Rise. . .Hunter. . .Spirit. . .Equine. . .Blood. . .

I could feel myself spinning, floating in an endless void of darkness that seemed to be tainted with tiny glowing spots that looked like stars—an array of complex constellations and different patterns shimmering all around me. The void was so vast and cosmic that I thought perhaps I was drifting through outer space.

I was in the middle of wondering how I got there when a familiar kind of voice started whispering into my ear, echoing throughout the void. I tried to listen to the words but I could only catch fragments of what sounded like a song? I was not sure.

Rise. . .Hunter. . .Spirit. . .Equine. . .Blood. . .

The words kept being relayed over and over as I continued to spin. The star-spangled void started to glow to a point that everything turned blinding white, the stars shimmering brighter and brighter, the words growing louder until I caught my name.

Desmond!

"Desmond!"

I sprang up, startled, hurling my sheets across the bed and discovered that I had been breathing heavily and nearly fell off the bed.

"Desmond!" the voice called out again, louder and clearer this time. It was coming from outside my room and I soon realized whose it was.

"Your breakfast is getting cold, get up!" my mom continued, rapping on the door.

"Okay, be there in a sec!" I said, shortly before sliding out of bed and ruffling my hair. Damn,why am I so disoriented?

My head was still spinning, making me feel all hazy as if I had been carrying rocks all night. But that would last only for an infinitesimal amount of time the moment my eyes found my phone and I nearly fell back in shock upon seeing what time it was.

"Shit! I'm late!" I was supposed to have acquired the morning paper supply at the distributors over half an hour ago.

Followed by more cursing, I took my shirt off, ignoring my appearance that was somewhere between scrawny and maybe just a little flabby (like I could ever workout!)—something that always haunted me during Phys Ed. But I guess I was grateful for my towering height which was more than enough to fool anyone.

Still on thoughts about my physique, I was just grabbing a towel but then paused, taking a second to look at the time and sniff my armpits—a bath would have to wait.

With that, I resorted into putting on a dark green t-shirt and a fresh pair of slacks, "tidied" my hair with my fingers and was already in the living room with my mom.

"Somebody decided to sleep in today," my mom greeted me with an avocado sandwich. "You're not sick, are you?"

At that, I paused, quickly performing a mental self-diagnosis. Here's the thing—my mom, Charlotte Turner, the most beautiful and most noble person in the whole wide world—had this kind of weird mojo of always telling when something was off. I mean, hell! She should've become a psychiatrist instead of a nurse, which then brought me to my second point. If there was one thing that my mom really hated was seeing someone sick or in pain and therefore I would always make sure to never let her catch me having anything as little as a cold. This had me revisiting a harrowing image of that one fateful night on my previous birthday—the night that had been as a result of Carmen's "accidental" intervention.

I shivered. Brushing away that memory and quickly grabbing the sandwich from my mom.

"No, mom," I said through a mouthful, "I'm not sick."

My mom regarded me with her brown eyes—something I clearly got from her—and had to slightly look up at me as I was already taller than her. She had short, shoulder-length hair that was just as dark as mine but her skin was lighter.

"Alright," she finally said, her face lighting up with a smile, "you're lucky today is your birthday, so I won't bother you that much."

"Thank. . .you. . ." I said, dragging out the words, "can I go now? I'm really late!"

"Hold on just a second there, birthday boy," I instantly began to regret it the moment she had said that.

"Mom," I whined, watching her walk over to the shelf and return with a digital camera.

"What?" she added defensively, turning on the camera, "this is your day. Do you really think I'm just going to let my handsome young man walk out of here like that?"

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"Enough, mom!"

"Okay, smile. . ."

Snap!

She was just getting to her twelfth photo when she stopped. Her glowing face had turned into a frown, the kind she gets when she figures out that I've been hiding something. But I wasn't hiding anything this time. . .That had been my initial thought until I followed her gaze down to my right arm after which I nearly gasped.

"Desmond Arttigiauss Turner," my mother started, calling my name in full which of course was never a good sign and, yeah, my middle name was no picnic either—Ar-ti-jies—hopefully that helps.

Where was I? Right, my mom losing her mind. "Desmond Arttigiauss Turner, please tell me that's not what I think it is. . ."

Extended across my arm between the crook of my elbow and a few inches just above my wrist, was a certain symbol that I had seen not so long ago. My shock was that this time, the symbol was clearer, darker and almost as long as a pen. It had been barely the length of a thumb the night before.

Just as I remembered it, it was in the shape of an arrow pointing down to my wrist but then it appeared to apparently have acquired an added design, whereby a short thin line, about a third of the arrow's length, cut across it in half.

"When did you get a tattoo?" my mom asked, all the joy in her face for her golden birthday boy son having vanished.

I had to think up something quick. "I. . .it's not a real tattoo. It's just one of my friends fooling around with a marker."

The symbol had been drawn on so perfectly that only a professional tattooist could have pulled that off.

My mom got a hold of my arm and rubbed across the symbol. "A marker did this, huh?"

"You've heard of indelible ink, right?" I levelled, "plus, I didn't have this yesterday in the morning and was at school all day. It's not a tattoo, mom. Relax."

Letting go of my hand and regaining her composure, my mom then looked at me and thank God, her warm smile returned. "I guess you're right," she said but I could still detect some doubt in her voice after which she added, "that better be gone when you come back from school or you can say goodbye to the present I just got you."

"Mom," I whined again and my mom stopped me, not wanting to hear any of it. The one other thing I despised more than parties was presents.

"I got you a present. You deserve it."

"Then can I ask what it is?"

"You'll only find out once you—"

"Get rid of this," I finished, raising my decorated arm.

"You still refuse to have a party over, invite all your friends?" she added, thankfully dropping the "tattoo" topic.

I gave her a look, signaling she already knew the answer.

"But that doesn't seem to stop your incredibly adventurous friend, huh?"

"Unfortunately," I responded in dismay.

"You're still not seeing someone?"

Oh boy, here we go again. . .

"Mom. . ." I gave her what must have been a threatening 'back off' look but she simply raised her hands, still smiling, gesturing to stop it at that.

As I had earlier mentioned, my mom worked the night shift at the hospital and would spend most of the day going through her medical reports, do some shopping or practice photography.

"I gotta go now," I said, giving my mom a hug and she felt the metallic link around my shoulder.

I found myself reaching out to my neck and pulling out the link. It was a set of dog tags inscribed JONATHAN, T. A. – my father's name.

"He would be proud of you," my mom said softly, looking into my eyes with a look that always seemed to indicate that she was seeing someone different and the same all at once. I reminded her of him; something that I found both painful and comforting.

I then smiled back at her before returning the tags under my shirt. "I'm heading out now."

"Alright, take care son," my mom said as I made for the door, "I l love you."

I was about to say 'I love you too' but then another thought made its way into my mind. My mother had asked me earlier if I was seeing someone and for the first time, I actually had an answer. I turned around to say it and. . .

"Love you, mom," either I chickened out or thought better of it but I just couldn't say it. Maybe I was afraid that I would jinx it? Oh, what the hell! I was running late!

Getting on my bike, I had to really work myself off in order to get the morning paper supply and deliver it throughout Midtown and just when I thought my day could not get any worse, my trustee old bike broke down and I nearly grazed my knee after I fell.

I had only remained with a few more papers to deliver which had fallen out of the carrier and one of them went on to scatter from the fold, its pages flipping wildly in the cool morning breeze.

I walked over to pick it up, slowly understanding why I really despised birthdays and had just sat on my haunches, gathering the pages when my eyes noticed something.

On one of the pages, there was a set of symbols outlined in a bunch of paragraphs. I found myself specifically focusing on one of the symbols. The 'arrow' symbol—the same as the one on my arm, except the printed version was slanted diagonally, with the arrowhead pointing upwards to the right. That was when I finally understood why the symbol had seemed so familiar. It was an astrological sign—the star sign for Sagittarius to be exact.

Suddenly, a car honked from behind me after which I realized I had been sitting in the middle of the road. I regathered the papers and had to tow my bike all the way to school and arrived in time for first period.