Chapter Three ~ Nobody Can Drag Me Down
Disclaimer: I don't own KotLC
Word count: 2,567
A thousand things running through my head, a hundred emotions of my own to try and understand -
Confusion-
Powerlessness-
Fear-
And anger-
So. Much. Anger.
Why doesn't anyone fucking care? Even Bronwynn, who I trust more than anyone else in the world, doesn't care. She doesn't give a fuck who or what I am. I'm nothing but a liability - a shoulder to cry on. I'm nothing.
Nothing.
No one.
I hate that. I'm human - unextraordinary in the extreme. Angry and crude and snappy, sarcastic and irritable and scary. This is who I am. Kayla Sanchez, somehow a thirteen year old high school senior, somehow furious with everyone and everything, somehow strong in spite of everything -
Human. But…
What if?
What if I could be so much more? I'm not special - don't get me wrong, I know I'm no one. That truth is the first thing I remember hearing from my first foster mother. She straightened my tattered white denim jacket, brushed the dirt from my cheeks, and told me I should blend in. "Be no one," she told me, sending me off to the bus stop with nothing but an empty backpack and a stomach filled with sour milk. So, I'm not special. But I'm human. I can't be an…
I can't even think it.
An elf.
It's impossible, my mind supplies helpfully, as I slam my fist against the double-panel window. Elves don't exist - and even if they do, they don't look like runaway models like that creeper boy did. Elves are short, with pointy shoes, and they live in the North Pole with Santa Claus, may he kind die, the bastard - I've got some beef with the Santas of my childhood, and for good reason. So, in conclusion: elves don't exist. They can't.
The glass rattles under my blurry clenched fists, and it's then that I realize I'm crying. Not because I'm sad. Because I want so badly for it to be true. I want that happy ending that I'm supposed to get. I want to be known and understood and not stared at like I'm a freak. I want to belong, for once in my fucking life. It's impossible, though - because elves don't exist. They can't.
But, shit, if they did…
I hate this. I hate that I'm this desperate. I hate that I'm this strong - strong enough to break the glass window in my excuse for a bedroom without making too much noise. I hate that Cate drinks, and she'll be passed out on her carpet in a pool of vomit for the next five hours. I hate that my fucking excuses for siblings are always gone, with their respective partners, leaving me alone. Alone enough, desperate enough for someone to understand me that I'm sneaking out to find a stalker boy who could never well kill me - or worse.
I want this, I remind myself as I inhale sharply through my nose and bring my right fist back. The glass is flimsy and breakable, the barrier between me and freedom only a few steady punches away. I close my eyes. I want this. I want to belong. I have to. The emotional overload today - I don't think I can survive that again. It took everything I had to not collapse, everything I could ever have, to rip myself away and keep running from him and his deep, solid emotions.
I don't know how I'm going to get through tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the next, or the next. If, by some miracle, he's telling the truth and I'm something other than human… I need to know what I am. I need to know why I'm so different from everyone who's ever been around me. I inhale once, glancing behind me to check that I can still hear Cate's loud, steady snores coming from the bottom of the stairs, in her doorway.
Still there, showing no signs of ever waking up again. I turn back to the window. Small fissure cracks line the first of the panes from where I slammed it earlier, and the wind and cold seeps through the fractures. I shiver involuntarily and grab the only thick jacket in the house - one of Alaska's. She'll kill me for borrowing it, but the cold may well kill me before she can if I don't take it. And between cold and acrylic nail wounds, I'll take my chances against the nails.
I snatch the coat from her desk chair, wrapping its soft, fuzzy interior around me and zipping the metal clasp to my throat. My black hair is still in a messy ponytail, and I slide on my thicker winter boots - old brown ones from Goodwill - and lace them tight. A quick glance at where the mirror used to hang remind me again just how strong I am -
Reminds me that I have to do this.
I can't be human.
So I draw in a deep breath for the third time and pull my fist back, throwing it forward before I can stop myself. The glass breaking feels like victory.
My breath comes in whispery puffs in the cold air as I poke my head out the window, realizing I might have underthought this part of my plan slightly. This side of the house is significantly higher off the ground than the other, and the only way to get down is by climbing the spindly, skinny tree, which is probably really, really dangerous. Plus, Cate's asleep. I could have just walked out the door.
And yet, breaking the glass of the window was one of the greatest feelings I've ever gotten. It was exhilarating - because I was playing by my rules, not Cate's or anyone else's. I love this feeling; the accomplishment, the pride, the rising-above feeling. It's like -
Like no one can touch me.
And that's when I make a pact to myself. I'm never following the rules again. I make my own rules, and then I burn them down. Rules shouldn't exist.
Sort of like elves. But, elves, rules - what's so different? Sure, a person can change your life without realizing they're doing so by telling you that you're an elf, but rules do change your life. Elves suck - they offer no explanations and no proof that they really exist, unless Mr. Stalker is some kind of supermodel el. But rules suck more. Trust me, I would know. Then again, rules are real and elves are pretend - just fairy tales from a childhood I never had. Really, elves and rules are probably equally annoying, but in this scenario, I'm devaluing elves (seeing as they don't exist), so rules are the shittiest of the two.
Do elves think like this, I wonder? Or am I just completely psychotic?
Most likely the matter. That thought almost sends me turning around to climb back inside the window, but… but. The only thing keeping me sane. Because maybe I'm not here only one who's a freak. Maybe. The only way I'll know is if I climb down the fucking tree, so I grit my teeth and stop thinking, just grip the edges of the windowsill, plant one foot against the side of the house, and explode from the window frame.
I wish I could say I played it cool, threw myself into the tree with surprising grace and landed on my feet, but unfortunately for me I'm a terrible liar. What really happened was that I launched myself about four feet from the window, then flailed my arms and started screaming my ass off and grabbing for the tree. Luckily for me, I caught myself on one of the only sturdy tree branches about two feet from the ground. The twigs scratch and scrape at my face and I wrinkle my nose, turning away from them and dropping neatly to the ground.
That landing I nailed. Dropping into a low crouch, my boots pointing forward as if to start sprinting any second, I can't help but grin. I feel so much like a black, female, bitch of a Spider-Man it's comical. So, again, I won't lie - I creep along like I am Spider-Man, practically crawling over the ground, and pull my wool hat over my eyes.
"Er… Kayla?"
And that's when I start to regret every life choice I've made in the last five minutes. Because when I straighten up and spin around, dusting loose mud from my black leggings, the stalker is behind me, his eyebrows furrowed. His emotions - confusion, amusement - hit my chest and I lurch forward, pressing a hand to my heart. Ouch. Why did I do this, again? Oh, right, because I wanted to belong. Well, if King Creepy comes out with why he's really being weird, then sure, I'm an elf.
I clear my throat once and rest a hand against my hip, trying hard to seem like I wasn't just crawling around like black bitchy Spider-Woman. "Yes?" I snark, turning my nose up at the look of him. He's holding a takeout container with something delicious-smelling in it and has a smear of blue across his chin. When he opens his mouth, his earlier-white teeth are stained blue. I instinctively back up a step, towards the house, and hold out one hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Don't come any closer," I say, hating the tiny tremble in the word 'closer.'
He holds my gaze, his teal eyes wide and innocent as he slowly sets down the container and holds up his hands, stepping three steps away and then pausing, his eyes narrowed. I clench my jaw. I open my mouth, a bunch of not-so-nice words bubbling in the back of my throat, then hesitate. Baby steps, Kayla. What's something you'd do if you met him in a department store or anything? Think basic things first. Try and find out if he's a threat.
I open my mouth again. "What's your name and favorite ice cream flavor?" tumbles out. Something from a long-forgotten icebreaker game in kindergarten. The boy seems surprised but willing enough to answer - "It's Fitz," he says with a small smile, at the point in the conversation where we'd shake hands. Because he's smart, though, he knows I will retreat if he moves his hands, so he keeps them high in the air. "And chocolate mint ice cream."
A hint of a smile plays on my face, because that used to be my favorite, too. I haven't had ice cream in so long, though, that I hardly remember what it tastes like. "Me too," I hear myself say, my mouth moving on its own accord. I don't protest, though, when my mind instructs me to move a few feet closer and sit down cross-legged on the wet earth. Fitz - is that his name? - eyes me hesitantly, asking with his eyes if he can sit as well. After a moment, I gesture to a spot a hard or so away from me, indicating that he can sit there.
So there we sit, in silence, for a moment. Then, he speaks again, warily. "You're Kayla Sanchez." It's not a question, but a statement, the nervousness I can feel pouring off of him directly contradicting the subtle confidence he's injected into his voice. I nod slightly. When he opens his mouth again, though, I interrupt. "Who are you?" He looks away.
"I already told you. My name is Fitz." His hands twitch as he speaks, two of his fingers tapping together. My eyes fixate on his hands, my own jumping to sign to him. I had a roommate who was deaf once, and he taught me a little ASL before I moved out. I remember it - not well, but well enough to hold a basic conversation. My hands spring to life. Hey, I sign. You know sign language?
He looks surprised for a second, then his face and emotions melt into a sort of mild softness as he answers. Yeah. I grin at that. So tell me for real now. Who are you?
Fitz rolls his eyes. I'm telling the truth. My name is Fitz Vacker. And you're Kayla, and you're an elf.
The truth, I sign, pouring my annoyance into the 'truth' sign. I meet his eyes without hesitation, more confident now that I have something on him - despite my rudimentary skills, I'm better at ASL than him. He sighs, muttering something under his breath.
"That is the truth," he says, signing as he speaks. "Are you deaf?" I shake my head no while signing it as well. Hearing, I continue, touching my finger to my lips. "Then why do you know sign language?" He's frustrated; angry, even, now. I smile and keep signing, speeding up ever so slightly just to annoy him. Had a roommate once who was deaf. He taught me some signs so we could talk.
"I see," he mutters. He plucks at the dead grass around him, winding around the tip of his finger. "Kayla," he says out loud. "You really are an elf.
"Haven't you ever wondered why it is that you're so smart? Elvin minds are a thousand times better than human ones - why you're a senior so young. Have you ever looked in the mirror and just thought that you were different from everyone around you? I -" his voice breaks slightly, "I promise - no, I swear, I'm telling you the truth. You're an elf. There's another girl like you, a twelve-year-old in San Diego who's coming to live in our cities. And we need you, Kayla. We've been watching you for your entire life. Yeah," he chuckles, "That does sound really creepy, I know. But it was for you, and now you're ready to come into our - your - world. We need you, Kayla, more than you'll ever know. Please, please, let me prove it to you."
He stretches out a hand to me and I stare at it for a moment, contemplating my options. Go back inside and spend my whole life wondering, or take his hand and disappear. If I'm an elf… if he's really telling the truth… that means that maybe I'm not alone. Maybe I'm not a freak.
Oh, who am I kidding, I'll always be a freak. But an elf freak is better than a human freak, right?
I blow out my breath, spewing cold air like an icy dragon, and lift my hand to sign one word. Fine.
Aaaand, ending this chapter here. If it wasn't clear, the bold is ASL, which I'm learning right now to pass time while I'm in quarantine because, guess what, one of my friends has COVID. Joy. Anyway, regular is normal writing, italics are emphasized words or thoughts, and bold is ASL. If I messed up anything with the ASL signs or anything I said was offensive to anyone who's Deaf or African American, please let me know and I'll take it out or change it as soon as possible.
My name (guest) - the screen names are supposed to be sanchez . kayla 130 and Wynnie . Of. Brons. but fanfiction won't let me post screen names like that. Thank you for reviewing!
And Lilac - I know, I wrote her this way because I wanted it too seem like she had to grow up too fast and acted mature for her age. Thanks for reviewing again!
~Ally