Chapter Fifty-Three
Thomas’ Point of View:
“Tom?” Mum calls from down the hall, that must mean breakfast is done. I grab my homework from the reading table and shove it in my school bag before rubbing my wet hair with the towel on it.
After sleeping through my alarm this morning, I still spent too much time ruminating on my dream and assuring myself, with the result that I was running late for school.
I run a comb through my damp air before patting it into a fairly presentable shape. Mum yelled for me again, and I yelled right back that I’d be down in a moment.
I run around my room like a headless chicken, grabbing the rest of my stuff.
Whoever said all nerds were neat freaks must have studied the wrong one or must have been making a hasty generalization.
At 11, president of the class club, and secretary in the Math club, my room only looked like a human’s habitat when Mum took pity on me and cleaned up for me once in a while.
It’s less frequent now though; she claims I need to learn to be a responsible adult, whatever that means.
It’s a long-standing joke among my friends that my room is a permanently organized mess, and I’m always forwarding random trivia and facts I find on Google that prove that mess is a sign of productivity to our group chat.
I shove things aside on my bed to make space to sit, so I can put on my socks, and then I’m frozen. There’s a jagged wound on my left foot, running from my little toe to my feet, as if from broken glass.
I know for a fact, even without checking again, that nothing is broken in my room, and I’m sure that I didn’t go to bed with a wound last night.
Somehow, I would know if I had stepped on glass. It’s in this trance-like state that Mum finds me when she comes into my room, sock in my right hand, my right leg angled on the bed so that I can stare at the wound.
“Are you ready? You’re going to be late for…”
The rest of her sentence tapers away when she notices my posture.
“Are you okay, baby?” I looked at her and then at my feet without speaking.
Upon sighting the wound, she turns white, as if she has seen something scary. I watch her fight to rein in her emotions before she finally speaks.
“That must hurt a lot. I’m going to get the safety kit.”
She was gone before I could say a word, but she was not fast enough. It wasn’t so. I didn’t notice two things; the tremor in her voice and the fact that she didn’t care to ask me where I got such a broad wound.
Of course, Mum is a worry wart, always fussing over my eating, my health, my friends, and my hobbies.
However, Mum’s reaction right now was very questionable.
I looked at the wound on my leg again. It seems to be perfectly patterned, like a drawing by an artist. I don’t recognize what it is, though.
Mum gets back with the box and starts to wipe the wound’s edges with disinfectant. My suspicion that this is no ordinary wound is confirmed when I feel none of that usual sting from the antiseptic.
Normally, I have a high pain endurance level, but this doesn’t count. Mum seems to think so too, as she keeps looking into my face, expecting a reaction.
It seems this wound just popped up, large and ugly, without pain, feeling like it should be there.
I have a strong aversion to wounds, hating how they ruin my perfect skin and body, but right now I have a 6-inch-long wound, and I’m not even panicking.
I feel like it’s a sign that I will be panicking. Mum is done wiping my wound now and stares into the first aid box with blatant confusion.
A wound this big requires bandages, but I wasn’t even sure if I needed any. I wonder if my miraculous anesthetic extends to not getting germs in the wound.
I reached for the box and reached a plaster. Mum looks at me questionably as I rip off the seal. “Don’t you think we should use something more… binding?”
“I don’t want to be a pity case in school,” I reply.
“If I eventually need something more, I’ll go to the school nurse,” I say to reassure her further.
“Would you like to stay home instead? I can call your school,” she offers.
There are times in the past when I would have been delighted to just stay home, but today is not one of those days.
I’m sure staying at home would mean worrying over all these weird happenings. And I would get antsy and moody really quickly.
What I need is normality right now, and I think school is as normal as it can get. I won’t tell Mum all of this though.
I just shook my head. “It kind of seems like a long shot to stay because of a tiny wound.”
I don’t say what we’re both thinking that this wound is far from just a wound.
Mum sighs, seeing that I have made up my mind to go.
“Just call me if you feel the need to leave, I’ll come pick you up.”
By now, I’m fixing a third plaster on the part of the wound left open. When it seems I’ve gotten most of it covered, Mum snaps the box shut and says with a false cheeriness that I can see through “Come right down when you’re done, for breakfast.”
I’m too tired now to even consider what might be wrong with her. Instead, I get up and switch the socks I have for a bigger ugly one that Dad’s girlfriend got me for Christmas.
I had shoved it in my lowest drawer, deciding never to wear it. Thankfully, it fits over the package on my right leg, and I shove my Converse over it.
I grab my backpack from my reading table and lumber downstairs.
“I can’t believe the day just began,” I muttered.