I would like to start with a thank you to whoever is brave enough to read my first story, hopefully its not to bad...
I wake to an echo of my dream. The visions of falling glass are reflected over head as the remnants of my window fall closer to the floor on which I sleep. Time grows lazy, slowly ticking by as the, now empty, window frame allows fresh air and moonlight to fill my dark and stuffy room. The shards of glass absorb the moon's lunar glow, adopting the look of falling stars. They chime musically as they clink together, only fueling the magic of this moment.
This one beautiful moment is all I could ever wish for. The image of stars falling closer to me sets my imagination free. In my mind I see a cool black sky instead of the bowed ceiling and suffocation walls of my bedroom. In my mind I touch nothing, not my thin, itchy, blanket, and most certainly not the cold splintering floorboards. In my mind I am weightless, unaffected by that gravity that bring the stars to me. One thin shard is close enough to trap between closed eyelids before all motion stops.
I am pulled from my inner world and into reality once more. The "stars" are frozen in place, no longer affected by the gravity that traps me to my domestic prison. Pushing the shards closest to me away, I watch them drift until freezing once more then carefully roll out from under the chandelier of broken window.
I cross my legs as I sit on the floor, taking in the sight before me: glass shards of varying sizes and shapes, hover at different elevations above my "bed". They all share the likeness of uncut diamond and glow with the moon's luminosity. All except one. Floating in the center of the chandelier is a shard shaped like a prism. The prismed glass projects a vibrant rainbow to the center of my chest, pulling from it a pure, childish giggle.
I can feel my irregular heartbeat as I place my hand over my heart, in an attempt to capture the rainbow. When that fails, I go for the source of the refracted light instead. I stretch one of my small hands to the prism. It taunts me, being just out of reach. My middle digit manages to nudge the glass, but fails again when a shocking bang breaks my concentration. Broken glass rains down, leaving smarting gashes on my arm as the only evidence of the magic. My magic.
I hide my disappointment, turning to face the cause of it. Standing at the door is the man I wish to never see again. He looks down at me with pure disgusts daring me to meet his gaze, but I know that will only make things worse. I know eye contact without permission means punishment.
He takes a moment to let the tension settle, then speaks, "look at me girl!"
Obeying, I drag my gaze to his flat feet, up to his clothed legs, to his hairy chest, to his pinched lips set above his set jaw, to his crooked nose, eventually reaching a pair of eyes mine once shared a likeness to. His chocolate gaze looks black in the moonlight that seemed to dim when he entered the room. A spark of hellish fire gleams from the depths of those dark irises.
To say my father was scary would be an understatement. Yes, this is daddy dearest, and yes I know we look nothing alike. Years in the military left him marred and muscular. No amount of alcohol able to take from his intimidating posture and imposing height. "A collector of classified information" acts as his dignified job description. Read between the lines and look into his demon infested gaze and you will understand the kind of terror my father radiates.
I serve as my father's test subject for his "information collecting methods." He shares the devil's hobbies and charm. This dangerous combination makes it possible for the evidence of my abuse to be covered by baggy clothes and elaborate lies.
In what the average person calls torcher my father deems as punishment. Punishment for one of three things. One, "continuous incompetence", through an A- or lost football game. Two, "disrespect" through defense (often from one of his punishments). Three, for being a "freak" or making "freakish" things happen. For example, breaking a window and making its glass float.
I'm in for one hell of a beating, I can feel the fear crawl up my throat, but I force myself to swallow it back down. I can't give into the fear, doing so would be giving it the same control my father has over me.
"Here, now!" He demands, and I shuffle my feet towards him while I thoughtfully plan my escape. I know trying to evade him would only makes my punishment worse, but it is something that must be done. If not to prove my strength then to prove I still have, at least, some control. My chance comes when he lunges for me. Father may be evilly clever but that doesn't stop him from being predictable. This gives me the slightest of advantages. So as his calloused hand reaches for my long hair, I use my abnormally small frame to swiftly duck between his legs and out of the room.
I zip down the narrow hallway and run down the stairs two at a time (a necessary talent). I can feel the house vibrate with the heavy stomps of father's pursuit, fueling my need for escape. When reaching the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs, I practically tackle the back door, throwing it open to sprint outside where I know he will never follow (for chance of the neighbors seeing). My naked feet pound against the slightly damp ground of the woods behind his house, putting as much distance as possible from the man I once called dad.
After about ten minutes I stop running, leaning on an old hollow oak tree close to it's tipping point. I catch my breath and squeeze my eyes to stop the tears. The effort is pointless as salty rivers begin to flow silently down my face. No sob or hiccup, accompany the tears, vocal weakness only ever adding to my father's enjoyment of my pain. If I could, I would dam the rivers entirely, but I'm only eleven, and to young to master complete emotional shutdown.
The rivers flow and meet in one current down the center of my neck as I continue to cry. With my breathing controlled I drag my back down the dead oak, sitting on the leaf littered ground. My hair becomes tangled in the tree's rough bark, so I grab the wild bundle and rest it over my shoulder. One particularly stubborn wave knots itself around my finger and I pull it closer to my streamy face to inspect. Looking at the persistent lock of red hair I can't help the thoughtful frown that pulls at the corner of my lips.
This red wave was once a brown curl, a curl that was inherited from my mother. In fact, five years ago the likeness I had to my mum was startling. It wasn't just mother daughter genetics. It was more like mum was the universe's soul model when sculpting me, copying her down to the T on a smaller scale. The end result, was every single twist and turn a bushy curl took around her head, was mimicked onto my own. Toffee skin that should have darkened further from many hours of playing in the sun, stayed the same shade as her's. Our smiles was where it got really scary, both of our front teeth jutting out at the same awkward angle over our thin bottom lips while the dimples we shared (only on our right cheeks) deepened with the exact same amount of depth. I was like that up until the age of six.
That's when any likeness I shared with my mum vanished, just like she did. As if once the model I was made to replicate disappeared the universe had to start from scratch. Gone were the short honey brown curls; instead, in their place are crimson locks that flow to my waist in wild waves. Once naturally sun kissed skin, now glows white in the beams of the moon. That quirky smile that was cause for petty teasing in school, fits behind delicate heart shaped lips.
This new body was a blessing. Not for shallow reasons, but for emotional recovery. I am no longer the clone of the woman who abandoned me. When I look into the mirror I do not see the painful memory of who gave me that dimple or quirky smile. I am now simply me. Inside and out. My inward disposition is reflected by my outward appearance, and even if I haven't always looked this way, it still feels as though I was meant to. Time only added to my…transformation, as the scars outside came to reflect the damage being done inside.
My scars are the only evidence of my torture that won't fade with time. I have one over my left shoulder blade from the first (and thankfully last) time I went up against my father's carving skills. That was also the first time I've noticed the demons dancing behind his dark irises (but unfortunately not the last). With that lovely piece of artwork (among many others) I am forced to hide under baggy shirts that seem to swallow me whole.
My frail body acts as a gallery of father's treatment, one could just look around and get the big picture. For example the round burns in the crook of my elbow from his disgusting cigars, or the collage of scarring on the back of my head from being thrown around like a rag doll. My last and most noticeable scar can not be hidden, much to my father's dismay. For that reason this one is my favorite.
My right temple, cheekbone and forehead are covered by a webbing of scaring. Starting from my temple the scar branches in erratic motions fading away towards the center of my face. It seems to glow, paler even than even my milky complexion, looking like a mask of lighting sparking under my skin. The scar has no ridging, still allowing me smooth skin, but making it evermore the mystery.
To this day I haven't been able to figure out what father used to create this scar, or how he managed to make it look and feel as though it's been healed for years. Every attempt to ask about it is rewarded by a punishment he sees fit. All I know is that I woke up with the mask of lightning on the same day my chocolate eyes turned to precious gems.
Those gems gleam as I look to the stars visible through the gaps in the trees. I lose myself in their twinkling glow and think to the days leading to being unrecognizable in the picture of a mirror.
I've always been an "odd" or "special" child. Weird things just always happen around me. If I scream, whether if it is from excitement or fear, glass breaks. If I can't find my favorite book it will somehow magically appear into my hands. If I find myself in a less than favorable situation I "pop", into trees, closets, etcetera. If I become too emotional lights flicker between on and off in time with the waves of energy I can feel under my skin. My parents used to take each oddity I displayed with a grain of salt; however, it became too much to handle with my dad's first deployment.
He was gone for a year and without him I became emotionally unstable, in turn making me too much work for only one parent. There wasn't a day mum had to pick up glass or call the electrician. Her breaking point was the day I turned six and I realized dad wouldn't be there for my birthday. She tried to calm me by reassuring that he would return home in two days, but I didn't care, because "I wanted my daddy now!"
My scream of desperation for my dad was carried by a sudden gust of wind pushing away from my person. The force was enough to blow every window out of its frame, pile furniture against the walls, and nock my mum flat onto her back. The emotional pain I felt pulsating out of my chest, sent our neighborhood into a complete blackout.
When I stomped my tiny foot against the hardwood floor it brought on disaster, much like the rest of my actions. The piles of furniture against the walls fell as the floor shook, and my grandfather's bookcase took it's decent to the ground where my mum laid, gasping for her lost breath. The dense pine of the shelves creaked and the silver accents on the long beams gleamed dangerously. I watched, not even three meters away, as gravity pulled the pine bookcase closer and closer to my incapacitated mother. I ran shouting for the case to stop, knowing it would have no effect. So imagine my surprise when the bookcase did in fact obey my command.
Mum was surprising quick to her feet. Managing ragged breaths, her eyes wide showing more and more of the white surrounding her navy irises. Me taking a single step to her was all she needed to bolt like a frightened animal. She staggered into her bedroom and slammed the door in my concerned face. I attempted to open it, my apology restlessly waiting on the tip of my tongue, but the knob refused to turn with my wrist.
I fell to the floor, one brown eye gazing through the gap under the door to see a shadow moving swiftly from one side of the room to another. I could hear the friction between socks and carpet, the frustrated slamming of dresser drawers, and the zipping of bags. My apology grew impatient so I shouted it through the gap, over and over again. I was ignored, until the door opened, cutting of my chants of sorry. I stood quickly and hugged her tightly.
Instead of returning the hug she pushed me harshly away and screeched, "Don't touch me you little FREAK!" Those words acted as a goodbye as she walked through the front door, and out of my life forever. I didn't understand that. What six year old could? Naively believing she would come back, I slept on the welcome mat that cold September night waiting for her to come home. The next morning I woke up with creamy skin, ruby hair, and no mum.
Dad came home a week later instead of the intended two days. He found his home in shambles, his wife long gone, and his freakish daughter to thank for it. He didn't seem too bothered by my appearance, recognizing me through his mirrored gaze.
He grabbed me by my hair and dragged me into the trashed house. I was thrown onto my face in the foyer, having no strength to catch myself with. A second later I had his knee pressed into the small of my back, holding me down. I looked over my shoulder, through my new hair, and into the Hell living in his eyes. He took out his pocket knife and I screamed and cried for my mother as I felt it's cold platinum blade inscribe something into my shoulder. The only responding sounds was my tearing skin and his manic laughter.
A warm breeze engulfs me. It's warm embrace brings welcomes peacefulness, temporarily waking me from the nightmare that is my past, present, and probable future. My emerald eyes flutter open, glassy from unshed tears. The jeweled green replaced my father's brown the day after I was "branded".
The source of the unexpected warmth, comes from the sun, slowly rising into a navy blue sky. Its light bleeds into the blue; pinks and purples filtering in for a new dawn. In life it is important to have a constant, because in it you find your home. The place you belong.
I find my constant in the sun, because no matter what Hell I'm living right now, it's not enough to disrupt the sun's beautiful cycle. Even when the clouds are grey and the fog is thick, some light always shines through. With every new sun I witness I foolishly grab at whatever hope it brings. Every time I run away and witness the sun's reincarnation, I allow myself the dream that I could do the same. That my life could change again, only this time for the better.
The morning rays help to evaporate my night time sorrows, but unfortunately not the pain. The throbbing ache in my arm is persistent and the cuts still leak crimson tears. I find the pain dulls as I am lost in thought. The image of the falling "stars" consumes my mind, beginning a chain of thought. It ends as I remember why I awoke in the first place. The dream, my first real dream turned out to be a nightmare.
Before last night, sleep would be my mind being plagued by blurred images flashing over and over, so fast that I would awake the next morning even more tired then if I hadn't slept. When I was younger the pictures were covered by this thick fog, but the older I become the more the fog dissipated to only a fine haze surrounding the pictures. They looked to be forgotten memories. Memories that never happened!
I can no longer close my eyes without seeing clouds raining glass and gold, or raven hair so wild it could rival my own. Without hearing pained screams, or saddened cries. Without gazing into my own emerald eyes pooled with tears or a scarlet stare floating in darkness. Until tonight, because tonight I saw all that and so much more. Like the pictures and sounds came together, filled in the blanks, and created a horror film for my displeasure.
A chilled window reveals an empty brick road, illuminated by a single oil burning street lamp. It's warm light is dusted with falling snow, gently twirling with the autumn wind. The calm, quiet scene outside, lives on in harmonious bliss, ignorant to the chaos of one cottage...
In the secret home of a secret family of four, walls shake and the windows vibrate, likely to shatter at any moment. The stairs quake and the hallway twist, leading a dangerous journey to a familiar yet foreign room. Its blue walls are painted with fluffy white clouds you can imagine drifting over a sunny sky. Golden picture frames encapsulating valuable memories, rain from where they hung in the painted sky, and dust the floor with their crystal and metallic shards.
In all the excitement, it is the door that draws my attention. It hangs open, revealing a black void. Drenched in darkness, it is only common sense that tells me there is in fact a hallway on the other side of the door's frame, and not a black hole.
For five minutes nothing exist beyond the door frame but the darkness and two debating voices. One, is strong and deep, echoing with proud determination. The other, is cold and almost fragile sounding, dragging out the letter 's', making the person's speech more like a hiss. The argument comes to an end, when the cold voice switches to aN unknown language, followed by the void beyond the door lighting up with a pale green light, proving the hallway's existence.
Many more foreign words are shouted. Bringing forth colors to dance with every peculiar pronunciation in a spectacular light show of plum, orange, and even teal. The most common of colors being a lively red and sickly green. The blackness eventually filters back in with one last hiss and green light.
Chaos takes a break and calm stillness takes hold of the cottage bringing along silence. In the silence I hear a soft angelic voice. It chants sweet words of "we love you", or "you are safe", there was even a brokenly whispered "sorry". My gaze seeks out the source of the voice, resting on my own emerald eyes swimming with tears.
It's me, but at the same time its not. The woman has my jeweled eyes, bright hair, and cream complexion, but no scars or wild waves. Her continued chants puts an end to my comparing observation.
"Harry, Bambi boy, it's going to be okay," everything in me tries to speak out to tell her that I'm not Harry, until she says my name too.
"Hermione, my little flower, mummy and daddy love you," her voice broke when she said daddy, but I couldn't help but believe her.
My name brings me awareness to my body and surroundings for the first time. I'm so small. Smaller than usual. Oddly, white wooden bars separate me from...myself?...the angelic woman, and tiny arms squeeze around my middle. I can now feel puffs of air through my shorter hair and panicked cries in my right ear, surprising me of how I could have been so oblivious to them before. In the corner of my right eye I can make out a head messy raven hair, and looking down I can see slightly pudgy arms gripping me like a lifeline. That must be Harry.
"We did this because we love you, don't ever forget that my little gems," says the angelic voice one last time before she slowly stands and turns, blocking my view of the doorway. A cold hiss slithers through the room and around my ears causing me to shiver and the arms around me to grip tighter. I don't complain, instead, I push back against the small body, finding comfort in the pudgy arms.
"Step aside filth!" the voice demands, but gets no response, as the woman protectively stands as tall as her small stature will allow.
"Foolish girl!" is hissed out, followed by an unknown word. For a second nothing can be seen but the haunting pale green light; nor heard, except a deafening thud on wooden floor boards. When the light dissipates and my eyes readjust, I am left with the sight of the still body of the angelic woman on the floor, and glowing red eyes floating in the black void.
The scarlet gaze meets mine, and I am reminded of the spark that hides behind my father's dark irises. This gaze however, hides nothing. It houses the king of hell himself and his burning waste land and puts it on full display. The eyes floating in the empty hall gleam, focusing solely on Harry and I.
I hear the unknown word, see the flash of sickly green, feel fire around my right eye, and then I wake up.
My shadow pools around my feet with the sun at its peak. Its heat beats down on the unpainted wood of my father's home. The house screams unwelcome, with the closed shutters and locked gate. A short chain link fence surrounds the entire house and its hay like grass .
I normally don't come back this early. I usually hide out in the woods for a few days during the summer months, but the gashes in my arm are deeper than I originally anticipated. Blood occasionally dripping from the tips of my fingers as the appendage dangles at my side.
Hopping over the gate, I walk determined up to the front door. I pause to steady myself with a deep breath before I step into the house. Upon my entry I am met the echoes of my father's "good dad voice" and the throaty chuckle of a woman. My jaw has little time to hit the floor before my feet are moving again. We've never had guest so my curiosity just couldn't let me live without knowing who was brave enough to be our first.
The clipped Scottish tone of the woman leads me to the small sitting room. Hugging the wall I listen as she speaks, "Now, as I was saying before, I am a professor for a boarding school. We specialized in the education in gifted students like your daughter, Hermione". This catches me off guard, sure I get top grades and excel in football, but it's nothing to label me as "gifted".
My father echoes my confusion as he says, "Gifted? My daughter me be...special… but not gifted." I can't help but flinch at the word "special", it being a substitute for the word freak while in public.
"Maybe this would be easier to explain if Hermione were here," the professor responds.
I take that as my cue and enter the room, my eyes falling on the Scottish professor. She sits with almost regal pride, her posture rivaling my father's. The love seat she sits on acts as her thrown and her, odd, gown like emerald coat pools around her feet. The charcoal grey of her hair matches her stern, yet kind, eyes. The locks are pulled in a no-nonsense bun and tucked under a black pointed hat. The hat shares the same odd elegance as the coat.
She finally notices me and turns to meet my curious gaze. Her stoic expression shows nothing, but I watch as a myriad of emotions flash through her eyes. Shock, elation, sorrow, confusion, I see it all.
That's when she says, "Lily?"
Well that's it for the first chapter, please don't be afraid to review and tell me what you think!