The Perks of Being a Freak (Editing)

3. I Don't Remember Taking Drugs, So WTF Is This?

Thoughts and feeling and memories flooded my head, drowning out any thoughts of my own. I screamed, but there was already so much silent noise that it was inaudible. Everything I saw was brand new and familiar at the same time. It was like a dream, never seen before, but instinctually known.

A horse, moving beneath me. Muscles sleek beneath rippling brown fur.

Ice surrounding me, so pale and so cold. Scars of old skaters marring the surface, the ones who came before me.

Blades on a figure skate, silver and sharp.

Joy, bubbling up inside of me at the sight of a little girl with dark hair.

Warm, rich laughter.

A blonde and blue braid tailing down a black-clothed back.

Sparkling green eyes.

A girl, clad in a red suit and a black cap, arcing into clear water.

Emily’s father, rising up above me, furious.

Terror. Absolute freezing terror. The only fear that was comparable was the panic I had felt when first awaking in the Dark Room.

Emily’s mother, eyes soft, lips on my cheek. Gentle, reassuring, bruises on her cheeks and collar.

A warm cat, curled up on my lap.

A face in the mirror, staring back with a black eye.

Warm copper skin, dark hair, so different from my own.

Emily’s room, cold and dark. Curled up on her bed, sobbing into a pillow.

That same face in the mirror.

Flipping through a book of drawings. All of them showing two girls, blonde and Asian, laughing together.

Standing beneath a spray of warm water, dark hair trailing past copper shoulders. Not my own pale skin. Not my own blonde hair.

That same face. I lean in to look closer.

A red letter jacket, with purple sleeves. “Davis 2016’” it reads on the front.

Blackened, split skin, showing red underneath.

Copper cheeks, dark circles beneath wide brown eyes. Familiar eyes. I knew those eyes.

Emily’s face stared back at me from the mirror, beaten and bruised almost beyond recognition.

Emily’s anger, her sorrows, her fear. Emily’s life.

And then, through another set of eyes, I watched as even more familiar memories swamped through, merging with Emily’s until they were indistinguishable. My memories were hers were mine.

Water all around me, like silk beneath my fingertips.

A little girl with dark pigtails, running through the rain. Cheeks filled with joy.

Emily’s father again, hand raised.

A young blonde girl, arms torn open by a dog’s cruel teeth. Screaming. Crying.

Pain.

My parents, my siblings, sitting at the dinner table. Eating. Laughing. Excluding.

Worthless.

Blue dye running down pale, bare skin.

Black hair tied up in a tight bun.

Worthless.

Dark clothes and sarcastic comebacks covering up a warm heart.

Leggings and beautifully sequined dresses, concealing bruised ribs and shoulders.