A Regular Morning

Romeo stirred in his bed.

It was comfy, the sheets soft, and they smelled like the lavender detergent his mother liked. It was his own. He was home. Why was he even surprised by this?

The sun peeked through the blinds, burning his eyelids, his head feeling heavy.

It felt like he got too much sleep, not too little. He curled up, yawning, and refused to leave, even though he had to start his day soon.

The only thing uncomfortable was the coarse textile rubbing against his forearm.

He pried his eyes open to find it bandaged, the fabric dark red and caked with blood. The previous day's nightmare came rushing back in reverse, with the severed head first.

He almost threw up, and now the bed felt like a lava pit around him.

Swallowing the bile, he tried to put the picture together.

There was an assassin trying to kill his father. His shot had almost torn his arm off. But why didn't he feel anything? His first instinct was to tear the textile off.

Imagining the seared flesh underneath didn't help with his nausea, though.

The bandage had an earthy metallic smell with a touch of antiseptic. It was too much detail for a dream, even if chaos and dizziness reigned in his head right now.

His hand was ready to peel it away, but a will struggling to grasp his situation scanned his surroundings. The most disturbing thing was that everything seemed normal.

The room was in the same state as he had left it yesterday morning.

The crumpled, dirty school uniform by the bed was the only exception. He'd never leave it like that, or his mother would keep pestering him.

Romeo took a deep breath and went for it.

The blood-soaked bandage came off, and—there was nothing underneath. No scar, not even a scratch—his skin was flawless on his forearm, no matter how hard he looked at it.

"Was that a dream?" he asked, but the bloody fabric told a different story. He hid it under his bedsheets without thinking.

Right. Yesterday, he missed his chance to learn what happened to him. When the governor was about to confront his father, he passed out.

Well, it was a good thing he survived.

His phone was in his uniform pocket where he had left it, though he didn't remember cracking the screen. Then, with Julie's car accident, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

"Damn, that was one busy day," he mumbled, dialing in his father's number without thinking. The call never connected, but he was still at home after all. He could dress up and meet him.

Except he couldn't put those dirty clothes back on.

Luckily, he had a second set somewhere, so he left the bed to faceplant into the floor.

His senses were all garbled. It occurred to him too late that he felt the lavender so strong, even though his bedsheet was last washed a week ago.

He heard cars from the street, but they lived in a secluded house, a mile from the closest traffic. His eyes were fine—except with his nose on the carpet, his vision was still razor-sharp.

His balance was hopeless.

A tiny movement of his head made him feel like he had spun around twice. His brain had shut these hypersensitive inputs off while in bed, but now it was challenging to stand.

It might have been a bad idea to leave the hospital so early.

At least the drowsiness was gone. Footsteps approached. Unlike the cars somewhere far away, these came from the corridor. He even recognized her mother's walking pattern.

His door flew open without a knock.

"Oh, dear, what is this mess?" she asked before bursting into a bright laugh. That was the last thing Romeo expected. "Hahaha, now I see why your father was so mad this morning."

"What?" his mention got Romeo off the floor.

He was still struggling with his balance. His reflexes became so fast that correcting his posture as long as he paid attention was trivial. He must have looked like a piece of jelly, though.

At least his mother didn't see the bandages.

"Your hair—" she covered her mouth with both hands as if that stopped her giggles. "I never expected you to come home one day with it bleached snow white."

"Oh," that put another piece of the puzzle in place.

Right, his hair changed color during the first accident. His mother's reaction suggested she had no idea what had happened to him—it seemed best to keep it that way.

"Don't get me wrong, it's—trendy? I guess," she tried, it was hard to believe her when she kept laughing. "But dear Romeo, please, for your father's sanity, inform us ahead of time next."

"Yeah, that's fair," he played along, running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry."

"That's okay," she smiled, calming down. "You never had a rebel phase. But don't let it cause problems in school. I know the Church can be unreasonable sometimes."

"You have no idea," Romeo rubbed his temples.

"Well then," she walked back to the door, a strict glance falling onto his dirty clothes. "You better get going because you'll have to catch the bus. Breakfast is ready for you downstairs."

This presented an issue he hadn't even thought about.

"Hold on," he didn't even know how to ask. "Wouldn't it be better if I skipped a day?"

He pictured incense-choked lectures and hungry stares. What if the friar asked questions?

Her mother crossed her arms, the smile long forgotten. "Romeo Montague," using his full name, was a clear no. "Your father is already pissed about your hair, so—"

"So that's why," he interjected. "He's right, I should dye it back and stay home until then." That lie was so smooth and sensible that he felt great and terrible about it at once.

"No, you have to live with your choices, no matter how embarrassing they are."

"But the Church," Romeo tried, but his mother seemed adamant.

"You'll go to school, dear. Maxwell told me to make sure you do," she added, and his father's mention confused Romeo even more.

"He said that?" he asked. "He didn't pick up the phone—"

"Yeah, he's having breakfast with the governor or something." She pouted like she weren't a forty-year-old woman, but a chick jealous of the pompous fool Lord Escalus.

Well, that's how Romeo thought about the guy until yesterday.

Now, the sheer mention made his skin crawl.

Especially when he remembered Paris and his cryptic words about being the same.

While the darkness didn't help, he felt it in his guts that the boy his age was the one tearing that head off with bare hands. The governor's whole theatrical entry with the mech was but a show.

He needed to learn what this Vat 16 talk was about.

And, he had to go to school. 'Nobody tried to kill you. Yet.' An hour later, an assassin almost shot his arm off. What will wait for him at Verona High?

Did the Church think he was a mutant? Even if they didn't, his classmates would still shoot him glances. But thinking about one specific classmate, all his concerns melted away.