Unknown by Christopher Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

years, what I felt was smooth, with just a touch of stubble.   There were no swollen bumps, no pustules ready to pop.   Instead, my face wasn’t the cratered valley of boulders it had been that morning.   Now it was normal.  
    I ran a hand through my hair and was surprised by how smooth it was.   I shook my head and it seemed to fall back naturally in place, which my hair never did because ever since I could remember, it had been a thick, wiry mess with an unruly mind of its own.  
    I wondered what my parents would think when they saw me, but then I checked myself because I already knew.   They wouldn’t realize there was a difference.    They’d be oblivious to it.
    As I walked into the woods and started down the dirt path, I looked down at my thin arms and wondered what the rest of me would look like if I had a body like Alex.   Or even Hastings.   The temptation to transform myself was great—and I knew I could do it.   But not yet, or at least not all at once.
    How much was too much?   How much was just enough?   I was tall and skinny.   I tried working out in my bedroom for years, but muscle proved to be no magnet for my body.   In fact, it seemed to reject it.   With disappointment, I ran my hands down the length of my concave chest and flat abdomen.   Nothing was defined.   I was all skin and bone.   I hated my body, but I knew enough now that transforming it would need to happen gradually.  
    And it would happen today.
    I looked above me on the path.   The trees were beautiful, swaying just slightly in the breeze.   The sky beyond them was clear blue.   The sun was strong and it dappled down to the forest floor.   I didn’t want to do what was coming next, but I had no choice.  
    What was the least-destructive route?   If I was going to do this, how best to minimize the damage in the life I was about to take?
    Ahead of me was a squirrel.   It had seen me and already hopped from the forest floor to a pine tree, which it now clung to as it looked at me.   It was cute and kind of funny.   No way , I thought.   But what I saw beneath that squirrel could work.   It was a clutch of wild flowers.   They were pure white and tall, with a few bees hovering above them.   Soon, fall would turn to winter and these flowers would die back.   Time was ticking against them.
    That time just ticked a little faster.
    I went and looked down at them. You work it with your heart and with your head.   I studied them and knew what I had to do to make this work, and so I imagined Mike Hastings’ face on all of them.  
    I imagined the flowers calling me a “freak” and a “faggot,” just as Hastings had today.   I thought of all the shitty things he’d ever done to me and my anger rose.   I thought back to last year, when he came up behind me in the library and shoved me so hard that I passed out when my head hit the floor.  
    I thought of the day that I fell in line behind him at lunch and had to sit opposite him.   Over and over again, he told me what a worthless piece of shit I was while he threw peas at my forehead while the others laughed.   He told me I didn’t deserve to be sitting across from him.   He said I should be dead because he was tired of all the dirty air I created.
    And so with all this in mind, I looked at those flowers and said what I always said when he came after me.   “Die!”
    At first, nothing happened—the flowers were unwavering.   They stood tall and were beautiful.   But then, starting at the base of their stems, a darkness took hold as the stems started to turn black.
    I took a step backward and watched the blackness consume them.   It reached upward toward the leaves, which folded in on themselves, and then it fanned out to the flowers, whose petals fell off while their necks drooped.   And then the stems themselves collapsed because there was nothing left to hold them up.   It was over in a matter of seconds.   What was once a stand of wild white