My dad was beginning to kick up a storm in the house. I could hear his booming voice calling my name over and over. He shouted and screamed for me to come back and do farm work. My heart wasn't there though, and it never was. He couldn't understand that. My heart belonged in books, learning about our mysterious world. Figuring out why time never flowed when it once did long ago.

My hiding spot was perfect; I was scrunched up behind the trash cans directly outside of our property, my bag seated in my lap and pressed up against my chest. I was invisible to him. My hands patted the dirt around me, the muddier patches almost blended with my skin color. I wiped my hands on my jeans in a combination of nerves and a somewhat successful way to get the mud off. However, when I curled up again, more dust splattered me.

Surprisingly, my father never tried to pursue me past our property line. It was obvious where I went each tenth, but he never tried to track me down. Then, whenever I returned home, he would question where I went, feigning obliviousness.

His comments were scathing and reeking of sarcasm. "How was your tenth out on the town? I sure hope you didn't waste the beautiful weather in some stuffy classroom."

My mom was always the one to talk him down from his rage, but it wasn't like she approved of my actions either. She was just far less vocal about her opinions. She instead would talk to me before bed each night begging me to stay home the next tenth and help with the farm as opposed to going out to learn. "Please just listen to your father, he knows what's best after all."

A slamming door snapped me out of my thoughts. Still, I waited for a few more moments. I performed another nervous repetition and wiped my hands on my jeans; I scratched my curly haired head before pulling its gravity-defying locks down to my shoulders. Nothing happened, but I could hear shouting from inside the house. No one responded to the angry cries of my father.

Deeming it safe to come out from behind the trash can, I leaped out of my hiding spot and sprinted madly towards town. My dad spotted me and began to yell for me to come back, but I was already too far away for him to do anything. He could try to chase after me, but it would be futile. I dashed past the neighbors and was on the edges of town when I took a moment to catch my breath. I was long gone when dad finally went back to his mundane chores, probably grumbling about my behavior. I barely saw his figure retreat into the closing door from my high ground position up the hill.

"He gives up too easily," I chuckled.

I smiled and continued my walk to school in a more leisurely manner now, forcing myself to take deep breaths. My slower breathing helped return my heart rate to normal and put my mind back at ease. My nerves felt frayed and my body was shaking. I knew I had the skill to get away, but that didn't stop me from feeling the anxiety that came with performing such rebellious acts daily. Kids often called me a coward when I was younger because of my tendency to shake and come to the verge of tears far too often. I tried to stay in a positive mindset where I continually told myself that they were wrong. However, deep down, I couldn't help but agree with them.

The school was almost a straight shot from my house through town, but it still remained out of my view. First, I had to march through the shallow buildings that populated my home village.

I waved to other people that were out and about on their morning strolls or opening up shop to the world. Some of them would give a friendly wave, or even called me out by name if I visited them often for chores and deliveries. There were no other teenagers out spare for a few that stayed with their families and their solidified trades. Most others were already where I was intending to be soon.

Still, the hollow feeling of loneliness haunted the townspeople's words. They were only performing formalities, not actually greeting me with jubilee. It was hard to remember that sometimes when I kept my nose in books that preached of kinder worlds.

"Oh, Sophia!" a scathing voice sang.

"Great," I hissed. I spun around to face my taunter, Patrick. I had been hoping to avoid him since I was already running late. Or rather, as late as one can be in a world without time.

His annoyingly pale face pissed me off. It was so white he could've been a ghost-type. His fire red hair and the freckles that salted his cheeks were the only instances of color in his otherwise white appearance. Even his standard-issue nurse uniform was white.

"What do you want, Patrick?" I demanded to know.

"Hey, don't take that tone with me. Aren't we friends?" he said as he put his arm around me. I shrank away as best as I could from his hand on my shoulder, but he pulled me in tighter each time I flinched away.

"Hey now, don't be like that," he continued. "You know, since we're friends, can you help me out?"

"I don't have any food to give you. I'm going to school, not the store."

He gasped. "Doesn't your father forbid that?"

"Don't remind me," I mumbled.

"Well, you must have packed a lunch, didn't you? Can't you help a pal out? Or maybe, I'll just have to help you return home to your old man. He must be worried sick."

I desperately wanted to run away and hide right now. If I had a head start, I could run for the hills and back before he even passed a hundred meters. He had the lanky legs of a runner, but he didn't use them as the son of the town medic. My muscular legs from farm work and doing errands could easily outrun him and most other kids in town. It's why I excelled at hide and seek. Even when I was found—which was a feat in and of itself—I would take off running and wouldn't look back. No one could contest.

Confrontation was a different story.

"Fine," I said eventually. I fished out an apple from my gray-colored jacket's pocket and forced it into his waiting palm. I continued my walk without looking back at him.

"Hey now, I think you're holding out on me," he said. I ignored it.

"I don't have anything else," I lied.

"Do friends lie to each other?"

I made the mistake of stopping to look back at his shit eating grin. He stood there with his other hand outstretched, clenching his fingers occasionally in a grabbing motion.

"Why do we have to do this every time you see me? You're the son of the town medics, you get enough since their job is considered Vital," I said.

"Last time I checked, farming was in the Vital category too. Teaching or whatever you're learning at school is not," he replied.

"That's not why I go to school every tenth."

"Then would you care to enlighten me about your motives?" His smile grew even more despite me believing that was physically impossible. "Or, maybe you can give me that delicious sandwich that I know your mother packed for you."

My eyes narrowed as I stared down the boy that was inching closer to me. He was too close for me to be able to run now, I had missed my window of opportunity.

Still, I turned to stalk away with my sandwich in tow, and I immediately regretted it.

The sudden force from behind caused me to stumble to my knees. I caught myself with my hands on the dusty street. The palms of my hands burned, and I turned them over to see little droplets of blood forming in between the pebbles that clung to the pale skin on my hands.

"Don't make me take it," Patrick threatened from above.

"Fine, take your stupid sandwich. I didn't want it anyway," I grumbled as I reached into my backpack and removed the wrapped delicacy.

"Hey, thanks, pal!" Patrick said smugly.

I didn't stick around in case he had any more trouble in mind for me. Instead, I sprinted the rest of the way through town. My head stayed bowed even as people greeted me; they didn't mean it, I know they didn't.

I only slowed once I came to the crest of the hill that marked the edge of town. I gazed down the hill as I massaged my palms; the scrapes still stung a bit as I touched them. The only things beyond the natural border were the school building and the lumber yards. The valley below had blackened trees surrounding the building on all sides except for the side facing the village. The school building sat in stark contrast to the rest of the decaying wood.

Long ago, back when time flowed, supposedly these same trees grew with vibrant green leaves. Now, they remained as glorified logs pointing straight up to the sky, looking like toothpicks sticking straight out of a table. The idea of small green objects—called "leaves," I remembered reading one time—populating their trunks was foreign to me. I couldn't imagine plush blankets covering the blackened trunks without laughing. Yet, something inside of me knew it was how it ought to be.

I walked down the steep hill alone. Everyone else was already inside. Showing up "late" was a bad habit of mine usually caused by my parents. The clock hanging above the school reminded me that I was always out of time; we all were, and that there was no true measure of "late" or "on time." The carving was only that: a carving. There was no real way to measure time, at least, not anymore. The sculpture had never worked, and it never would. Its circular face was dead to the world and its hands remained tied up in the supposed last moments when time flowed.

I mixed in with the last few stragglers outside of the door. They gave me odd looks as I walked through their gathering and into the building. They didn't appear to have any intentions of going inside. That or I was covered in an abhorrent amount of mud. Probably both. I made my way through the silent halls to my homeroom. With my ear pressed to the door, I waited for an appropriate time to barge in.

The teacher, Cindy, dropped her notebook on the desk with a thump then began. "Alright class, let's begin the lecture. We will be discussing the myths of the Trainers that people used to believe in and worship long ago in the Before."

Now was my time. I opened the door as quietly as possible and grabbed the empty desk in the front row closest to the door. I gathered the disapproving gaze of the teacher, but she moved on with nothing more than a huff. One misbehaving student was too little of a concern to her; just so long as she got paid at the end of a cycle—a unit made of the combination of ten tenths—she didn't care.

The lecture dragged on in an almost monotone voice. Cindy was rambling about ancient myths where Pokémon and humans used to work together as a team. Six Pokémon and one human, together as one to defeat an ultimate challenge set up by gods known as "The League." The story was preposterous to me. Why would a Pokémon, nonetheless six, let a human command them? If I were to try that out in the woods somewhere, I would get killed.

The teacher continued her lecture, but it didn't quite capture the excitement that came directly from history in the form of ancient books. So, my mind wandered, drowning out the background noise. What if it is possible to work with Pokémon? Work would be so much easier. I found myself looking out the window and daydreaming about the wildlife in the forest. What if they worked and lived as we do? Scrambling for survival in a world without time. This apocalyptic world can't be much kinder to them than it is to us, right?

My hand continued to halfheartedly write notes that matched the teacher's chalkboard scribbles. Do they have records of time and the Before as well? Or are they as uncivilized as the Elders claim? Surely if they worked with humans in the past, they have to have some semblance of civility. On the edge of my paper, my heart roamed free with doodles of Pokémon I had read about in science class. I drew a Pokémon called Weedle from memory as best as I could; a bug type we had dissected the week before. Halfway through my recreation, a ruler slammed down furiously on my hand, forcing me to drop my pencil with a cry.

The teacher scolded me with nothing more than a glare and then continued her class without missing a heartbeat. I looked down to see my drawing slashed through with a thick black line. I went to pick up the writing utensil again, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. My hand paused as my heart urged me to get up and leave. There's no point to all of this, why do I come here anyway? To let teachers torture me with their useless lessons? Mom and dad are right, there is no point to school.

I glanced towards the window again, refusing to continue participating in class anymore. The woods glanced back with darkness and sorrow. Their dead barks gray and ashen, leading to a deeper, more foreboding darkness beyond. Suddenly, a flicker of green dashed across one of the trunks.

A wild Pokémon! I watched the creature dance on the trees with more interest now. It climbed swiftly upwards, then slid back down as if searching for a missing something. I cocked my head as I watched its curious antics. I've never seen anything so green and vibrant, not even crops or the tamed grass-types. What is it?

I found myself mesmerized by the creature as it climbed up onto the window sill, closer now, allowing me to see details. It appeared so innocent compared to the rest of the world; vibrant colors outstanding the dark grays. But even still, I noticed a fire in its eyes that subtracted from its innocence and added a fighting spirit to it. Like it was defiantly opposing the world that it contrasted from so much. It met my gaze and stared back for a moment before flicking its tail and moving on.

I yelped as another smack hit my knuckles. The teacher decided this time that I was worth a stern head shaking. She sighed as she turned back to the chalkboard to write more notes. I forced myself to stop daydreaming for real this time and actually participate in learning. The class only had a few notes more before the teacher decided on a whim that she was done. She decided so quickly and suddenly when she was done that it left me with whiplash. Sometimes, we wouldn't even have class and she would just fail to show up without warning, leaving us confused and lonely in an empty classroom.

I packed up my notebook in my sack and slung it over my shoulder. I melded with the flow of people out into the hallway until I felt something grab my shoulder and spin me around. It was Cindy. Her deep scowl indicated that she was not happy.

"Just who do you think you are that you can zone out during my class?" she demanded.

I bowed my head. "I'm sorry." It was only a half-hearted apology, something to appease her anger. I couldn't bring myself to actually apologize for an uncontrollable itch. The need to learn fueled me to dream about the Before and about the world around us, and her class couldn't provide me with that same fire that books provided.

It happened in a flash. Her hand moved swiftly; the red-hot sensation lasted for only a moment, but the stinging lingered. I touched my cheek where her palm had slapped me.

She rolled her eyes at me, then turned away to return to her room. "Don't let it happen again," she commanded.

I stood there holding my cheek in the crowd of people milling in the hallway. No one came to my aid, no one even so much as cast a glance at me. I was alone in a sea of faces that only cared about themselves and their own survival in this harsh world. I was the only one that actually cared about the important questions of this life: why and how?