The Serum

T W O.

I'm dead.

"Elizabeth Jane Selburn, answer me." Mom's lips are pressed into a thin, white line, which is what she always does when she's angry.

"I told you, I was going for a walk."

"At 1:00 in the morning? I don't think so." I gulp; this is not good. I'd been planning to slip out like I always do but for some reason, Mom decided to drink coffee. At 1:00 in the morning. Which, I wanted to add, is not at all good for her. But something tells me that if I mention it, she'll only get angrier. Which is so not what I need right now. 

"I know a lie when I see one, Elizabeth. You were going to sneak out." 

I duck my head, not making eye contact. I've had this conversation more times than I can count.

"My name is Lizzy," I mumble to her. My father loved literature so I was named after famous literary characters; Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice and Jane from Jane Eyre. I hate that my name is from some musty, dusty old book from the 1800s so I go by Lizzy. 

She throws her hands up, taking a seat at our old wood table.

"I raised you so well. Where did I go wrong?" I roll my eyes. Mom loves to play this card; the guilt-trick. My mother is more dramatic that Shakespeare. 

"Yes, I know I'm a disappointment, Mom. Are we done here?" She waves a hand, shooing me away. I slink back to my room, disappointed. I had been looking forward to tonight; Vincent, Kaylie and I were going to have some fun down at the police office. But of course, it's ruined by my mom's weird nightly craving for coffee. I slump on my bed, tossing my paints to the carpet. It's embarrassing that at 19, my mother still grounds me. Though, most kids don't even live with their moms at 19. 

A cold draft of wind sweeps in, brushing across my skin. Goosebumps ripple and I huff, throwing myself off the bed. My mom has some penchant for open windows. I always tell her that some day, a Creeper is going to, well, creep in through one of the open windows. I slam it shut with a growl. 

Wait, the window. 

A grin stretches across my face as I contemplate the thought. Mom will never suspect a thing. I wiggle into an old sweatshirt and draw the hood over my head. Grabbing my paints, I toss one leg over the open window. Straddling the windowsill, I glance back. I don't mean to be such a pain in the neck but she doesn't understand that the house is claustrophobic. My art... it keeps me sane. Even though it often lands me in hot water, it's the only thing that's keeping me from going nuts. Without a second thought, I land on the ground in a crunch. Careful to avoid sticks or leaves, I sneak under the windows along the house until I make it to the front yard.

Three, two one. 

I make a break for it, bolting across the grass. Ducking behind a tree, I peek out to see if Mom noticed. After watching for a few moments, I jog lightly down the street, hopping over the large cracks in the pavement. In August, Oklahoma is a medley of sticky hot and chilling cold, and everything in between. Cold in the mornings and nights and humid during the day. It's absolutely terrible.

 The wind pushes against me as I run but it feels great. My muscles ache when I finally make it to the police station but my adrenaline is pumping. I'm actually doing this, right here, right now. Being careful, I dart behind the station to find two figures waiting. They wave me over. Vincent grins cockily, his dark hair gleaming like oil in the moonlight.

"We were starting to think you wouldn't make it."

"Do you know me?" Kaylie grins and nudges my shoulder, reaching into my paint bag. Bringing out a light blue color, she smiles, flashing her pearly teeth.

"Let's go." She test sprays along some rusted brick and begins to outline. Kaylie is just as talented, or even more so than I am. Talent practically flows from her fingertips. 

We work diligently and silently, our movements quick and precise. I'm an expert at running from the officials but defacing the police station itself is a huge task. If we're caught, we might not escape. Still, it's a risk I'm willing to take. The policemen here think they own Ardmore, which for a fact they don't. I'm tired of their bossing around and since no one was stepping up to confront them, the three of us decided to make a move. 

My anger just makes me paint harder, faster, better. After we're through with this wall, they'll think twice about pushing all of us around. 

Keeling over, I reach into my bag for the light green. It's the finishing touch on my part of the painting, the aspect that will set it off. After years of practicing art, I've learned that the little details matter as much as the big ones. That green will pack a punch. I rummage through the bag at Kaylie's feet when I hear her gasp and drop the canister. Flashlights sweep above me, a hair's distance away from my head.

"Hey!" Vincent and Kaylie scramble up, bolting down the street. After a stupid minute, I do the same, pushing my legs as fast as they can go.

Not fast enough apparently. 

A particularly chubby police officer with clammy hands clamps his pudgy fingers on my arm, holding them in a vise-like grip. I squirm but I know it will do nothing. Vincent and Kaylie continue running, their apologies written clearly across their face. I chuckle bitterly. They won't try and save me; they'd rather save their own skin. 

What else would I expect? That's the way of the world now; everyone thinks for themselves and no one else. 

"You're not going anywhere, girly." His sour breath washes over my face and I gag, flinching away from him. 

I watch them dart around the corner, out of sight, as the police officer drags me away.