I often dream of a world where everyone could be something more.

1.01 Forged

August

To most it was just another hot August day, to me it was another day of going through the motions. To Emma it was a hot August day where she got to go get ice cream with her Dad and best friend.

We'd been driving for about 15 minutes now, we could have gotten ice cream much quicker, but Emma insisted on getting it from her favourite cape themed shop. Mr. Barnes tried to insist we could get ice cream just as good from the convenience store but when Emma threw out the puppy dog eyes, and with no sign of help from me, he caved like a wet napkin.

Now here we were, going out of our way for some ice cream as if any of it really mattered. I know, I know, what sort of 14 year old girl turns complains about ice cream on a hot sunny day, and the answer would be me. A 14 year old girl who has had her entire life turned upside down and would much rather stay in her room then suffer through the experience of trying to act mildly okay for her best friends sake.

As we drove past another crumbling ruin, I watched in silence. It wasn't a new sight, but it was a welcome distraction from attempting to make conversation with Emma. Lately, talking about anything enjoyable had been difficult. Whenever I started to feel happy, a wave of guilt crashed over me.

I knew I couldn't keep this up forever; eventually, I'd have to open up. Mr. Barnes had all but ensured that when he threatened to make me see a therapist if I didn't talk to someone before school began. So far, he had respected my wish to avoid discussing it, but I knew his recent threats were serious. Deep down, I understood they were made out of concern for me.

As we passed yet another junkie wandering listlessly, I couldn't help the disgust that crept up my stomach and settled in my throat. They disgusted me—useless people who couldn't help themselves, let alone others.

When Mr. Barnes turned left off the road and into the ice cream shop's parking lot, I felt the wave of guilt I knew would arrive. I barely heard Mr. Barnes' assurance that he'd be right back as I thought about my dad.

My sweet, loving dad turned broken and anguished husband, turned emotionally detached and distant father, turned withered and rung-out junkie, lying surrounded by all manners of paraphernalia. It seemed to happen in an instant, though I knew it transpired over nearly a year.

But I guess when you lose two parents within a year, time blurs together, especially when one dies by their own volition, and you know you weren't enough to make them choose better.

I was so entrenched in my thoughts that I nearly smashed my head into the roof when I felt a trio of taps on my shoulder.

"I'm thinking we start with the Double Fudge Legend and end the night with Eidolon's Galactic Swirl!" Emma began, continuing to ramble on about exactly when we'd eat which ice cream from the undoubtedly exuberant cartons her dad bought and even what we'd be doing while we ate the ice cream.

"Yeah, that sounds fun," I said, partly to appease Emma and partly because that did sound nice.

As guilty as I felt when enjoying anything that didn't have a purpose, I justified having fun with Emma as me just doing my duty as her friend. It said a lot about how messed up I was that I had to jump through mental hoops to enjoy something as simple as ice cream.

"TAYLOR!" Emma's voice broke me out of another trance, and as I turned to look at her, I really took her in: the downward turn of her lips that didn't suit her soft oval-shaped face, her eyes looking at me far too wide, clearly overly concerned.

When my eyes met Emma's, the sheer weight of the worry caught me off guard. For weeks, she'd been trying to pull me out of the shell I had retreated into, and every reply I'd given her had been as short as possible. She deserved more than the mere fragments of the friend she knew that I had been offering.

"Emma, I…" my voice was barely above a whisper and came out croaky in a way I despised. I took a deep breath, feeling the words bubbling up, ready to spill over the edge of my lips. "I'm not okay. I feel guilty nearly every second of every day, and when I don't, it comes back stronger than ever because I shouldn't get to be happy."

Emma's eyes softened as she clasped my hand and gently squeezed. "It's okay, Taylor. Just let it all out."

I swallowed hard, memories of the past year flashing by at the speed of light. "I wasn't enough to stop my dad from doing… what he did. He was amazing, and then everything changed when Mom died. I thought it would get better over time, that he'd do what any parent should do and keep us a family for my sake if not his. But he didn't—he got worse. I wasn't enough for him to care about."

A choked breath escaped me as I continued. I had to get this out. It was now or never. "And my mom… God, Emma, I think it was my fault she died."

Emma's brow furrowed. "What? Why would you think that?"

"My mom," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "I think she was trying to text me back. I took my dad's phone and was asking her to pick me up snacks. I was so impatient, always needing her to respond immediately. And then the accident happened, and she was on her phone."

Emma's eyes looked wet as she pulled me into a tight hug. "Taylor, it wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself for their choices or the accident. Sometimes things just happen, and people make mistakes."

I broke. I buried my face in her shoulder, finally letting the tears I'd been holding back flow freely. "But it's so much worse, Emma. I keep thinking that if I'd been just better, more patient, my mom wouldn't have had to look at her phone. Or if I'd just been worth more, my dad would have had a reason to put himself back together. And when I'm not blaming myself, I blame them. I blame them for not being better. They're adults—they should've known better!"

Emma looked at me with eyes as wide as those big buttons on a detective's cloak in a mystery show. She took a deep breath. "Taylor, you keep saying you wish you were better… but I need you to know something. When your mom died, I was glad it happened to you and not to me. As awful as that sounds, it's worse because it wasn't even because I love my mom—which I do!"

I froze, pulling back to really look at her face. "What?"

Emma's face was marred with a frown, and her eyes were full of what I could only call guilt. "I've always known you were stronger than I am, Taylor. I don't think I could have come back from that. I know it sounds horrible, but I thought you could handle it better than I ever could. So when you say that you weren't good enough or that you wish you could have been better, what does that make me?"

I was speechless for a moment, torn between anger and hurt that she could even say she was glad my life turned into this mess. But then I really took her in, and allowed my newly built glasses to do it's work. The display from its feedback showed it was picking up traces of admiration, regret and hope from the body language presented by Emma and I saw what Emma was truly trying to tell me. She wasn't perfect, and she knew she wasn't perfect, but she thought I was as close to perfect as one could get and she wanted better for me. She was wrong about me being anywhere near perfect, of course, but the knowledge that for at least one person I was more than enough lifted something off me. I felt like I could take my first breath of air after drowning all my life.

I hugged her—the only person I had left, someone who thought I was more than I really was. I pulled back when the front driver door opened up, and Mr. Barnes handed us the grocery bags of ice cream. He must've noticed the wet eyes and the damp marks on our clothes, but he didn't say anything, and for that, I was thankful.

I don't think I could handle another emotionally charged talk about my feelings, but as we began to pull out of the parking lot and head back to the Barnes family home—my new home—I swore I saw a smile on his face in the rearview mirror.

Emma and I began talking, truly talking like we used to, about the most pointless of topics. This time it was about who would win: Legend or Alexandria.

"Legend has the speed advantage, but Alexandria's invulnerability and intelligence more than make up for that," I said. "I think it would be a close match, to be honest."

Emma leaned forward, her excitement palpable. "But what if Legend used his energy blasts to keep her at a distance? He could wear her down that way."

Our debate was abruptly ended when the car lurched to a sudden stop, throwing us against our seatbelts. "What the—" I began, but the words quickly died on my lips as I saw what caused the sudden stop.

In front of us was a large garbage bin blocking the road, its bulky frame positioned diagonally to ensure no vehicle could pass the single one-way road.

Let me know what you think.

Absolutely everything I write is liable to being rewritten as I stumble through the process of developing my writing skills, sorry?