“Hand me some bread,” I ask.
“Here,” Raphael hands me one. The bread instantly steams from his touch. I don’t take it. “Hey, take it already! I’m eating too, you know,” he urges. I still don’t take it.
“One moment it’s steaming of hotness, now it’s steaming from dry ice. I won’t eat cold bread, especially from you.”
“Why you-!” He suddenly bursts out. He’s about to tackle me down when Naomi catches him by the waist. He tries to wriggle out of her dainty arms, but her clasp is stronger than he expected. “Damn it, Naomi!” He curses.
“Raph! Calm down, you moron!” she chides, trying to hold him down as long as she could, “Or I’ll kill you!”
Raphael stops. She finally releases him as he settles down by her side and eats his bread quietly. She seems proud of her small triumph over him.
I stare at them blankly. Well, it’s true. Everything he touches turns cold, and everything she touches dies. At least she wears gloves to prevent people from dying on her, unlike Raphael, who really doesn’t care whoever or whatever he freezes. Arren’s no better either. If he’s in a bad mood, he can burn his own bread in seconds. But, if Raphael’s very brash and reckless, and Naomi’s haughty and overly confident, Arren is quite… quiet. And unlike the others who seem oblivious, he, too, like me, is very aware of the situation we’re in. It’s really nice to know that at least someone’s worried too of what will become of us from here on out.
Arren sits farther from us, nibbling his bread; his eyes search beyond. He looks like as if he’s expecting something. Something very, very unfathomable.
---
Raphael has a set of coal black hair; long, messy and unwashed, like the rest of us. He flashes a pair of clean, sky-coloured eyes and has a very annoying, loud voice. From his looks, he seems like the typical energetic hero in a TV series. He is the shortest of us boys by centimetres, but has a more well-built body than the rest of us. He is the one who planned our escape from the laboratory that gave us these abilities. He is ice.
Naomi is death. She splays a cascade of mousse brown hair to waist, and her wide, almond-shaped eyes are as metallic as the artificial full moon in the night sky. Her flat-chested body is the smallest of us four, but she is quite agile and strong. I don’t know if she’s nice or a nagger, but I guess she’s really just concerned. In truth, I only saw her as a baggage when we were escaping, but it seems she proved me wrong when she killed some of the guards on our way out. She’s literally deadly.
Arren’s a bit different because he doesn’t display any extremities like the rest of us. His tea-coloured hair is damp and more tamed than ours. His golden-brown eyes always look tired and absent. And he always positions himself in front of us. He is distant and aloof, and it shows in his voice that seems to wither and die off if he talks too much. He was the one that slithered us out of the laboratory and navigated us through the safest paths until now. I thought he was given clairvoyance, but I was wrong. He is fire.
I am Tristan, the schizophrenic (as Raph would describe me). I think he calls me that because of my wild, green eyes that look panicked and cowardice, as I really am. I’m the only one who has a very short, dusty, bleached hair. And compared to the others, I’m the thinnest, and my rib cage and shoulder blades that stick out of my skin can prove it. I was the bait for the scientists so that Raphael and the others could escape. Actually, I shouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Arren. Shortly after the laboratory spiralled into chaos, he pulled me from the restraints the scientists strapped me in.
I lured the personnel with my ability. Albeit my hoarse, breathy voice, I can shout as loud as the great sonic boom fighter jets can emit. I am amplitude.
---
Our feet lay bare on the mush ground as we walk through the dark, time-illusioned forest. We just finished the last of our food before the longest trip to the city just a mile or two away. The feel of the mud sticking to my skin disgusts me as much as I’m annoyed with Naomi and Raphael bickering and chattering again and again behind me. I’m up front walking awkwardly, much like a duckling. Something’s not right. Why is Arren behind us?
He looks distressed under pressure. I see his clenched fists sweat tons. He’s anticipating something. Something’s really not right.
I stop. “Arren?” I face him now, without hesitation, something I haven’t done whole-heartedly before. I surprise myself of my straightforwardness. The bickering two also stop and look at Arren.
“Hey, you okay?” Raphael asks, clearly vexed and oblivious.
Arren backs a few steps. He is trembling, as if trying to desperately suppress something in him. He tries to keep stoic, but tears feel hot on his eyes and they eventually draw glinting translucent lines on his cheek down to his chin. “Run...” He sighs with all his strength. He backs a few more steps.
“Arren, what is it?” Naomi advances toward him.
He flinches. “Nao, no...” he hums louder. He tries to avoid the approaching Naomi. But he stumbles on something below, almost losing his balance.
Naomi catches him by the arm. He jerks of shock. I see his eyes wide of terror. This is what he expected all along.
Even though I didn’t like Naomi showing her brash side, I’ve always admired her voice. And sometimes I found myself getting nervous around her. But all that nervousness goes away once she sang. I was happy when she told me she wanted to be a singer someday. I really believed she could be one if we could escape the laboratory. But sometimes she would always shriek and scream when she doesn’t like what the scientists do her; all the more they would restrain and sedate her. Just like now.
She is shrieking and screaming right now because she is experiencing something she doesn’t like. And it claws my ears so hard that it hurts. My mind blocks and my sight stops working. Why is she emitting such a deafening noise?
“NAOMI!!!” Raphael cries. I snap out of daydream. I see his eyes water with overwhelming emotions.
So bright. So bright is Naomi right now like a pillar of riotous light delivering the angels of hysteria. Naomi is in flames, screeching in torment.
“I’m sorry...!” Arren howls in despair. He doesn’t seem to be in control of his actions. He sets the trees ablaze, everything ablaze, as if to declare war. His remorseful face does not match his firm pose of audacity. He is being ‘puppeteered’.
Raphael stances for battle, his hands steam of drying ice.
“Raph, no! He is being controlled!” I say.
He doesn’t hear me. He exhales cold air at Naomi, ultimately putting her flames out. She falls to the ground unconscious with a muffled thump. She looks just like burnt wood, and smells of rotting, roasting flesh as she fizzles to the wind. She is nothing like the Naomi I knew. The forest is rapidly becoming a lake of fire. I couldn’t move.
“Run, Tristan!” He growls, still fixed at the lamenting Arren. I shudder at his viciousness.
“But–”
“RUN!!!”
I scramble to my feet and dash away. My feet splash the mud as I run. The hospital clothes I wear are grazed and ripped from the branches I pass and the thorns I cross. Moments later, I hear the continuous sharp whooshing of the helicopter blades above and see the blinding lights of it shower faintly on the forest floor. The vehement winds disrupt the silence of the living trees. They couldn’t find me because of the thick greenery. They fly pass me and approach the feiry scene behind. The crackling, spitting sound of the fires is still within earshot.
It chokes me. All I could do is runaway. That’s all I could ever do. Everyone will be dead soon and so am I. And yet couldn’t save myself from death either. I’m so pathetic. So is my powers. All I could do is yell for help with it. But there’s no help. There’ll never be one for us orphaned kids with unusual abilities. I couldn’t do anything to save them. I couldn’t do anything.
I could never do anything.
[It's kinda funny that when the first time I joined here, the first thing I did was post this excerpt before I could even edit my profile...! XP
Oh yeah, just so you know, I don't bind myself with the typical do's and don't's of making a good story. I have my own style, and it shows because I don't stick to just one genre. I like to discover and explore my talents, and this doesn't just apply to my story-making talent. I am young, and will always make stories in the present tense. Why? Because I live in the present, of course.] Hehe, I know, too idealistic...
A great story. But why is it a short story? Won't there be more of this? This read a lot like a novel. I would love to read more. Keep writing!
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