Ataxia

Chapter / 1

THIRTY-NINE YEARS LATER

Des Whiston carped in boredom as she peered up at the classroom clock hanging out on the wall beside her desk in the corner of the classroom. She drew her gaze to the front board and on her history teacher, Mr. Watson, who was giving yet another persecuting lecture on paying attention and project deadlines and extra credit and blah blah blah blah...

Classic, she sighed louder than she meant to, yet no one noticed. Des was often seen as one of those nobodies, invisible, shut off to the outside world around her. Ironically, she didn't mind. She was perfectly fine sitting in the corner and relishing her books and staring off into the infinite space, pondering life's greatest questions. (i.e. why doesn't glue stick to it's own bottle?) Mr. Watson was constantly interrupting her critical thinking and seemed to know her every move and watch her like a hawk. She thought he was her stalker.

"Miss Whiston?" Des jolted as if she was shocked out of a trance, darting her eyes back to Mr. Watson. "Tell me, what is the year Jürgen Meyer took his own life?"

Des paused, digesting the question. When did Meyer kill himself? "Uh...," Des muttered, drumming her fingertips on the wooden desk, an aggravating habit. Reticent giggles came from the class. She looked up, wetting her lips.

"2035?"

Mr. Watson sighed in disappointment, clueing she answered the question incorrectly. "Wrong, sadly. 2035 is the year the first ataxia was discovered. Who was that person again?"

"Miles McKenna." Des said automatically. That fact was hardwired into her brain since she was young. She knew it easily because her best friend in second-grade, Darcy, had a so-called "crush" on him although he was reported dead forty years ago.

"Excellent." Mr. Watson smiled for a split second then examining the rest of the class. "Pull out a fresh sheet of paper, we're having a pop quiz on the life of Jürgen Meyer." The class groaned in response. Des rummaged around her black home of a backpack and pulled out a sheet of paper and pencil.

"Destine, listen to me very carefully," Mr. Watson whispered. She jarred, looking up at her teacher's deliberate expression. "The experimenter president is after you and you need to get out of here."

"Man, you're really trying to pull it off, Watson," she chortled. "I know you're joking, so, can you leave me alone?"

Apprehension etched across his features and he gripped the edges of the desk tightly. "You have to believe me," he muttered through clenched teeth. "You're in danger."

"Yeah, in danger of failing if I don't finish this quiz. Can you leave me alone so I can start, please?" She spoke, heated and irritated.

"You don't believe me?" He stood up straight, tugging the cuffs of his sweater of his sweater bitterly. "Try dealing with those aglow fingers on your own."

Des panted, her heart thwacked against her ribs continuously, her hands vibrating with adrenaline. Every instinct in her shrieked for her to run, run, run! Mr. Watson ambled to the front of the classroom, giving directions before the quiz began. Every single word her teacher uttered went through one ear and out the other. A million thoughts raced through her mind and she felt she was about to implode.

She deliberately picked up her pencil, feeling light-headed and woozy and nauseated. She barely wrote a thing before she spurted across the classroom and her head hanging over the plastic garbage bin. She regurgitated her breakfast and the class gasped and pointed.

"Her hands..."

"They're glowing blue!"

"That's really freaky."

Suddenly, the entire classroom was containing smoke in a matter of seconds.

Several muffled shrieks came from the students as Mr. Watson began shouting instructions: "On the lawn, now!" The students dashed out the portable door, hollering. Des laid on the carpet floor, slowly but surely finding her way to unconsciousness.