Safe

1- Beginnings

The darkness closes in on me, trapping me in its crushing, everlasting cold. If I had emotions, maybe I'd be afraid. But I'm not afraid. I was born dead. 

I vaguely remember returning to life, my father frantically trying to save me. But I wasn't the same after that. I was a newborn, and was premature and had many illnesses. I struggled to breathe, my small hands moving around rapidly. That's one of my problems. I remember what happened right after birth.

As I grew older, my dark chocolate skin gradually became lighter and lighter until I was a very pale Caucasian. My hair became a fiery red color instead of black. My eyes became an electric blue. Now that I'm 15, I think that I'm done changing. My wavy hair is shaved close to my head. My lightweight, white clothes help me to move freely. My eyes analyze my surroundings, noticing every detail. I have perfect vision. The doctors said that my brain is larger than most. That's why I have a photographic memory. That's why I remember being a newborn. 

"A'Karen," my father calls. I roll my eyes. "It's Delilah," I yell back. My father insists on calling me by my birth name, A'Karen. But being called by birth names is an honor. I don't deserve honor. I'm just a freak.

They say that I'm emotionless, but I still feel. I'm not supposed to. They say that the part of my brain that controls emotions got squished, because the rest of my brain was so large. But I still process emotions. My theory is that only my Amygdala got crushed. I don't fear. I don't love. One thing's for sure. My Hippocampus is very large, hence the memory and innate sense of impending danger. The doctors also said that I was slightly autistic, stimulating something to cause my photographic memory. They said that I was amazing, like some sort of robotic human. 

I was born in Ohio, in a small town called Coshocton. When I was 7, we moved away. My parents were afraid of people's opinions, even in a tight-knit community like Coshocton. Now I live in Utah, Leamington, to be specific. A population of 215 people. They all think that I was adopted. 

Tomorrow, it's the hundredth anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Centers. 9/11, the day that shook the world. It was so old fashioned, but it's not like we've progressed much since then. I remember learning about the attack in 6th grade. Osama Bin Laden, Obama killing him, yadda yadda. Saudi Arabia doesn't even exist anymore. Now it's South Coure.

 I run downstairs, calming myself before walking into the kitchen. I had a feeling we'd be having bacon this morning. It was so hard to find nowadays, my Dad must have gotten some from Derin. "Smells good, Dad," I say. "Thanks, honey," he replies. He serves me a few strips. I notice his dark, leathery hands are laced with cuts. "What happened?" I ask, concerned. "A tough day at the office," he answers. I don't question further. 

My Mother emerges from the bedroom, her dark hair amiss. "Mom!" I say, getting up and embracing her. "Morning, sweetie," she says. Her dark skin matches my father's shade, but is much smoother and has no callouses. I had just wolfed down my first piece of bacon when the bell rings. "Time for school," my Mother says cheerfully. I swallow the rest of my bacon, sliding my backpack on and running out the door.