Chapter 1: Normal

Nostalgia clung to me like an unseen chain in this unfamiliar place, an unrelenting force that refused to let go. I had no memory of how I arrived here, no recollection of where I had been before this moment. Yet, the rolling green hills stretched infinitely before me, kissed by the warm hues of a setting sun. The cooling wind intertwined with the heat of the dwindling day, whispering secrets only the earth could understand.

I moved forward, letting my steps absorb the ambience around me. A sharp crunch beneath my foot halted me—a brittle leaf, crushed under my weight. My eyes darted around, searching for its origin. There were no trees in sight. The realization sent a cold shiver up my spine.

Then, the impossible happened.

Leaves began to rise, swirling with unnatural vigor. A viridian storm encircled me, its spiraling winds howling in an eerie symphony. My instincts screamed, forcing my arms up to shield my face from the sudden chaos. The gale shrieked, bending the world to its will.

Then—

Silence.

I lowered my arms, hesitantly opening my eyes. Before me stood a dignified oak tree, its roots anchored deep in the unseen depths below. It was ancient, wise, unwavering. My breath caught in my throat as I approached it, my hand trembling as it traced the rough bark.

"An amazing tree, isn't it?"

The voice was warm, familiar—so much so that it nearly shattered me. I turned sharply, eyes widening as I took in the man before me. He stood with a knowing smile, his Falcon '88 jacket as pristine as it had always been. His brown eyes, filled with a warmth I thought I'd never see again, pierced straight through me.

He was supposed to be dead.

"People always compare themselves to an oak tree," he mused, voice rich with an old wisdom. "They call it a symbol of strength, resilience… great things." He turned to me, expectant. "So, Darren… are you an oak?"

My throat tightened.

"Dad?"

The moment shattered like glass.

The rolling hills dissolved, replaced by the confining walls of my room. The golden glow of sunset faded into the cool haze of morning. My ceiling fan hummed softly above me as tears streaked down my face. The remnants of my dream clung to me like phantom limbs, as real as the weight in my chest.

I exhaled shakily, peeling the sheets off my legs. My clock blinked relentlessly, inching closer to seven. The air carried a mixture of home-cooked breakfast and stale nicotine, the latter struggling against the former for dominance. Footsteps approached my door, pausing before delivering three soft knocks.

"Darren?" My mother's voice was laced with gentle concern. "Are you going to school today?"

Groaning, I readied a reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

"No, Mom."

The shadow beneath my door didn't budge. Even without seeing her, I knew she wanted to say more. The weight of her presence pressed against the walls, lingering in the air like a storm waiting to break.

"Look, Darren." She sighed, her voice heavy with sorrow. "I know you're hurting, but you've been inside for three months. Your dad, Oswald—he wouldn't want you to be like this. I've seen your cigarette packs strewn across the lawn. You promised you'd quit."

My lips pressed together, locking any response inside. A slow-burning irritation gnawed at my patience.

"Look, Mom, I... I just need time. And don't worry about those. It's nothing."

A pause. A sigh.

"Alright, Darren."

Her shadow finally withdrew, leaving me alone with my thoughts. If it were that easy to move past this, I would have done it long ago. But I was stuck here, drowning in memories that refused to fade. My father was everywhere. My clock. My room color. The features in the mirror that were undeniably his.

With a sharp exhale, I turned over and let sleep claim me, exhausted from the weight of it all.

---

A sound stirred me.

Footsteps.

They echoed through my home, stopping just outside my door.

I scowled at the shadow beneath it.

"Mom, I told you, I'm not going today!" My voice rose, sharper than intended.

The door creaked open, but it wasn't my mother.

A girl stood in the doorway, her age misaligned with the maternal concern I had expected. Deep red curls cascaded down her back, bouncing with each step. Freckles danced across her olive-toned cheeks as she frowned at me, her green eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Amber?" I shot upright, my pulse spiking.

"Three months," she murmured, stepping forward in a slow, deliberate pace.

Predatory.

"No calls. No texts. Not even a hello when we live across from each other." She crawled onto my bed, her orange Bailey High skirt crinkling with each movement. "I was worried sick, you know."

Before I could respond, her lips crashed against mine, stealing my breath, my thoughts—everything. The next moment, with a surprising force, she tackled me onto my back, pinning me against the mattress.

"I missed you, idiot." She pouted, her fingers ghosting over my chest.

"Amber, I…" My voice faltered. Instead of finishing, I sighed and wrapped my arms around her, finding solace in the warmth I had deprived myself of.

"You're planning to stay like this today too?" Her gaze flickered to the ashtray beside my bed, its surface marred by the emblem of my favorite superhero.

"Again with the cigarettes?" Her voice softened, but the edge remained. "I told you—if you're not there for our kids, then it's a no when you propose."

"Yeah, well… I'm just not feeling up to anything right now." My jaw clenched.

Amber sighed, frustration laced in the exhale. "Each day you miss school, your friends ask about you. They want to know if you're okay, but you've walled yourself up in here like some prisoner. Do you think your father would want to see you like this?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, my mind drifting back to him.

He was smiling at me.

"You're right…" My voice came out hoarse. "He wouldn't want this. Let's go to school."

I barely managed to sit up before Amber shoved me back down with a mischievous smirk.

"Yeah, we'll get there." Her fingers traced invisible patterns on my chest. "But three months is a long time to keep a girl waiting, Darren. We've got plenty of time before class starts."

My eyes darted to the clock.

7:25 AM.

"We do, but you'll get dirty," I argued weakly.

"I brought extra school clothes." She grinned. "You're not getting away."

---

I felt like a ghost as I boarded the bus, my body moving through motions it had long forgotten. Each step was an effort, my limbs sluggish from months of isolation. Amber clung to my arm, her grip both grounding and suffocating, her face a mixture of relief and silent victory.

I collapsed into a seat, and she followed, still holding on.

The bus reeked of aging air fresheners fighting a losing battle against an odor I didn't want to identify. Amber's shampoo—lavender and citrus—was a welcome contrast, though just as overpowering in its own way.

"Stuck between a rock and a hard place," I mumbled.

"Hmm?" Amber glanced up at me, brow raised.

"Nothing." I chuckled, shaking my head.

The bus rumbled forward, and our driver turned the dial on the radio. A crackle, then a voice filled the stale air.

"Again, police have discovered sigils throughout New Port City. Alongside them, a woman dressed in white, her throat slashed. Authorities state the markings are in Greek hieroglyphics. Even with scholars from the Greek Institute, the meaning remains elusive. The only words deciphered thus far read: 'His Arrival is Near.' Officers believe this to be a cult sacrificial rite…"

Amber shivered.

We had all grown up hearing about this killer—this phantom lurking in the shadows of our small island. Ten years of horror, and still, no one had caught them. No one understood them.

A monster on the loose, always one step ahead.

I leaned back, letting my mind drift, exhaustion pulling me under once more.

---

Orange Bailey High stood before us, a beacon of normalcy named after a farmer who had fought for something greater than himself. A man who had built an empire on the back of perseverance, who had shattered the barriers of an unfair system and proved that hard work transcended skin color.

A national hero.

And yet, his legacy now housed nothing more than hormonal teenagers and the occasional lunatic.

As I stepped off the bus, my reflection caught my eye in the polished surface of a parked car. I rubbed my right hand against my cocoa skin, searching for any imperfection, any fracture in the smoothness. A few barely-there bumps, nothing more. My fingers toyed with the short ebony strands of hair I had been letting grow for weeks now.

With a sigh, I adjusted my orange tie and exhaled.

"Alright." I murmured to myself.

"Let's get this day over with."

And like clockwork, I walked toward Amber, not realizing how much I had taken these moments for granted.