They Call Me Daring

Chapter 9

I was awakened by the sunlight streaming through my window. I winced, cowering under my covers in the blessed darkness for a couple minutes. But then I heard my father's voice downstairs, calling for breakfast, and I knew I would have to get up.
    Reluctantly, and half asleep, I pulled on some faded jeans and a pair of holy socks. I just remembered to check and make sure my watch was covering the bite mark- The holes themselves were covered, but I hoped nobody would notice the greenish pallor to the skin around it.
    I stepped out the door, blinking in the bright light of the hall- and, for about the hundredth time that week, slammed my head into something hard.
    "Dude! Are you freaking blind! That's the third time this week!" I heard the voice, all too familiar, and groaned, the bruises on my body acting up just at the memory.
    "Wassup...." I moaned, rubbing my forehead where I had slammed into the rung of the ladder. It took me a second to realize what was wrong. We only ate meals together as a family when Maggie was there to fix them. Otherwise, it was every man for himself. So for the week Maggie had been sick, and her daughter had been cleaning, we'd all fixed our own meals. Except for Jess, who I think caught wild animals with his teeth.
    "You going to breakfast?" She raised an eyebrow at me.
    "Uh, yeah." I wondered why she would ask that. Wouldn't it be obvious?
    "Like that?" Her eyes travelled over my torso, and for the first time that morning I looked down. Right... shirt.
    "Oh... dang..." I blinked in the bright light, and darted back into my room. I pulled out a random black hoody and threw it over my head. I yanked up the hood and the relief was immediate, no more burning on the nape of my neck. Why hadn't I thought of that before?
    I entered the hall carefully this time. The light burned at my eyes and face, but at least it wasn't my entire body anymore.
    I made sure to make a point of ducking beneath the killer ladder. As I passed underneath, I remembered the question I had wanted to ask.
    "Is your mom here?" I looked back just as I went around the corner.
    "Nope, still sick. Double-Pneumonia, it's just god-awful." She shook her head pityingly.
    "Oh, well, tell her I said get well soon.... And, um, who fixed breakfast?"
    "Moi," She said, red hair whipping as she touched up a bit of paint on one wall, then the ceiling.
    "Right...." What were the chances she had poisoned the meal?
    "Wait!" She called suddenly, and I whirled back around. Her eyes zipped over my face, and then my bangs, which I nervously ran a hand through. "Did you try to dye your hair or something?"
    "WHAT!" I ran down the hall and into the bathroom, throwing my hood back and ignoring the bright lights which made my eyes water.
    At first glance my hair was brown. But when I looked closer, a few strands were already turned pure silky white, and even as I watched, it was spreading like ice from the roots to the ends. In an hour, my head would be white.
    I yanked my hood up and tip-toed down the stairs, hearing the red-haired girl call after me; "Yeah, you wear that hood, that's a pretty bad choice in color...."
    I slunk like a cat across the marble floor, and with a deep breath, I sidled as normally as possible into the kitchen.
    "What. Did. You. Do?" Dad asked immediately, when I walked in with my hands behind my back and my head turned so as little hair as possible was sticking out.
    "Woke up..." I muttered innocently, as I turned away and began rummaging through the kitchen cabinets.
    "What're you doing? Food's on the table."
    "I, uh," I began opening and closing random drawers, the rolling and clicking sounds punctuating the conversation. "Not hungry..."
    "How can you not be hungry? You ate early last night." Dad asked suspiciously.
    "Midnight snack." I shrugged, opening the cupboard above the microwave. Jackpot.
    "What's that?" Clark asked from behind me.
    "What's what?" I murmured absently, pulling out a brown paper bag and jamming it into my pocket, along with a pair of scissors.
    "That, that you just put in your pocket."
    "I didn't put anything in my pocket," My mouth said, my brain on a completely different level.
    "Yes, you did!" I heard Jess squeak.
    "Really?" I bowed my head and began to sidle over to the doorway.
    "Liam, you okay?" Dad said suddenly, his eyebrows forming a frown on his forehead. "You look awfully pale... even worse than yesterday..."
    "I'm fine." I lied flatly, sliding out the doorway and disappearing up the stairs.
    I crouched at the top of the stairwell, and quickly cut two eye-distance holes in one side of the bag. I crumpled up the pieces and threw them down the hall and into the trashcan through the open bathroom door, a shot which I never should have been able to make.
    Then I frowned down at the scissors. I couldn't go back in there.
    "Hey, want some scissors?" I offered a moment later to the girl on the ladder. She blinked in surprise.
    "What on earth would I need scissors for? I'm painting."
    "You never know," I warned, and set the scissors on the bottom step of the ladder.
    "What's the bag for?" She narrowed her eyes, and I quickly hid my hands behind my back.
    "Uh... acne.." I said quickly, then wished I could just die right there. She raised an eyebrow at me.
    "Is it invisible?"
    "I wish," As I spoke, I slid the bag over my head, and the world went dark.
    "It's backwards." I heard her offer, and quickly I rotated it until the eyeholes lined up with my line of sight.
    She stared at me incredulously for a moment, then shook her head, turning back to her work. "Whatever, to each his own."
    Before I could do anything else totally embarrassing, or say something I would regret for the rest of my life (Which, admittedly, wouldn't be long) I turned and raced back down the stairs.
    I swung into the kitchen, and pulled out some pickled... I squinted at the brownish green globs bobbing around in the jar. Pickles, yum.
    "Liam..." I heard my father say slowly from the table, as I unconcernedly plopped the jar's contents into a foam bowl and took my seat at the table. "What is on your face?"
    "A paper bag." I offered politely, my voice slightly muffled. I held the spoon up to the mask, then realized eating was going to be a difficulty. I was about to go get scissors to cut a mouth hole, when it hit me that half-inch long fangs may raise some red flags as well. I did my best to hold the bag away from my face and put the spoon up to my mouth.
    "Yes, but why?" Dad blinked at me.
    "Uh..." I slurped a pickle, and the bitter, slightly salty taste filled my mouth. I grimaced behind my mask, and wondered why I was eating pickles for breakfast in the first place. I hated them. "It's, uh, you know, what kids are wearing these days..."
    "Since when have you followed fashion?" Clark chuckled. Ouch.
    "Since, um, ever." I tried to keep a straight face. Kudos for trying.
    "Well, Mr. Fashion," Dad began, and I knew this was going to be one of his 'talks'. Joy. "If all your friends went and jumped off a cliff, would you?"
    "Yeah, if I had any friends." The pickles were sour in my mouth, and I decided I didn't need to force myself to eat them- nutrition was a small matter when you only had a few days left to live. I dumped the slimy pickles down the drain and threw the bowl in the garbage, and swung out of the kitchen before anybody could comment.
    I knew I didn't have any friends. Apparently nobody I could have related with had survived the apocalypse- Perhaps because the only people that did live were too stupid to realize they were supposed to die... How was I still alive?
    I stood in the middle of the bright entrance hall, wondering what to do. I had planned on going outside.... But a quick glance at the window told me the sun was streaming down, bright and relentless. Even with a paper bag over my head, and a sweatshirt, my eyes were watering along with any exposed skin. This wasn't going to work.
    I closed my eyes and tried to think. But now I felt suddenly tired, like the lightness, the brightness of everything was draining my ability to think. My limbs felt a hundred pounds heavier, and I felt like I was moving like a slug. My brain felt fuzzy, like my mental satellite had gone down, and all that was left was gray and white static and a constant buzzing sound from somewhere in the back of my head.
     I needed to move. I needed relief from the burning, to hide from the fire that was searing me from every direction. I needed to feel the cold on my skin like ice water, to lurk in the shadows where my eyes wouldn't burn and I could always be aware and pick out every detail in the murk, where I could skulk, unseen and nonexistent until my prey wandered to close...
    I needed the dark.
    I slunk up the stairs, using my hands as well as my feet to balance out my weight, and so the stairs wouldn't creak. Every nerve in my body was on edge, the entire world razor sharp and loud. I could hear clearly the conversation downstairs, where they were talking about someone named Liam... Liam...
    I crept down the hall, doubled over and not bothering to breath. Why had I ever breathed? It was an unnecessary hassle, not to troubled with... Breathing was loud, and silence was key.
    Someone downstairs said that name again. Liam... Where had I heard that? It seemed like the name of someone I had known long ago, someone whose face just wouldn't register in my mind... Liam...
    I blinked. The name brought back a surge of images, random faces and scenes flashing past my eyes in a nanosecond- But I shook them aside. I didn't need Liam. I needed relief from the horrible fire. I needed to find the darkness.