Sometimes I feel like I'm not of this world.
No, not sometimes- I often felt this way. It was not a nice feeling. I wondered if it was normal for people to feel this way, and figured it was. I guess it's normal that I can feel every pore in my body itching for release, flooded with blood, yet thirsting. I suppose it's not out of the ordinary to feel like my body is wrong in every way, to feel unable to inadequate, unable to express myself.
I at least knew the latter was normal. It was a common teenaged complaint, and teenaged was what I was.
Normal fourteen year old girl. Yup. I had my eccentricities, as all men and women did. I felt mildly at peace, sequestered in my room, surrounded by books. I didn't feel quite so misunderstood or alone in my books, where I could envelop myself in someone else's thoughts, feelings, problems.
Someone else's world.
I was content as I was. I sat with my back against the headboard of my broad bed, legs tugged up against my chest, two sheets draped over a hanging wire to create a rough tent. Light dashed itself against the opaqueness of the sheets and struggled through, showing the minute dust molecules drifting aimlessly in front of the pages of my book.
It was a favourite of mine. The characters were friends, companions that leaped off of the pages. As I understood them, they understood me; I had accepted them into my heart, and they dwelt within my mind. How could they not?
But I was restless. I shifted slightly, my legs buzzing with energy. I frowned. I was normally lethargic, constantly tired. Where was the energy coming from? It was unnerving, but I was having trouble ignoring it. It felt kind of like the itch in my skin was turning into a rise of tightly restrained power. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable.
Unable to help myself, I scrambled to the end of the bed and stood, quickly dressing in something technically presentable but not really; faded sweat pants and a baggy shirt. I sat at the top of the stairs and thrust my feet into mismatch socks, one orange and one blue, before storming the door that led outside.
"Dad!" I yelled through the house, fitting my feet into my runners. "I'm going for a walk for a couple minutes."
"Okay, sweetie," my dad confirmed from the basement. Nodding, though no one could see me, I opened the door and promptly began to run.
Now let my say this bluntly: I don't run. It's not that I'm not fast; I have a pretty good top speed. It's just that it feels awkward and it doesn't take long for me to feel like something's wrong and to make my feel like I'm about to fall on my face. This time it was my back, feeling as if it was hyper arched, not quite write. I braced my abs against it, sucking in great breaths as my weak body strained to keep the speed.
The feeling of blocked power built into a crescendo, and I gritted my teeth, pushing my feet into the ground with such force that I imagined my feet sinking into the pale grey of the sidewalk.
The suburban houses blurred, carefully tended gardens and overgrown weeds and everything in between colliding in a riot of nonsensical life. On an impulse, I abruptly changed directions, ricocheting like a loose cannon burst off course into the park woods on my right.
And abruptly came to a stop, mulch flying as I dug my heels and toes into the ground, trying not to slam headlong into the man, or boy, I guess, on the path in front of me.
My face burned, even though I didn't feel particularly embarrassed. The boy, whose hair was dyed pink (weird choice), narrowed his eyes at me. He sniffed the air experimentally, and frowned, his face absurdly young looking, despite it's handsomeness. I don't know what it was about him that was distinctly naive, but he sure didn't seem all that mature to me. Maybe it was that he was sniffing the air like a dog. I tried to walk calmly around him, smiling half-apologetically, but he rounded on me, and said, "You smell funny."
I stared at him. How was I supposed to respond to that? A pink haired stranger had just said I smelled funny.
"Well gee, thanks," I said finally, the words slipping ineloquently from my mouth.
The boy didn't say anything, but crossed his arms, which drew attention to his clothing. My focus had been mainly on his unruly pink hair, but I now noticed his attire wasn't any less strange. He wore a thin, dark blue and yellow-gold vest with nothing but bare chest and muscle beneath. I distracted myself from the finely toned muscles, which were really quite disconcerting, by realizing that his pants were knee length white pants that twisted somewhat so that they resembled the clothes of a foreign prince or something. Over that, even, he wore a skirt-like thing, dark blue with yellow trim, like his vest, that split over one thigh.
Well, he was certainly an oddball.
He grinned suddenly, such a fierce, mischievous grin that I took a mistrustful step backwards. He seemed to come to a decision.
"I'm Natsu," he claimed audaciously, stabbing himself in the chest with his thumb as he gestured to himself. Yes, I know what "I," means, but thank you for the demonstration. "And you're coming with me!"