Only Human

It started in the summertime.

There was wind that day, the warm, strong sort of wind that sets the stage for something big, something, unexpected.

The heat was overwhelming, hanging like thick spider webs in the air, quivering when you ran your fingers through it.

And I was walking, slowly down the road, taking in the late-June lull. I was carrying a shopping bag with both hands, carefully balancing the mass of Doritos and two-liter bottles of ginger ale that shifted around inside. There was a party that night, something important, with kegs and designer jeans. That party was all that mattered that summer day as I passed row after row of identical houses, humming some meaningless pop garbage.

I was shallow back then, superficial. Happy, even. But the next few months of fly-sick summer to come would change that. For better, for worse. I still can’t say. But things would change.

Everything would change.

I rounded a corner and suddenly felt myself falling to the pavement, the shopping bag flying out of my sweating hands. There were several thuds followed by skittering, rolling noises as the ginger ale bottles spun out into the street.

And then I was aware of something on top of me. Something large and breathing. This Something let out a low, choked scream as if it were in pain and pushed itself upwards. The weight gone, I looked upwards.

The Something was a teenage boy, sixteen or seventeen. He was standing there, on the sidewalk panting and madly rubbing his forearm as if something had burned him. Despite the heat, he was wearing a heavy wool overcoat and a long scarf. The teenage girl in me began to examine his looks. I had decided he was passably attractive by the time recognition kicked in.

The boy’s name was Hunter Elliot. He had just moved to the outskirts of our town a few weeks ago with his ailing great aunt. During World History, my only class with him, he sat in the back row, eyes cast downwards, reading the same page of the textbook over and over again. In the hallways, he carried himself with an air of superiority, as we were privileged to be in his presence. He didn’t like us. We didn’t like him. It was a mutual relationship. I intended to keep it that way.

Brushing myself off, I stood up. Hunter had stopped rubbing his forearm and was now on his hands and knees gathering up the stray bottles of ginger ale. “Sorry,” he mumbled, never quite looking me in the face. I just glared, my anger at Hunter brewing. Angry that the ugly looking bruise blooming on my knee would keep me from wearing my new mini-dress that night, angry that I would be late getting to Andrea’s house to get ready for the party, angry that Hunter couldn’t watch where he was going, angry that he had moved here in the first place, angry that he was an outsider.

I simply glared as he gathered the remaining bottles and shoved the bag at me. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his tone softening. He looked at me this time.

His eyes were green-gray, cold and burning with unexplained hatred. They shimmered, icy against the heat. I felt a shiver shoot down my spine. I looked away, hugging my arms to my chest, suddenly remorseful.

“I’m sorry. I-I should have been watching where I was going,” I mumbled, watching a lone pill bug wander out into the street.

“That’s alright,” said Hunter, his tone once again sharp and defensive, condescending even. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, running a hand down his forearm once again, before turning to go.

“I–I… did I hurt you?” I stuttered, confused.

He turned, pursing his lips, his eyes suddenly malicious.

“Yes,” he smirked, before turning again, swishing his scarf after him.

A gust of wind blew then, whipping my hair up around my face as I stood there on the sidewalk, shivering.