My phone’s alarm rings. For the third time this morning. I’ve been awake since the first one screeched in my ears, but as an open act of rebellion I stayed in bed anyways. I raise myself from my comfy tomb and lament the awful reality: school starts way too early.
The grandfather clock’s obnoxious ticking is a signal of the march towards my demise. I have to be in the hall by 8 A.M or I’m going to be stuck in detention this afternoon. It’s 7.42 A.M, I’ve shoved my skirt into my bag, crushed it under the box file filled with notes and books I’ll need for the day and fled the crime scene that is my room, heading over to the kitchen to grab a piece of white bread before leaving the house.
To get to school would take me thirty minutes by bus in the dreadful morning rush of parents sending kids to school before they head off for work. Pa’s already left for work at this hour and I’d rather suffer detention than hear Ma ramble about ‘personal responsibility’ this early , so no way am I waking my parents up to drive me there. My bag always feels so lightweight that I’d be checking it over and over again to ensure nothing is missing before leaving, but I don’t have that luxury of time today. In school shorts and a PE shirt, I race out the door, careful not to slam it. The last time I did that, I pulled the handle off.
On a calmer morning, I’d wait for the condominium lift, but today every second counts. Glancing around, I make sure no one’s looking before I jump down the centre of the stairway straight to the first floor from the tenth, landing gracefully on my feet and running off. That shaves off 30 seconds of running down the steps.
Exiting the main gate sprinting, I heat up the bread in my hand in my palm to get it toasted the exact way I want it. I’ve worked on controlling fire manipulation for the longest time, just so I’d be able to toast bread without setting it ablaze. I have my toast crispy, bordering on burnt. Crumbs fall out as I take that first crunch and blow in the wind as I zoom off. Even toast tastes more vibrant these days.
A long time ago, I’d be worried about running this fast. Maybe someone might notice how I maintain top speed for so long, or anxious that someone will notice despite the physical exertion, I don’t seem to sweat. Now I’ve realised everyone is too absorbed in their own affairs and scrambling to get where they need to be that they pay me no mind.
‘Morning, Rose.’ The same voice that’s been making its home in my head for the past year sounds out to me. It’s stoic, husky, and deep as well. The voice of alien parasite, Sol. They prefer the word ‘symbiote’, but I don’t really see the difference. Ever since I found them, the black lizard-like alien has attached itself to my neck in order to survive on Earth (or so they say). And in exchange I’ve gotten superpowers and a second voice in my head. Honestly, there have been worse trade offers.
‘Good morning, Sol!’ I greet back telepathically to them, taking another bite of my toast as I keep up my pace. No one turns to look at me when I pass them by, breezing by ample cars stuck at red lights or behind adults struggling not to fall back asleep. I had been going for about seven minutes now and compared to my old running pace, I’ve probably saved about two hours.
I can practically taste the amount of car exhaust being spewed out alongside the alluring scent of gasoline filling my nostrils. I gag a little, lamenting my new heightened senses being as much of a curse as they are a gift.
While the time crunch and runners high injects excitement and serotonin into the first crisis of the day, I’m worried it’ll mess up my hair by the time I’m in the school hall. Unfortunately, perfect hair isn’t a superpower, a power I’d gladly give up on-the-go bread toasting for.
‘We could morph now and you’d go a little faster.’ Sol advises, but I shake my head. Transforming here would jeopardise my identity. Seeing the Salamander run around with a Kanken school bag would definitely tip some people off, not to mention be extremely embarrassing.
‘It’d even keep your hair together until you got there.’ They teased, sensing my worry about my hair being ruined. Ugh, now that was a far more compelling argument. Nevertheless, I try avoiding using my powers on things considered trivial. After all, with great power comes-
‘You literally used the power to manipulate heat in order to toast bread.’
‘I don’t see how toast is trivial.’ I swing back sarcastically, scarfing down the toast as I run. I haven’t gotten a stitch in my stomach since Sol came into my life, so I’m not even worried about eating whilst running.
‘It’s toast, partner.’
‘And breakfast is the most important meal of the day!’
We both laugh to each other, a silly smile appearing on my face as if I’ve remembered a good joke. If people paid attention to the faces I make during my internal banter with Sol, they could make a very compelling case for insanity.
I take out my phone to check the time. 7.50 A.M. My best friend, Carissa, is messaging me and asking where I am, sending a picture of the empty seat next to her in the hall.
‘relxa, ill be there on time’ I reply, hoping that I’m telling her the truth.
The road to school from here is a straight shot with the chance of running into one red light. I used to get anxious being at the mercy of that terrifying red glow when I’m on the bus already running behind schedule, but it’s not a problem anymore-
‘Speed up!’ Sol warns. My legs follow his instructions before I can even register it, running right across the street where the green light was blinking for pedestrians. Another nice bonus of Sol is that they act like my sixth sense. They can warn me about incoming danger, give me advice on what to do when I’m having fun doing thrill seeking acrobatics at night, or warn me to cross streets before the light turns red. It’s not a perfect alarm system, because if it was they would have woken me up and I wouldn’t be having a morning sprint. Instead, I’d be listening to Taylor Swift and drinking a warm coffee at my dining table.
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Still, my precious guardian alien saves me about one minute of waiting time at a red light and I'm forever grateful for them as a result. And with that I’m arriving into the pearly blue gates of school.
But just being in school doesn’t exactly mean all is well though. I still need to put on the uniform in my bag to pass the archaic attire check and then I have to be seated by 8 A.M. If I’m still waltzing in at 8 A.M, it’s straight to detention for me. If my butt does not make contact with the seat, I can say goodbye to my afternoon.
The rush to the hall is a panicked frenzy. No one here wants to waste the afternoon talking to Mr Cheok about life (at least, not involuntarily) l so we’re all aggressively squeezing against each other in a tight stairway up to the hall. There isn’t a pathway up to the hall that doesn’t have at least a dozen students in at this hour, so there’s no way I abuse superpowers without being immediately noticed by anyone with eyes.
Without a moment to spare, I rush into the bathroom to change into my uniform and tie my hair back into its neat ponytail. I inspect myself in the mirror briefly, ironing my navy skirt and pristine white uniform with heated hands before taking my seat in the hall at 7.59 A.M. exactly. I never checked the time upon arriving in school, not wanting to even think of the dreaded possibility of tardiness. I just hoped for the best and it narrowly worked out. I barely even have time to sit before we all rise up for the national anthem.
‘I believe it is customary for a ‘thank you’, partner?’ Sol jokingly asks, mentally flashing me the traffic light they warned me about.
‘Oh come on, you know I’m always thankful to have you.’ I chuckled to myself, ready to pass it off as thinking of a bad pun instead of talking to the foreign voice in my head. Sol says his always temporary goodbyes before pulling the plug on our current mental link, one which either of us can establish whenever. But it’s always nice to have the same quiet in my head I used to have.
“Bus timings got you too?” Carissa asks as we exit the hall before heading to our first classes of the day, mine being Literature and hers being Geography. I feign a sigh and nod, and she pats me on the back sympathetically. There’s no reason for her to know how frantic my morning was.
“Mine too, don’t worry. I was only 15 minutes early instead of my usual 30.” She fake complains, laughing at her own joke with me. Casually, she reaches over to hold my hand, which my hand clasps onto as if it was made to do so. Carissa’s been my best friend since late primary school, when she moved from the east to the west side of the country and joined my school in Primary 4 and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
“I wanna save the earth!” Were the first words I recall her telling me during a class discussion about our future occupations. Finding out people have goals beyond making a lot of money was fascinating to little me. My parents always seemed less than pleased with my aspiration to write a book, claiming the arts don’t make money here, which nudged my brain to believe jobs were just for wealth and not passion. I fell in love with Carissa’s goal of solving global warming there and then, no matter how unfeasible it seemed, which by extension meant I was in love with her. By secondary school, we were practically attached at the hip. She’s a good chunk of the reason as to why I own a metal straw (even though she told me it was corporations greenwashing to make a quick buck).
“Are you free for movie night today? I wanna watch that new Netflix musical with you!” She said smiling, already fantasising about tonight. Not thinking, I’m about to respond with affirmation and then I remember the salamander in the room. I avoid her gaze, lamenting the time I no longer spend with her.
I don’t really do things at night anymore. Nowadays, it’s all Salamander as soon as the sun sets. I go on patrol, roaming the streets to see if I can catch any mischief. Many times I don’t catch anyone, but the nights I do make it all worth it. Plus, it’s exhilarating being that otherworldly being. I want to spend as much time as I can as the Salamander instead of boring old Rose.
“Sorry, but I gotta pass! Work and stuff y’know?” I say, offering a regretful smile. She reciprocates with a half-joking pout.
“You’re no fun anymore!” She laughs and I join in. I rub her head and tell her I’ll see her after our classes are over as I split from her to make my way down to learn about the wide wonderful world of Macbeth.
Literature was always my passion without me ever having a say in the matter. It’s nothing special or deep, you don’t need a complex reason for your interests. I liked comic books as a kid, to my parents' dismay (for it was a “boy interest”), which then expanded into all kinds of fantasy novels and plays and what not. Fanfiction tabs litter my phone’s web browser and my biggest claim to fame so far was third place at a schoolwide creative writing competition. At least, it’s my personal greatest accomplishment. I’m sure most people recognise me as “the girl who played Brutus in Julius Caesar” rather than “good writer in our school”. Y’know, if they actually watched the play.
Though most people know me as the rumoured Salamander Man, even if they don’t know it’s me. The ebony monster roaming the streets at night, punishing criminals and protecting the innocent: all me (okay, and Sol). But I wouldn’t blame anyone for not noticing it. Aside from my much improved PE performance and the reduced frequency of cat naps in class anymore, I don't convey any super abilities. It’d be hard for anyone to realise that the anthropomorphic salamander who throws fire and has rock hard abs is a rather average teenage girl, who's focused on A Levels as much as the next person, has a bubble tea addiction and still pines over lost loves.
For the most part, I’d like to keep it that way too. Following the superhero mythos tells me as long as I don’t reveal my identity, people closest to me won’t get hurt. And quite frankly, I like my family and friends the way they are now: alive. Unlike the superhero stories I love, I’ve yet to have a tragic backstory. And I’d like to keep it that way!
But for now, I bury the thought. Heroism can wait, literature is now. Ms. Tnee walks into class and the world keeps spinning, this morning’s events and all my superpowered shenanigans fading into my memories as we discuss Lady MacBeth’s role in the play.