The Fifth Horseman by Freida Kilmari

Author:Freida Kilmari [Kilmari, Freida]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Freida Kilmari

Smoke pours from my hands in a simple backyard as I scream at a familiar man. “I just want to be normal!”

He looks at me with pity, understanding, and his blond hair and handsome features school my attitude as he scowls. “But you are not.”

Tears stain my face as I sob, not really sure if it’s the past’s or present’s fault, but in that moment, it all molds into the same pile of crap my life’s become and seems to always have been.

My mind comes back to the present, and I find myself crouching in a ball in the middle of the forest clearing I’ve run to. I can’t wallow in regret like this; it isn’t like my life will change and I can wake up human tomorrow. But the memory of Dea collapsing replays itself over and over in my mind, like a stupid broken song that I can’t quite jam to but keep playing anyway.

Arrie’s face. He really hates me. If not before, then he definitely does now. I’ll never fit in here, and part of me really doesn’t want to stay in a house full of people I put in danger. Not to mention all the stupid dynamics that I’ve completely ruined just by being myself.

“Arrghh!”

I jump to my feet, frustration curling my hands into fists, and begin pacing in a circle around the clearing. I need to think myself out of this. Somehow. But no matter how many circles I think around, I’m stuck, because the world needs me; no matter what I’m doing to the four people I’ve come to call friends, the ten billion people on Earth are about to head into a war only I can stop (supposedly).

“Looks like I have to stay.” I need their training, no matter what it puts us all through, no matter how torturous it might be.

As great as it is to come to some kind of conclusion about my life, the conclusion itself frustrates me beyond belief. I need to do something. Something to let all this pent-up energy out. Between the frustration and the blood I drank, it’s like my anger has a fire fueling it.

I stand in front of a tree and do the first thing that comes naturally to my regret-addled mind. I punch it.

Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. Even for me. But you know what? It helps. And since my skin heals as fast as I punch, it seems like a good stress reliever.

Left. Right. Left. Right. The skin on my knuckles breaks again and again, and eventually blood stains my hands, but nothing. No thoughts stop the anger from taking control.

Dea could have been seriously hurt.

Left. Right.

If he were human, I would have killed him.

Left. Right.

I’m breaking this team apart.

Left. Right.

I’ll never belong anywhere.

Left. Right.

Who am I?

Left. Right.

It continues this way for an hour, until the sun starts to set, lighting pieces of the sky I can see through the trees in a beautiful pink blush. I must have been playing over that memory and drowning in my sorrows and guilt all afternoon.

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