from across the room and watched as he tried to turn around and run back out. Unfortunately, the door was locked.

I got up and wound my way through the tables towards him as he turned around to face the hordes of girls. I snatched his hand from his side and dragged him across the mess hall, back to my empty table so that the noise of the girls talking could resume and I could go back to not being the center of attention.

               He didn’t protest to my dragging him across the room, so either he knew that he didn’t have a chance of resisting me or he was just laid back and went with the flow; it turned out to be a little bit of both.

               “What’s your name?” I asked when I realized that he wasn’t going to start the conversation. We’d been sitting at the table in silence, staring at each other for the last ten minutes.

               “My name is Peter…Peter Shay.” He said looking at me with an expectant expression on his face. I then realized it was my turn.

               “I don’t know what my real name is.” I said. “My parents are dead and I was too young to remember, so people usually call me Sharp.”

            The name Marine Stevens gave me meant more to me than my real name anyway. I had earned my dubbing, and no matter how many funny looks I got from the girls around the compound, whose names were the seed of ridiculous fads like Brittany and Stephanie, I still insisted that when anyone addressed me, they used my new name. I would refuse to respond to my number. It even got to the point that if they called me to bed using my number, they would be forced to drag my catatonic body to my room.

             “Why is your name Sharp?” Peter asked timidly, picking at the peeling paint on the tabletop.

            “Because I’m good with knives,” I answered.

               Just to be clear I’m not only good with a knife, I can shoot a flea off a dog’s back at 600 yards—but don’t be surprised; I had nothing else to do but practice.

               Anyway, when I told him the origin of my name he acted a little surprised at first but regained his composure fast. “How long have you lived here? I’ve moved around all over the place ever since I recovered.” He said. I didn’t know what he meant by “recovered” but I was going to find out. He had piqued my interest, and that is not something easily done.