from the OTHER archives: Socks, Part 3, Chapter 9-10

I haven’t eaten stir fry in at least a month, but I know that here is when the book really starts to get nice and… you know, now that I think about it, maybe the actual meaning of “steamy” isn’t at all what I had in mind when formulating that sentence in my head. School has fried my brain once again. I’m not even sure whether or not I had any sort of homework.

5 minutes until the bell rings, and my leg has stopped hurting.

Take note that this chapter starts off in present tense. Seeing as the rest of the book was in past tense, maybe you don’t want to be switching around so lightly, G.

It started with my leg falling asleep, because everybody knows that fire and tingling make a weird girl happy. (There’s more sarcasm.)

Getting a little kinky there, Algeria! I’m sure that your extremely conservative copy Emma will disapprove.

Then the fire just STOPPED,

I love suddenly losing feeling in my limbs! It’s one of my favorite activities!

and my leg was just tingling, which was slightly less annoying. Then the tingling stopped, and my leg felt like a peaceful, beautiful river was flowing out of it.

I also love being stabbed in the leg by an invisible force! And also bleeding out onto the floor!

A very nice feeling that was, at least against the duck tape trap. But it was still very peaceful.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“Emma, how does a broken leg feel after it’s done healing?” I asked her. She sat right next to me at this table in the art room.
“I don’t know. I’ve never broken anything,” Emma replied. “Why?”

If you two were really practically copies of each other, then you would know that already, Algeria.

“Remember me last night? How I was limping? My leg was broken.

Why didn’t you ask for an ambulance, then? It’s going to heal wrong now, dammit!

But somehow, it feels like it’s not broken anymore.” She just nodded, acknowledging what I had just said as if was just a minor annoyance I had been whining about.

“Stand up,” Emma replied. “If it hurts, you were just imagining it feeling better.”

I stood up, and mysteriously, there was no pain. “No pain,” I whispered as I slid back into my seat.

No paragraph breaks as well, I slyly noted in the back of my head. Maybe this detail will come in handy in the sequel.

Now I had three things bogging me-

*bugging

how I was going to get back to Dreamland,

what my strange dream was about, and now why hadn’t my broken leg given me any pain.

Plot twist: Algeria is simultaneously high on the good stuff from Colorado and also LSD and she’s having hallucinations. This is all a really bad drug trip, and when she comes back down, she will be just another normal teenager again.

“I think I know what it is,” Emma piped up, not looking up from her book.

“I think that I forgot to take my crazy pills. Wait here while I retrieve a totally unauthorized bottle from my backpack. Don’t tell the nurse.”

“In this book, one of the characters can heal really fast. Maybe that’s what’s going on with you.”

The Dangers Of Self-Diagnosis

Weird.
Now there was only two things taking up unneeded space in my brain. I dare you to guess what they are.

I already took a gamble reviewing this godawful book publicly. It’s been horrible for my blog view stats. But I must persist…

Then, at the 3 minute bell, I had another flashback. I was a little kid again, locked in a room. There was a girl peeking out the window in the door, obviously trying to pick at the door lock.
And the girl looked like Tomorrow. A younger version, obviously.

How To Be Specific

I was jolted out of my catatonic (non-dictionaries, read staring across the room like you’re daydreaming really hard)

state by Emma ‘snapping’ her fingers in front of my face. (Emma can’t snap, but she can try.)
“Algeria, wake up,” Emma said as I came back to the real world. “Or I will slap you in the face like a maniac until I-”

I’m pretty sure that your school has a no-tolerance policy on any form of assault, Emma.

“Stop!” I lightly pushed her hands away. “I’m good.”
“Daydreaming?”
“Maybe.” I smirked.

Is this flirting? You can be a bit more obvious about it. It’s okay.

Art was ok. Math was ok.
But science? Not ok, at least not for me.

Come to 2016, Algeria. There are thousands upon thousands- if not millions- of people who are personally offended by science. You could join them and protest. You’d finally have something productive to do with your life.

To make a long story short, I was pelted with questions from the teacher about who I was, where I was from, what education I had had before, and just a minute on why my ears had a slight point to them. I didn’t know, so I didn’t say anything for that last one.

If I had an unauthorized guest in my classroom, you can be sure as hell that I would be asking questions.

Then we went on and the teacher started teaching, like teachers do. But guess what the teacher started teaching from the science textbook?
Genetics.

I lay my head on my desk, so that I was looking at the world sideways while I listened.

Well, that’s pretty damn disrespectful. Hold up, everybody! We’ve got a savage over here!

Then they started talking about DNA, which is when the pain in my head started.
At first it was just a minor annoyance, a small pain in the back of my head. Then it spread, so then my whole head hurt.

Here’s a tip: go to the nurse’s office instead of complaining to us.

Then I saw a flash, and then the pain had escalated into a full migraine, complete with me holding my head in my hands, trying my best not to moan or sob. (No, my head does not come off my neck.)

I’m pretty sure that a teacher would notice if their student was going full migraine. St least ask for a nice pillowed bed in the nurse’s office? Or is your ego too strong to ask for help?

And then there was another flashback, if you could call it that. This one was much longer, and I could make out what was going on.

The fact that you gave the rudimentary details of your last flashback proves that you could make out what was going on. Stop lying to us, Algeria.

There were 3 adults in a room something like a science lab, huddling around a body on a gurney. (A gurney is like a stretcher in a hospital. You know, like a table/bed on wheels?)

I should start keeping a tally for condescending remarks and then make it into a drinking game so I can poison myself into oblivion.

I could make out 3 names on their nametags: Lecia, Grecia, and Mahogany.

Lucia Havstrom? Is that you? How did you make it here? I thought you were still grieving Samhain’s death!

“Subject 3 did not work out as intended,” Lecia said. “The genes did not line up as intended. This one is more flawed than most.”
“Explain,” Grecia said.

“She constantly disobeys safety rules, has debilitating headaches, and is constantly talking down to people.”

“Well, for starters, the wings are the wrong color,” Lecia explained. “They are pink and purple, when we had programmed the genes to display mint green. The body is taller than the average human, when it should actually be shorter. And the eyes are blue.”

Why are you complaining? You should be happy that you didn’t accidentally delete a chromosome or some other potentially fatal error! If I made a flying human, I wouldn’t complain about such unimportant traits as wing color

“I don’t see what’s wrong with blue eyes,” said Grecia.

Grecia knows what’s up.

“Fairies have eyes like jewels,” Lecia exclaimed. “Subject 3 has light blue eyes. They do not look like jewels.”

But she’s a hybrid, not a full-blooded fairy, so that rule doesn’t apply.

Then Mahogany’s eyes flashed, like she was remembering something.

She accidentally left her oven on. The kitchen will be full of sparkles when she gets home.

“What do you suggest?” Mahogany asked. “We know that eventually we will have to tell Subject 3 that she is the result of an experiment on biotechnology.

Maybe I should also keep track of all the tropes G pulls out of her ass.

She is exceptionally intelligent, what with the way we tinkered with her when she was developing. The very moment Abbey comes back in, she will know something’s wrong.”

“Algeria!” Abbey burst into the room crying. “I thought you were so smart! Why did you fail all your standardized tests?”

“Because I was exhausted,” Algeria replied, reclining on the couch. “That means really really tired.”

“How old is she?” Lecia asked.
“She is 8 years old. Just 5 more years until we have to tell her.” Grecia explained.

Why do you have to tell her when she becomes thirteen? Isn’t she supposed to be smart enough to figure that out herself?

“Tell her what?” said Lecia.
“That she is only 52% human.”
“What is the other 48%?”

Pure angst and condescension burning inside of a furnace.

“Fairy. 1% is other.”

The other one percent is cow. Don’t tell her that. She’ll probably talk down to you out of existence.

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