My Hiro ~ Chapter 1; part 2

* * *

It had been three weeks since the accident. I had been in the hospital for two of them, and at my Auntie Evelynn's for the last. My custody had been granted to my father, though he knew my disdain pushed me away from him enough for my condition only to worsen if I should be forced. In all honesty, it was enough to make my Aunt want me all the more. She had always been the loving, protective type, and mourned for her lost sister alongside me in my time of need.

After all. I was so very much like my mother.

My makeshift bed had been a comforting place. That and the pages of Dickens so dog-eared and ill-taken care of that I loved them all the more, courtesy of used book stores. There wasn't a printed page I hadn't read, from the ambitious David Copperfield to the unlikely hero, Pip.

And all these pages killed the pain I was afraid would slowly suffocate me.

I slipped my feet out slowly from between the soft, silky sheets, the sound of birds chirping and cars whizzing by filling the room as did a cool, restless breeze. Springtime in Mississauga. So far from Toronto.

I shook my head, trying to push these thoughts to the back of my mind. I didn't need this. No, now was not the time. Yet I couldn't help but let my eyes wander towards the Elizabeth Taylor calender on the wall of Aunties Den. My temporary bedroom, she had said. A place where I spent quite a bit of time these days.

In red marker, I could see the thin, scriptive handwriting visible across a small section of which the present date appeared. All the ones before it were scratched out with black.

I was going to London today. I was moving in with my father.

At first, the only thing I felt was emptiness as I turned my eyes away from the reminder of what was inevitable. It was better not to think about it. No, I could pretend such things weren't bad, at least for my Aunt's sake.

The cast that adorned my left leg began to itch quite horribly. I wished I could have taken it off, but such things weren't so lucky for me. I would have to change my arm bandages though before getting breakfast with Auntie. She wouldn't be pleased if I was unhygenic, especially when it came to something as important as my injuries.

I had learned quickly enough how to dress my own burn marks. They were grotesque and unsightly by any standards but I didn't mind. It was a reminder of what had happened. A pain that simplified the ache when I thought of mother.

Mother.

I shook my head again, trying not to get down about things I could no more control than anyone else. I wasn't God. This hadn't been my plan.

Things had changed durastically since the incident, though, and I hadn't really wanted to believe it. Firstly, I had stayed away from alcohol. Though underage I know I was at the time, when special occasions came around, it was never really much of a 'bad' thing when it came to having a glass of wine or two. When Auntie offered me a bit of her Cave Springs Riesling, I could barely stomach telling her I could never.

Secondly, the sound of trucks frightened me. The doctor called it 'post traumatic stess' and that I would be in shock for the first while if it should ever go away. I understood this completely, and was hardly surprised when I crunched my knees up to my chest and covered my ears everytime a truck passed us on the highway home.

It was inevitable.

Thirdly, I found myself distancing from everyone who I believed I cared about.

When I first came home from the hospital, I made a very wrong decision in logging onto my computer whereas I found

my Facebook to be filled with messages of mourning from teenagers I had rarely spoken to in highschool let alone now. As I scrolled down the wall, the sentiments became more and more ridiculous to the point where I had to shut the computer down. I hated it. I hated even thinking about.

And how was it that any of them could possibly tell me that things would be okay? None of them had lost their mothers. None of them were scarred by burns but more so by emotional trauma of uncontrollable events. I didn't want their sympathy.

No, all I wanted was my home back.

I pushed myself up - mind you, slowly - and hobbled ridiculouly towards the closet. Another week for the cast. It had been a clean break and only needed a short time to heal. After that would be an air cast for a ligament that had been torn for another two weeks and I would be free to walk on my own.

Just three weeks more of this.

The burn would take however long to heal as it needed, so the doctor said. I had ointments that should help with that process, but the scars would likely stay for the rest of my life. There was just too much damage.

"Laura Jane?" Auntie was calling. "Laura Jane, are you awake?"

I sighed, letting the air filter through my lungs before responding in a soft, effortless manner. "Yeah. Give me ten."

"Take your time, sweety!" she replied. "No need in rushing on your big day!"

Oh, did I forget to mention it was my birthday?

After a wrestling match with my t-shirt, I slipped on one of the skirts Auntie had bought me for the occassion of my... well, injury. It was hard to put on a pair of jeans when there was a giant chunk of plaster incasing your leg.

Just three more weeks. Three weeks only and all this would be over.

I hated skirts. Anything that left my legs bare, actually. The more covered up I was, the happier I'd be. Unfortunately for me, skirts and t-shirts were the only way to go these days, and, as I turned towards the full-length mirror hanging on the door, they looked horrendous. I was just not a skirt kind of girl.

My hair, as always, was a complete mess. Blond and cropped short, as was the easiest for me. Mom always liked it long. Maybe I would grow it out. A patch of bandage covered a section of my forehead on the right side where it had 'smacked the glass' or so I was told to believe. I hardly remembered what had happened that night, or at least chose to forget it. The wound was healing though. I had all the stitches removed recently and the scab was already starting to heal over. The only reason I even put a bandage on it in the first place was so that I wouldn't pick at it.

There were dark smudges under my eyes. The nightmares.

I shook my head, trying to push out those thoughts again. It wasn't as if I had dreams of the incident itself. Just the afterwards of waking in the hospital. For some reason, that especally frightened me.

I would get to see Tobi, today, though.

After brushing through the thick but short tresses, I removed the large bandage that had adorned my left arm. What I saw, like everyday, was the acrid flesh that bubbled up in areas and small, healing blisteres filled with pus. As I smoothed the ointment across, I felt tingling where there was usually so much aching, the smell of menthol and camamile making my nose burn.

I rebandaged, looked myself once over, and wobbled out the room towards the small kitchen/dining room where Auntie was residing.

As always, she sat with a cup of tea in her left hand and a Harlequinn novel in her right. Her wiry, gray hair was pulled up in a bun, as her hawk-like freatures crunched in on itself, grey eyes flicking across each word with morbid intemperance. Her thin lips stretched out into a grimace, the pale, though blotchy skin pulling taut across her jutting cheekbones. If that didn't complete the look she gave, a pair of large, horn-rimmed glasses perched precariosly at the edge of her pointy, narrow nose, as did the vivid, hot pink poncho that went with her ever growing batch of itchy upperware of the same style.

When she caught sight of my arrival, the book was placed immediately on the middle of the round dining room table, before the long fingers of that right hand of hers beckoned me in, the tight grimace turning into an even tighter smile. "Laura Jane."

"Evelynn," I murmured, taking my seat on the opposite side of the table. She hated it immensely when I called her aunt. Made her feel 'old' as she had stated many times in my childhood. I didn't mind so much. It almost made her more of a friend then someone I was to love unconditionally no matter the circumstances.

Of course, it gave me free range to dislike her immensely as well.

"Coffee's ready," she murmured, leaning back against the cold, hard chair. Her house was small. A two roomed bungalow in the suburbs of Mississauga. I didn't mind it so much. "Though I never understood how anyone could drink such a substance."

I merely smiled and thanked her before walking into the small, ile-like kitchen. Quaint, if anything, with small efficient appliances like the ones in Mom's apartment. It was painted a nasty shade of bubblegum pink though. A choice Auntie would have made, though frequently denied.

"Laura Jane-"

"Jannie," I said.

Her brow furrowed, the hawk-like eyes peering at me with vivid frustration. "Jannie."

"Yes?"

"Do you have your things packed?" she asked, placing her cup back down on the table. Manners and ettiquete were her thing, though fashion not. Of course, the only thing she seemed to bypass when it came to rules was the cushioning of ones pinky below the cup. Instead, she let the noise reverberate throughout the small of the kitchen.

I, personally, couldn't bear the sound of it.

"You know the answer to that question, Evelynn," I murmured, filling a rather wide mug with the hot, bitter substance I had come to love so much in the city.

"And why haven't you packed?" she asked. I'm sure she wasn't trying to be mean. She had, after all, given me a place to stay all this time. It was just hard to get around her blatant questions sometimes.

"Because, frankly, I don't want to go," I replied.

Instead of responding, she let her fingers run along the smooth porcelian of her mug, eyes downcasted so I could not read her emotions. It was horribly frustrating, if anything.

"It is out of my hands, you know," she murmured, her words resounding further than the noise of her cup ever could. "I would have you stay here but it is not my decision to make, Jannie."

"It should be mine," I mumbled.

"That is should."

I took a large gulp of black coffee, trying to push those thoughts out again with a bit of desperation. I wouldn't listen to them anymore. No, I couldn't listen to my thoughts. They were cruel. They gave me hope.

"I expect your things to be packed in an hours time," she said. The emotion was gone from her voice. "We cannot afford to delay with city traffic as it is in the morning."

I nodded. "They will be."

After downing the rest of the contents of my mug, I placed it in the sink and turned to do exactly that before she stopped me, long fingers wrapped delicately around the upper of my right arm. Her eyes were filled with worry, from what I could tell. It was hard to read her emotions sometimes with those Clark Kent glasses.

"And you are okay?" she asked. "With everything?"

I grimaced, turning my head to the side in futile attempt at cutting off the connection she was obviously trying to make. "Just peachy, thanks."

Her hand slipped away from my arm.

"As long as you are okay," she replied somberly.

And with that, I exited. There was no need for her to know I was drowning.