Bay-West is a beautiful town. I've raised my kids here for ten tears, and I
hope to raise
them here for the next ten years. The first thing I had to get used to was the fact that I
couldn't just walk out the door. I have to find a baby sitter, among many other things.
After spending ten years here, I have made many friends. Thing is, I am lying to them all.
Every one of my new friends believe I can't walk, because I use Logan's old wheelchair.
I guess it kind of helps me feel closer to him. It's been almost eleven years since he died,
but I never got to say goodbye. I never got to go to his funeral. I never got the chance to
save him. Yes, I still fell guilty about Logan's death. I still miss Seattle, I still miss all
my friends, but I have a new life now, a different life. My oldest son, Nicolas Alexander,
will be fourteen in four months. My youngest, Patrick James, is eleven in two days. He
can't wait for his birthday; we're going to have a party this year. I own my house, a small
one in the middle of the town. The boys can walk to school when it's nice, or take the bus
when it is not. I still drive Logan's old car, but keeping in good shape is hard, after all, it
is over thirty years old. Every one of my friends think I am crazy for driving it, but only I
know how many times that car was shot up helping Logan and I get out of scrapes, and
only I know the journey across Canada that car made with me, towing an infant and a
toddler half the way. Nicolas remembers very little about our traveling. Both children
know they were adopted, but we don't express that to many others. All of my friends
think it strange of me that I don't talk about my past. I keep the only visible reminder on
my mantle. It is a picture of Logan, the picture that I cut in half to make myself a passport
to get into Canada. I framed it as soon as we settled. I have told the children little about
Logan, and was shocked when Patrick started calling him father when he was about four.
Nicolas picked it up, and now Logan is the only father they know of. For ten years, I have
lived peacefully with my children, working in the garage in the daytime, and spending
my nights either jogging through the wooded areas of town, or sitting on top of the local
middle school; contemplating on my past and our future.
I've always wondered how the children would react if I took them to Seattle, back to
where I came from. I always told everyone I was born and raised in Seattle, and I was
lucky to be able to use the Pulse as an excuse as to why I didn't have birth certificates for
the children. Since the Pulse, a lot of births go unrecorded. Every summer I think, this is
the summer, the summer to go back. But every summer, I find an excuse. The children
are too young to travel. Seattle is too dangerous. I don't want to pull them away from
their friends. And they go on and on. It all goes down to the fact that I am scared. I, X5-
452, a tougher than nails, genetically engineered fighting machine, am scared to go home.
Sounds stupid, doesn't it? What would Cindy say? She'd slap me upside the head and tell
me to get my @$$ in gear, that's what. Logan would chuckle and say "You? You're not
scared of anything." School will be out in two weeks. Patrick is going into middle school,
and Nicolas into the city to go to High School. I've decided I am going to write to Cindy
and Bling. If one of them responds, I will take my boys home. Maybe.
~~
them here for the next ten years. The first thing I had to get used to was the fact that I
couldn't just walk out the door. I have to find a baby sitter, among many other things.
After spending ten years here, I have made many friends. Thing is, I am lying to them all.
Every one of my new friends believe I can't walk, because I use Logan's old wheelchair.
I guess it kind of helps me feel closer to him. It's been almost eleven years since he died,
but I never got to say goodbye. I never got to go to his funeral. I never got the chance to
save him. Yes, I still fell guilty about Logan's death. I still miss Seattle, I still miss all
my friends, but I have a new life now, a different life. My oldest son, Nicolas Alexander,
will be fourteen in four months. My youngest, Patrick James, is eleven in two days. He
can't wait for his birthday; we're going to have a party this year. I own my house, a small
one in the middle of the town. The boys can walk to school when it's nice, or take the bus
when it is not. I still drive Logan's old car, but keeping in good shape is hard, after all, it
is over thirty years old. Every one of my friends think I am crazy for driving it, but only I
know how many times that car was shot up helping Logan and I get out of scrapes, and
only I know the journey across Canada that car made with me, towing an infant and a
toddler half the way. Nicolas remembers very little about our traveling. Both children
know they were adopted, but we don't express that to many others. All of my friends
think it strange of me that I don't talk about my past. I keep the only visible reminder on
my mantle. It is a picture of Logan, the picture that I cut in half to make myself a passport
to get into Canada. I framed it as soon as we settled. I have told the children little about
Logan, and was shocked when Patrick started calling him father when he was about four.
Nicolas picked it up, and now Logan is the only father they know of. For ten years, I have
lived peacefully with my children, working in the garage in the daytime, and spending
my nights either jogging through the wooded areas of town, or sitting on top of the local
middle school; contemplating on my past and our future.
I've always wondered how the children would react if I took them to Seattle, back to
where I came from. I always told everyone I was born and raised in Seattle, and I was
lucky to be able to use the Pulse as an excuse as to why I didn't have birth certificates for
the children. Since the Pulse, a lot of births go unrecorded. Every summer I think, this is
the summer, the summer to go back. But every summer, I find an excuse. The children
are too young to travel. Seattle is too dangerous. I don't want to pull them away from
their friends. And they go on and on. It all goes down to the fact that I am scared. I, X5-
452, a tougher than nails, genetically engineered fighting machine, am scared to go home.
Sounds stupid, doesn't it? What would Cindy say? She'd slap me upside the head and tell
me to get my @$$ in gear, that's what. Logan would chuckle and say "You? You're not
scared of anything." School will be out in two weeks. Patrick is going into middle school,
and Nicolas into the city to go to High School. I've decided I am going to write to Cindy
and Bling. If one of them responds, I will take my boys home. Maybe.
~~