Breathe in the Embers

Part 11

So began the biggest regret of Martin’s life, at least at the time.

Lithuega had smiled wickedly at his suggestion, that she make him stronger. At the time it had only been sensible. If she was so strong, and they were to save people, that meant being in dangerous situations. Martin needed to be prepared to handle such things himself, since he had already determined it might not always be viable to call on her.

He hadn’t thought she would be such an eager instructor.

Martin finished his twentieth lap around the warehouse, sweat pouring from him, hands on his knees as he struggled just to breathe. He’d always been in fairly good shape. Hiking in the woods nearby saw to that. This though, the constant regimen of conditioning and strength workouts, it was killing him slowly. He dearly wished it would hurry the hell up.

“I don’t hear running out there!”

“That’s… because… I’m actually… done... dammit.” Martin called back between breaths, easily able to imagine the demon sitting on one of the beams, legs swinging idly back and forth, that smug grin on her smug face.

“New best time then!” Lithuega replied cheerfully. “Guess that means we are back stacking cinder blocks. How many are we doing now?”

Martin didn’t deign to answer. He’d been following this brutal workout for two weeks now. He was exhausted all the time. His hands were blistered and sore, something it wasn’t easy to conceal. He’d had to start going to a local truck stop to use the showers there, so no one would question why he was soaked in sweat and reeking every time he came home. And even then, his mom was getting very concerned that he kept falling asleep at the dinner table. His dad kept joking that whatever girl he was sneaking out to see must be really wearing him thin. His mom would slap her husband playfully, he would give her a sheepish grin, and Martin would be very uncomfortable at how close that guess was to the truth.

Not in the way implied, but still.

He was just glad that everyone was putting his strange behavior down to his traumatic experience. Any normal week, this would be raising more than a few eyebrows. But so long as he appeared to be functioning and healthy, his parents seemed willing to accept his claims of being alright. Of course, that could change if they started to notice his bruises, scrapes, calluses, and his exhaustion. No amount of reassurance would make them meekly accept that.

“Move your ass Kumalo!”

Nevertheless, sitting here or worrying constantly about hiding the truth wasn’t going to make him any stronger. And so move his ass he did.

*****

Margaret sighed, staring at the screen of her cell phone for the millionth time since the fiasco at camp. Martin’s number was right beneath her finger, but she didn’t press it. She never did. There was a fine line between being concerned for a classmate and everyone assuming there was something more going on. She didn’t want Martin or anyone else making assumptions like that.

It wasn’t that Martin was disliked, or hideously deformed. He was nice, and always smiling, and Margaret thought he was handsome. He was just so distant all the time, even to her and his other friends. Maybe he was simply happy being alone most of the time. Maybe he found others a nuisance. Whatever it was, people found it as awkward to be around Martin most of the time as he found it to be around others.

It’s why Margaret forced the issue from time to time. She didn’t want him to feel awkward around her, or her other friends, and vice versa, of course. When he was around others, he was talkative and fun, nice, funny, just a joy to be around. It was baffling, really. How could someone be good at socializing, yet want to avoid it?

Margaret sighed, shaking her head. She might never understand it, but she did hope Martin would be alright hanging out more. She didn’t stalk him through the school or anything stupid, but she’d say hi when they crossed paths. He would always return the greeting, but never initiate it. His mind was always elsewhere.

Still though. No matter how distant Martin typically was, his behavior since camp had been positively reclusive. No one had seen him or heard from him, at all. The others who hiked around the woods hadn’t run into him walking, or reading by a river. No one who frequented the comic book store had noticed him. It was like he’d vanished.

So no matter the potential rumors, or the assumptions Martin might make himself, Margaret plucked up the courage and dialed the number.

“Hello?” A voice asked after several rings, throwing Margaret off.

“Oh, Mrs. Brown!” Margaret greeted, little metal butterflies hammering about in her stomach. Was something wrong with Martin? Why didn’t he answer the phone himself? “Hi, it’s Margaret.”

“Hello, Margaret. It appears my son has left his phone behind again. Careless of him.”

“Yeah.” Margaret agreed, wondering where he could be. She assumed he was just curled up in his room with video games or books. “By the way… how… is he?”

A long silence followed, Margaret squirming in her seat. “What do you mean? Isn’t he there?” Mrs. Brown finally asked, a tinge of panic in her own voice now.

Margaret thought fast. “Of course! I just mean… he isn’t exactly super open and talkative, y’know? He says he is fine, and he seems fine, but I just wanted to make sure.”

Relief flooded the line. “Oh, I think he is. He seems to appreciate being able to spend some time away though, with you and his other friends. We’ve scarcely seen him home since camp! But everyone assures us that as long as he is sociable, active, and seems happy, that we should let him cope. It’s nice to hear that one of his friends is so considerate of him.”

“Of course. It’s the least I can do.” Margaret replied, feeling insanely guilty for misleading her. Mrs. Brown thought Martin was at her place? Why was he lying to them? And where was he, really? “Well listen, Martin just wanted me to make sure his phone was at home, not lost somewhere, so I really should be going.”

“Okay. Say hi to Martin for me! And thanks again for your concern Margaret.”

“Of course Mrs. Brown.”