In the Shadows

by writinficsandbreakinhearts

She's never been extraordinary — well, except for her ability to feel the emotions of others. Besides that, she's just a normal kid. Invisible, sure, but normal. She's one of those people who sort of fade into the background, into the shadows. Or she was, until a boy with strange teal eyes showed up and told her who she really was. [hiatus]

1. Chapter One

Chapter One: Scared and Lost in the Dark

Disclaimer: I don't own KotLC.

Word count: 2,479

The worst possible thing you can say to someone like me is as follows: "You're kind of a bitch, you know." Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm the creepy girl who wears black every day and swears every three words and has been kicked out of every foster home I've ever been offered. Yeah, I'm kind of a bitch. But you can go to hell, Harry Proctor, because if anyone's a bitch in this high school, it's your slut of a girlfriend.

I regret saying that out loud approximately four seconds later. Harry lumbers his mammoth football body over to me and shoves, slamming me against the wall of lockers behind my back. Fuck, that hurt. Without a second glance my way, Harry slides his arm across his slut of a girlfriend's shoulders and presses a kiss to her head, walking away from me. "Go to fucking hell, Harry," I mutter, standing creakily.

I straighten my shirt(black), stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans(black), sling my backpack(black) over my shoulder, and walk away. There's also nothing worse than starting off the eighty-fourth day of your senior year by being thrown into a wall of lockers by a boy who has five years and no less than a hundred pounds on you. Yeah, I'm kind of a bitch. But why does that make it okay to slam me around like I'm nothing but a punching bag? I get enough of that at 'home.'

I sigh as I walk through the door to the gym. It's P.E. this period, which means I get to die of humiliation during a basketball game. By the way, when one is very short, playing basketball is a fantastic opportunity to practice evasive measures which allow one to escape the gargantuan feet of seven-foot-tall second year seniors. Sometimes being the only thirteen year old high school senior sucks.

In the locker room, the other girls are half-dressed in their modified P.E. shirts. I blush slightly and scamper over to my locker, keeping my eyes pointed at my ratty old converse(also black.) I take my time putting my backpack in my locker, making sure each and every pocket is zippered up tight so I can put off changing in front of the eighteen-year-olds who are very comfortable in their bodies.

Even after they've all left, I drag my feet as I walk into a bathroom stall and slowly pull on my horrid uniform. A huge gray t-shirt and navy blue mesh shorts that hang off my hips, plus a pair of too-tight blue shoes that squeeze my toes. I scrape my long, chestnut brown hair into a scraggly ponytail and slump out of the locker room and into hell.

…

To sum up my eight-plus years of experience in physical education in three words: welcome to hell. Just today, I have sustained fourteen-point-five bruises playing basketball, including a rather large one to my ego. Pro tip: when someone passes you a basketball, don't drop it, especially when said person is not only a fifth-year senior, but is also a wrestler in the heavyweight division.

So, that was P.E. I fucking hate the physical education requirement that my school has in place. What is the purpose of humiliating tiny kids like me, no matter how coordinated we are? If I could get up the courage to talk in front of any adult, I would suggest that they take a field trip into a high school phys ed class and try not to end up crying. But I am me and I don't talk to many kids, much less adults, so no one hears me when I try to shout.

Thankfully, mercifully, P.E. is my last class of the day. After I change into my regular inconspicuous clothes, I keep my head down as I walk to the bus stop, gazing at my shoes and the bland gray pebbles around them. It starts to rain just as soon as I leave the building, turning the dirty gray rocks to muddy, slippery sludge. Gray clouds smother the sun, sprinkling rain all around me, which matches my mood. Gray like soft kitten fur, wind like a long sigh swirling around me.

The bus is pulling away when I arrive at the stop. I don't bother jogging after it and waving my arms around my head like I normally do; I just watch it drive away. The rain soaks through my jacket, into my hair, onto my skin, and I just can't bring myself to care. I close my eyes and count to ten, breathing in and out, before starting the long walk home.

Plodding down the sidewalk, I pull out my phone and message Bronwynn, the only one of my foster sisters I've kept in contact with all these years. She's honest and funny and quite possibly the only person in the entire world I trust. She's the only person I've told my secret, and that's only because she is hyper-observant and kept noticing the way I flinched whenever someone got mad.

130: heyyy. another p.e. disaster. how u doin?

.brons: Ugh, I hate P.E. I'm alright - Em asked me to call her 'Mom.' Also, would it kill you to use proper spelling and grammar?

130: yea it would. sry. u gonna start calling jj dad?

.brons: Guess so ;). Got to go, dinnertime!

130: k. love from hell.

.brons: Love you too, babe. Good luck with the hell that is your house.

130 has logged off

Fucking hell. Bronwynn is calling Emily and JJ 'Mom' and 'Dad' and I don't even have a fucking room of my own. I can practically feel her glee in three messages. Bronwynn is thirteen, like me, but in eighth grade like a normal person. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a happy-go-lucky attitude that wins over every foster family . She's practically my sister, and, God, I love the girl to death, but it's not fair.

Nothing in my life is fair. Not my creepy ability to feel emotions, not my above average grades, not my fucking excuse for a family in three older siblings, all bitter and cruel, and my foster mother Cate, who is rotten and mean and only in the foster care system for the money. She's every foster kid's nightmare - straight out of Annie. It's not fair that Bronwynn gets a family and a future while I'm stuck just being me.

It's while I'm stewing in my own hatred of my life that I catch the tendril of nervousness. Pale blue and pulsing, somehow deeper, yet less flooding as any other human emotion. I frown, tilting my head curiously. It's been a long time since I felt something like that - it's been a long time since I felt anything. I'm just... numb. So I retreat into my mind the way I used to, letting my emotions into the air and focusing on the nervousness.

It was definitely different than any other emotion. Nervousness was typically pink or purple, and this emotion was… fuller. Heavier, almost, but light as a feather. I track the pulsing feeling to a tall boy leaning against a street sign. He has dark hair, smooth sea-glass teal eyes, and smooth pale skin. His eyes flash up to meet mine just as I isolate the emotion to the boy, making me jump. I glare back at him as he flicks a cocky smile my way, pushing himself off the street sign and jaywalking over to me.

I stand there, frozen in place, until he lays a hand on my shoulder. His hand is light and presses gently against my arm, and every emotion he's feeling… nervousness, surprise, confidence, it all just hits me in the chest like a truck slamming the shit out of a little VW Beetle. I hiss involuntarily and wrench away from him, crouching low out of instinct and holding my hands out protectively.

Everything swirls in my head and I have to suppress a groan of agony because I haven't felt anything but anger in such a long time and it's overwhelming and deep and painful and it's drowning me and I can't even breathe anymore. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. In and out. In… out… in… out… My eyes flutter closed, and the darkness starts to feel like a reprise from all the feelings I haven't felt in a long, long time. All I can remember feeling is anger and fear and hate and mistrust.

At least, that's all anyone ever feels around me. But the confidence, especially, is new. I drift with it, absorbing the powerful feeling and tucking it into my head, my heart. Somewhere far away, a gasp punctuates the air and footsteps scrape the concrete, but I am too far inside myself to care. My eyes are closed; my mind is blank. I'm not numb anymore. I can feel.

And then everything comes flooding in on me. The boy's emotions. The person in the car's emotions. The baby in the back seat. Everyone's emotions. Fear, nervousness, anxiety, excitement, relief, hunger, exhaustion, sleeplessness, confusion, surprise, confidence, and my very own fear and anger because it is so fucking much. Too much.

I forgot what it feels like to feel things. I forgot that I can feel everyone's fucking emotions and have little to no control over my own. I can't block it. Can't ignore it. In the olden days, I used to sit in the corner of a bedroom or a classroom, if I was at school, and just cry. Every one of my teachers had this sense of pity around them, and whenever they came anywhere close to me, I would fail and snarl and hiss, driving them away with my madness.

Thankfully, I don't do that anymore. Now, I curse and snap and sprint away from the boy, from anyone. The street blurs past, uncertain lamps flicking on and off as I charge underneath them. Night is falling, the sun drooping lower with every passing minute, and the buildings light up with tiny squares of gold as darkness blankets the city. Trees on my left, buildings on my right, the unevenness of the two balanced out by the rhythmic pounding of my relentless feet.

Houses start to replace the trees, primarily modest two-story houses made of bricks and wood. Garage doors open and close as family members arrive home after a long day at work, patio lights flick on to provide me with a sunlit path to follow. At the curve of the quiet road, I swing right, against the cement, and keep running, my breath now heaving as I fight to get away from all of the emotions.

Then, finally, I'm slowing down from my dead sprint, feet pattering in a gentle jog. The tall chimney, curls of smoke rising from it, comes into view, and with it Cate's house. Two stories, made entirely of gray-painted bricks, with an unwelcoming stony porch framing the left side of the house. The garage is closed, which means I have a merciful twenty or so minutes before Cate gets home to grab something to eat before a dinner of baked beans and shredded spinach.

Inside, it's as cold as ice. Despite school having started only six weeks ago, the days are chilly at best, and the nights unforgiving. Cate's house has no heater, just a threadbare pile of blankets and an ashy fireplace. It's always cold, even in the summer, and it's no different now. I immediately drop my book bag on the floor and roll out my shoulders, making a beeline for "my" blanket, a dusty pinkish-orange one. It's not really mine, of course, but what is?

I sigh as I enter the kitchen, shivering as I rummage through the refrigerator. Frostbitten hot dogs, a bowl of suspicious-looking peas with a bunch of fucking white mold creeping over them, and a few bottles of water, plus a can of Coke that looks like it's been inside for a few months at least. Thanks a lot, Cate. Coughing slightly from the tickle in my throat, I slam the refrigerator door shut and turn to the cabinets, opening them hopefully.

Inside, I find several mouse traps, a bag of chips, and a pile of what look like chocolate chips but are most certainly not, and lose my appetite. Closing my eyes for a moment, just to picture a giant piece of vanilla cake with strawberry icing, topped with chocolate covered strawberries. I lick my lips hungrily, practically smelling the sugary scent.

It comes as a disappointment when my eyes flutter open and there's nothing but dust in front of me. Heaving a sigh, I wrap the blanket tighter around me and curl up in one of the moth-eaten armchairs, shaking too hard to bother lighting the fireplace. I glance around, my eyes catching sight of my still-sopping backpack. A shiver wracks my body as I get up and make my way to my bag, leaving wet footprints behind me with each step.

I'm sliding my blue chemistry folder from the backpack when I happen to glance up, out the window. A face stares intently at me, teal eyes narrowed. It's the boy from the street earlier - he knows where I live. So, I do the only reasonable thing I can think of, before my mind can process that no one will be around to hear me; I scream my head off, drop my folder, and bolt upstairs, feet pounding on the bare hardwood floor.

Zipping into my and Amelia's shared bedroom, I slam the door shut and shove the heavy wooden chest in front of it, barricading myself inside. There's a window in the room, big enough to slip onto the roof from, that looks over the yard. After a few moments, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I peek through a gap in the curtains. The boy is still gazing into the living room, his eyes slitted - against the rain? Trying to see through the darkened window?

Whoever he is, whatever he's doing, he's one freaky person. In a snap decision, I impulsively open the window, lean out, and shout, "Hey!"

Startled, the boy looks up. "Hey yourself."

"What do you want with me?" I snarl, biting my way through each of the words.

He blinks. "Are you Kayla Sanchez?"

Yes. "No."

"Then who are you?" he asks.

"None of your business." And, because I'm me and he's a creep, I stick my arm out the window. Make sure he's in full view before flipping him the finger.

Yeah, I'm kind of a bitch. But he can go to hell.

If you don't know me, you can call me Ally - and yes, I'm rewriting the entire freaking thing because I don't like the way it was going. So, be on the lookout for more chapters, and for right now I'm deleting chapters 2-9 because they don't match up with this Kayla. Firstly, there will be a *lot* more swearing and Kayla's meaner in this version, so if that bothers you, I wouldn't recommend reading this story. Second, this story will involve LGBTQIA-plus characters and homophobia, transphobia, and classism. If that will make you uncomfortable, please don't read this story. Third, welcome, and I hope you enjoyed the new and improved version of In the Shadows. And yes, I renamed the story, too. Thanks!