Unlike Skipper said, Private is actually the one to take me on the tour of the apartment. It almost seems like a house, since it seems the entire top floor was converted into an apartment. All in all, however, I'm absolutely sure I'm going to hate being here. This place is nuts, and quite honestly, a little creepy. It makes me wonder if they all have their own apartments. It seems they all sleep in here, although in separate rooms, and Private even showed me that Kowalski has his own lab for his own scientific experiments. I'm not entirely sure if that sentence creeps me out yet.
Rico has his own room for collecting various weapons, most of which are more than likely illegal. How in the hell he even got most of them were impressive itself. There are also several rooms I'm not allowed in, or allowed to be told about yet. Not even wanting to know, I just nod and went about my merry way. From the look of all the rooms, it definitely seems this floor was either converted or added on because I can't imagine the other apartments in the building are like this. I don't even want to think about how much rent must be.
I immediately take notice that Private shows me my room very last. I suspect he did this so I couldn't retire to my room and cancel the tour early — something I absolutely would have done. I was tired, after all. Being on a plane for a few hours, being around all those people, not to mention the paranoia I got from the creepy guy on the plane, and the emotional stress of having to leave Wisconsin so soon after everything happened just takes a toll on the human body. Once he shows me my room, I smile as politely as I can in the situation. "Thanks for showing me around, Private. I'm really tired from…" I pause. "Well. Today. I'm gonna take a nap, okay?"
The young man grins and nods. He seems so much more full of life than Skipper, it makes me wonder how they even managed to become friends let alone live together. He also seems to be the youngest in the group, but I can't tell ages for anything. "Yeah, that's alright. I'll go ahead and tell the others you're sleeping so they keep it down a notch. Training can get pretty loud," he murmurs the last sentence, a hand rubbing the back of his neck slowly.
"Thanks, Private." I don't wait for any more conversation before closing the door on him quickly. I wait, listening for the sound of his footsteps to walk away, and immediately I'm setting up my room. It's too bleak, too bland, it needs my stuff to be placed everywhere. The walls are grey, and all my bed seems to be is a rectangular hole in the wall with a mattress in it. I put my sheets on the bed and place my pillow and blankets down, making sure it's nice and neat. From the look of the apartment, these people are neat freaks, which is perfectly fine by me.
I grab my backpack and shove my notebooks, pencils, pens, folders, anything I could possibly need for tomorrow. I don't know what high school in New York is going to be like, but I can't imagine it's going to be fun.
On the dressers that had been placed in the room, I place little knick-knacks I brought from home. Ornaments, pictures of Mom and me, little toys Mom got me over the years. I hang up my clothes in the closet, which also seems to just be a hole in the wall, and place the rest of my clothes in the dresser.
The dresser has a giant mirror attached to it, and I look into my own eyes. There are bags under my eyes, my skin paler than usual, and I look like I've lost weight. I look sickly. But most of all, what catches my eye the most is the gouge across my forehead. A result from the crash, from glass shattering. Stitches helped it close, but it still looks ugly. It is a grim reminder of what I've been through. A grim reminder of where my life has taken me.
As I feel tears spring to my eyes, I hear my mom's voice. Don't cry for me, sweetheart. Move on. You will do great things. I grab my makeup back and take out the little moist towelettes, wiping off my makeup before I inevitably cry it off. I can only stay strong so long, Mom. But I will try.
My fingers lightly brush over the wound on my forehead, making my eyes close and breath stop. For a moment, only just a moment, I can hear the scream. I can hear the crash. I feel Mom fading away in my arms. But I jump out of it, shaking my head before getting into PJs.
As I'm about to plug my phone in, Skipper comes into my room after a brief knock. "It's almost time for bed, soldier, I hope you're —"
When he looks up, his eyes quickly cascade over the room, evaluating it. But his eyes stop on a picture of Mom and me. It was a stupid selfie we took last summer. Our faces are pushed together, our smiles bright, and our eyes full of life. Part of me wishes I could be that Liberty again. I watch as he freezes, his breath hitching slightly. He stares at the picture for a while, before slowly wandering in and picking it up.
Skipper's face softens in a way I didn't think was possible for him. A small smile tips the corners of his lips upward as he looks over the picture, a look in his eye that I can only imagine would be love. He really did love her. But then… why did he leave?
The moment ends almost as quickly as it began. He places the picture down, clearing his throat and his normal attitude returning. "It's bedtime, soldier. You have school in the morning." And with that simple sentence, he turns on his heel and marches out of my room. Wonder what that was about.
I plug my phone in, setting it down as I crawl into bed. My eyes close, and reality hits me. This is my home from now on. Mom isn't coming back. She's not coming to save me. This is real.
I bury my face in my pillow, and silently cry myself to sleep.
Crash.
Scream.
Blood.
Pain.
Sirens.
Scream.
Silence.
I scream and shoot up, knocking my head against the top of my bunk. My arms quickly curl around my head as pain rockets through my skull. A groan escapes my lips as I roll over as if pressure on my head is going to make the pain go away.
I barely register my room's door opening. The sound of the sirens and screams ring in my ears as well as the pain from almost bashing my own brains in. It hurts, it all hurts, it hurts so much, I just want it to stop hurting, it has to be a dream.
A hand is on my back. I lean into it instinctively, and I sniffle loudly. I didn't even know I was crying. "Mom, it hurts…"
The hand disappears. A whimper that I don't want to admit that I can make forces its way up my throat, and then I'm being pulled out of my bunker. Arms wrap around me, strong arms, and I can't take it anymore. I begin to bawl my eyes out, telling anyone out there, "I want my mom, I want my mom." I hear and feel soft shushes against my head, as I start to be rocked back and forth, my hair being gently played with. I cry and bawl, begging someone to bring Mom back, don't let her die, I can't do this without her.
But soon, my cries fade. The pain fades, the sounds of sirens and screams and metal and glass fades from my ears, and slowly, I realise Skipper has been talking. His voice is low, concerned, but still stern. "Come on, Liberty, you can do it. Come back to me. It's not real, none of it is real."
All I can do is respond with another whimper, burying my face in his chest. I can't do this without Mom. I can't do this. Emotionally, physically, none of it.
I'm tired. So tired and exhausted from the nightmare, from crying, from everything. Slowly, with the help of Skipper playing with my hair, I fall back into unconsciousness.
I wake up from an alarm blasting by my bed. With a groan, I smack it for it to snooze, and I curl into a ball with my face still in the pillow. It's too early. I'm so tired. My sleep wasn't good last night. I need more.
When I feel a hand on my back, I jump with a small shriek. "It's just me, Liberty," I hear Private's tell-tale accent coming from my side, and I groan. "It's time to get up for school. Today is the first day."
He makes sure I get up before leaving the room, allowing me to get dressed. I go through my usual routine — dress, hair, makeup, teeth, and go. Once I'm ready, about thirty minutes later, I walk out into the living room.
It felt like I had walked into some weird TV show. Skipper on the couch with coffee, Kowalski at the table reading the newspaper, Private watching television despite the fact it was muted, and Rico putting some sort of puzzle together. But when I walked out, all at once, they looked up at me, and for a moment just stared. I looked down as my face got heated. I was hoping last night wouldn't make things awkward. I'd forgotten to tell them about the nightmares I'd been suffering from recently. Always repeats of the incident. Always experiencing everything all over again.
I tug my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands out of nervousness before darting into the kitchen to get away from their eyes. I open the fridge — lots of fish and milk. I open the freezer — all of it is fish. Who the hell eats this much fish?
On top of the fridge is cereal, and it made me laugh quietly. Four grown men had some Lucky Charms spinoff cereal, but the marshmallows were all skeletons. This seems like something a little kid would buy, not something four grown-ass men would buy. But hey, you like what you like.
I pour myself a bowl of the childish cereal and eat it off the counter in the kitchen. I don't really want to be close to them — I don't want to be here. I want to be back at home with Mom, in the little house that we rented out for way too much money than it was worth. But it was worth it for the memories we formed there. Only two years, and I can go back to Green Bay. Two more years, and it will be like nothing ever happened. I never lived here. I never left.
I wash my bowl quickly and put it on the drying rack before hesitantly walking back out into the living room. All four men have migrated to the kitchen table now across from the living room, leaving me with the couch all by myself.
I sit down and flip through apps on my phone mindlessly, the world around me disappearing slowly. Maybe I should bring my book with me today. Then again, who knows how today will be? It might be showing me around the school, or (typical of high schools) they'll throw me into the fire and watch me scramble. If I had to guess, it would be the latter.
"Time for school!" Private calls for me a couple of minutes later. "The bus will be here for you soon."
"Alright. See you guys," I call back, heading out the door. Once I get outside, I freeze, however — where am I supposed to stand? At the end of the little driveway? When was the bus coming? Would it be the school bus I'm thinking of or are they public transport busses? Where am I going to high school? Skipper obviously thought this all out, more than I had anyway. I just wish I had been given more time to adjust before being thrust into high school, but alas, I have already missed a month due to moving and trauma.
Almost exactly three minutes later, a school bus comes by to pick me up. I slowly get on and immediately feel awkward as I don't know what I'm doing, but at least there are only a few kids looking at me. Most were on their phones or talking with their friends, they didn't even seem to notice me. That's fine with me. Quickly shooting for the back of the bus, I sit in a seat where there is no one, right next to the window. I look back to the apartments and see Skipper outside, arms crossed, the stern look on his face. We don't exchange anything but a look between us before the bus takes off. Will last night affect our barely-started relationship?
The ride feels like it takes forever, but finally, we arrive at a giant building with a great big sign, "Central Park High School." I wait for everyone to get off the bus before I depart myself, immediately finding myself overwhelmed. This place is much, much bigger than the high school I went to, and I had no idea where anything was. Luckily, signs were everywhere, so I managed to find the head office with minimal difficulty. I give them my name, and they give me my classes. Chemistry, history, math, English, the works. Nothing too complicated.
Now, to find my locker. With the help of some kids who obviously don't want anything to do with me, I get a general direction. Some confused wandering and head-scratching later, I manage to find it. It's located between two rather large guys, obviously considered jocks, wearing jerseys to fit the label as well.
"Hey yo, Bing, lookit what we got 'ere," the darker-haired one says in a deep voice as I slowly approach them. I look him over quickly — grass stains on his ripped jeans, the jersey, the body structure. He definitely seems like he could be a football player.
The one next to him ("Bing") turns, and they are most definitely brothers. It's like an almost copy-paste of each other. Possibly twins? Not identical, too many differences for that. "Looks like we got a new girl in town, eh Bada?"
They towered over me, and I can't help but feel a bit intimidated. I may not know how to completely defend myself, but I know a bit from what Mom taught me. I smile at them as best as I can with how nervous I am, swallowing the knot in my throat. "Hi. My, uh, locker is between yours."
They move out of my way a bit and lean back up against their lockers, continuing to talk about football. I begin to shove my notebooks and pencils into my locker as well as my backpack when I hear a bell. Upon hearing this, I stand up and close my locker. "Can you guys point me to where the pre-calc class is?"
I fight the urge to facepalm and sigh as they both point in different directions. They then look at each other and (upon realising they were pointing opposite directions) change the way they were pointing, so they were pointing the way the other one previously had. Neither of them had a clue, but at least they were trying to be helpful. I probably should have known they wouldn't know — just by listening to them, I can tell intelligence isn't really their thing.
"Thanks anyway," I mumble as I just pick a direction, wandering the halls to find the class I was supposed to be in.
The entire day ended up like that. Hauling ass to get to the next class, ending up a minute or five late, meeting no one I clicked with. The teachers seemed slightly stuck-up, but they did their basic duty by introducing me to the class every time. Mildly annoying, but also very expected. And when the bell rang to signal the end of school, I couldn't help but be relieved by it all. I never thought I would say this, but I'm happy to be going back to the apartment.
After some fussing about and a lot of questions, I managed to get on the bus I needed to be on and dropped off at the right apartments. After the day I had today, the last thing I needed was to be lost in New York.
I use the key Private gave to me to unlock the door, and immediately flop down into the dining room chair. I spread my homework across the table, sighing at the amount of it. Good thing most of this had already been taught in Green Bay, so it was decently easy. I get to work in silence, which was normal for me at the house when I waited for Mom to come home from work, but it felt weird in this apartment. I feel like I should be able to hear something, anything. Maybe they just weren't home.
It takes about an hour and a half, but I manage to get all my homework done. And after it all, I feel so ungodly tired. After last night and waking up so early, I need a little nap. So I shove my homework unceremoniously back into my backpack, borderline crawl onto the couch before curling into a ball. I relax, slowly, and within just a few minutes I drift off into slumberland.