Over time, Mom noticed the distance between us and liked me even less for it. She stopped trying altogether and began pretending I wasn't there.
In my previous life, this would have destroyed me. A teenager starving for his mother's approval, trapped in anxiety and spiraling toward depression.
But now, it didn't touch me at all.
Then came sixth grade.
Lucius burst through the front door in a panic, bolted to his room, and refused to come out for dinner.
Mom rushed to his door and knocked. "Lucius? What happened? Did something scare you while you were out playing?"
He wouldn't say a word.
I glanced at the date on the calendar. I already knew exactly what he'd done. He'd just shot out both eyes of someone's beloved dog, and now he was terrified.
The owner was out there right now, tearing through the neighborhood looking for whoever did it.
In my previous life, I hadn't been home when it happened.
I didn't find out until the weekend, when Mom dragged me in front of the dog's owner and forced me to my knees. She'd told them I was the one who'd shot the dog with the toy gun.
She slapped me across the face. More than once. Then the owner made me kneel before the dog and apologize.