DISCLAIMER: I don't own the quotes or Ultimate Spider-Man. I do own my OC's and the idea.
Chapter 2: Sort Of
"Not until we are lost do we begin to truly understand ourselves."
-Henry David Thoreau
When I woke this morning, I had a bad feeling. Everything seemed to be tense, waiting for something to happen. I am an extraordinarily patient person, having waited for eight years to see my home again, but that has never stopped me from having my ups and downs. Throughout it all, I have always said, They're coming for me. I count the days, telling myself that maybe next year they will come, and mark off each day, anxiously waiting for the anniversary of that fateful day. Every time, I tell myself next year must be it. Living like that—constantly waiting—has made me a quiet person. Somebody who keeps secrets throughout it all.
The world seems to be waiting with me today, though. Sunday morning. Ava and Peter both left after breakfast; Peter to check on his aunt, and Ava to meet up with an old friend for lunch. I retired to drawing, my passion.
This time, I used my best paper, and a freshly sharpened pencil. I have a tendency to draw familiar things—that is, the things and people that fill me with the dull ache of longing. One of my most cherished memories is Dad telling me the story of Shou-Lao the Undying. I can still remember that day as though it were yesterday. All of his words wove into one magnificent memory, the images they painted so vivid that they seemed to breathe life. At the end, Dad had held his fists aloft, blazing with the yellow light of hisChi. I watched, mesmerized by it, until he kissed me goodnight and sent me off to bed, my mind still spinning with wonder at the sheer power within.
Since then, I have always bore a fascination with dragons. I never trust myself to draw Shou-Lao, but I draw other dragons as it pleases me. Today, she breathed life the same way Dad's story did, her eyes holding lost tales. I could feel her scales rippling beneath my hands, and she peeled herself from the paper.
I love it when my drawings do this. Despite her small form—approximately five inches in length—she is magnificent. Altın-Hüzün is her name, and it suits her. Golden Sorrow. Her tail lashes from side to side, and she lifts her heavy wings as if to say, Look, human; my wings are too laden with your sorrow to bear me in flight, so I cannot join my family amongst the clouds. Hesitantly, I reach out to touch her, and for a moment a low growel echos in her throat, then she fades away like they all do.
Sighing, I stand to walk back inside. All of my drawings do that whenever I try to interact with them. Otherwise, they simply fade away on their own after a minute or two. Before returning inside, I take the now blank paper and pencil with me. I have had this exact sheet of paper for two years now, and only use it for when I want my drawings to breathe.
Nobody has ever seen my drawings alive, because I don't let them. When Dad comes for me, I will show him in K'un L'un, with the finest ink he uses only to write to the most elite warriors and monks.
I can do it with writing, too, but both require an entire story. The subject must have memories, a life, to breathe, and that is much harder to capture with words—especially English words. The sounds here are blunt as ever to my ear, and I hate the harsh grunts my tongue must form to communicate with these people.
It's hard to believe that Mom grew up here, that either of my parents enjoyed living in New York City. Mom must have seen some true beauty here that my eyes skim over, because I see only the evil of these outsiders that I detest. Maybe it's because she hadn't seen K'un L'un yet, or because her family lived here. She had to make her own family, after all, and that couldn't have been easy. Or, perhaps, she loved Dad so much that all they saw while here was the good. That seems unlikely, though, since they fought the bad every day.
Dad would always tell me that the world wasn't black and white, good and bad. There's something in between, and that is humanity. We choose what we are, but we aren't just 'good' or 'bad'. We're human.
Mom said that we choose our paths, that there's a mixture of everything inside of everyone—we each have different challenges, and what sets us apart is how we face and overcome them. Weak people choose the easiest path, but strong people choose the right path.
Funny the way they changed so much over the years. It felt like one day I went to sleep and all was well, then, suddenly, the entire universe was in mortal danger, and we left before I could so much as blink. One day Mom was telling me the joys of her time with her family, then she was lecturing on the evil of the government. One day Dad was telling me the wonder of the world, then he was telling me that they were fleeting and we had to enjoy them while we could.
Well, life is fleeting and fragile. Mom showed me that much.
I always admired the way they loved each other so much. Always. It feels like they gave up everything for me, except that there was more to it than that. There's the key, too.
A loud rapping on the door interrupts my thoughts, and I open it for Ava, who must have forgot her key again. Nowadays, they lock the doors whenever they leave the house. She surveys me, then sees my white pants, which don grass stains from kneeling outside.
"Really? I told you not to go outside when nobody's home!" she snaps, clenching her hands tighter around the stack of papers that she is holding.
I nod, staring at the floor. As if she didn't know that I always did that when they were gone. I never trust myself to draw indoors after the last incident. It was hard to explain the burn marks on the wall, but they believed me, because I never lie. Not usually, anyways, unless it is important. Which this is.
Most days I just let Ava's words roll off of my shoulders, shrugging and mumbling whenever she pauses, but today I pay attention to her chatter. Why? I have this nervous, fluttery feeling in my stomach, like something's about to go wrong.
"Who—who did you meet with to- today?" I stutter, my voice like a slight breeze in June; warm, little butterflies fluttering lazily around my words, but dying down before anything can happen, before anything can truly be said. Spoken words have never favored me, perhaps because I spend so much of my time with pencils and paper that something so fleeting, so invisible to the human eye as a spoken word, that the sounds refuse to cooperate. The harsh vocals required to form English words can't help.
Ava sighs. "Luke."
A little gasp escapes my parted lips as my eyes dart to the papers, then back to the floor. It's been two years since I last heard his name mentioned, and bad news has a nasty little habit of accompanying his brief, infrequent visits.
She throws the paperwork on the counter and turns away. Her voice is bitter as she continues, "He talked to Wade, who has some extraordinary claims. Luke wouldn't tell me where he last saw that scum—suppose that he was too afraid my claws would find their way to his throat."
Wade? As in, Wade Wilson, Deadpool? Mercenary scum indeed. He's one that I consider black, but my Dad always said was just human—and Dad has plenty reason to hate him. "Why?" The words cling to my tongue, hesitant to fall into another's ears.
"Nothing. Don't worry."
The nothing part is exactly what concerns me. Ava knows me well, and vice versa; I can hear the tinge of regret in her words, and see the slight quiver of her hand as she chops up carrots for the salad tonight. "Oh," I say dully.
"Why didn't you invite any friends over for dinner? I said you could have someone over if you wanted, you know."
"Oh." Well, you see, Ava, I'd have to have friends to do that.
"That's not an answer," she chastises.
"No one wanted to come," I say honestly. It would have been better phrased to say, No one could come, which would have been the truth too, but a lesser truth. I want to make up for lying about going outside today, even though I don't feel particularly guilty.
"Wanted?" Ava presses, and I shrug. People don't like me for who I am. They don't like yoga, they don't like martial arts, they don't like meditation, they don't like drawings that come to life, they don't like secrets—nobody wants to know me for who I am, and I'm not willing to change. I am who I am. They are who they are. "You really need to spend some time with kids your age."
I will. In K'un L'un. "Oh." I listen to the steady patter of rain against the windows. "It was sunny earlier today. Hm." I walk away nonchalantly to the backyard. The feeling of rain on my cheeks is refreshing; it makes me feel more alive, somehow.
Sitting in the grass, I place my palms on my knees, clearing my mind. In, out. In, out.
"LILLY!" Ava jerks open the sliding glass door. "DINNER!"
My clothes are soaked through, I notice, stepping into the welcoming house. I bunch up my thin purple shirt, wringing it out, then do the same to my pants. The cloth is wrinkled, but I don't care. I like the cool, damp sensation against my skin.
The salad is good, but nobody talks much except Peter.
"So, why didn't you invite anybody over for dinner?"
"Nobody wanted to come."
Peter shakes his head. "Did you even ask anyone?"
"No." I didn't have to. Their answers are woven in their everyday practices.
"You have to talk to people if you want them to be your friends, you know. Getting rid of the 'Zen' outfit might help too—it's somewhat off-putting."
I glance down at my clothes. They're the same thing as I wear every day; having nothing left from home that fits, I wear only cotton fabric, nothing man made. Usually it's thin and loose. My pants vary, though they're often white or black, and my tops range from sleeveless to elbow length, of all of the colors under the rainbow. Compared to most kids' jeans and tight-fitting tees, they stand out. They also suit me, though. I'd have to want friends to talk to people. "Mm."
"Just shut up, Peter, please," Ava growls.
"Why? What happened? Did I forget to change the litter box again?"
"Web head, not now. Later. I'll tell you later." She glances at me again.
Fine. I shove the rest of my salad down, swallowing hard. "Thank you. I'm going to practice Kundalini now."
"Go, then," Ava snaps.
I do exactly what I said; Kundalini is another thing that reminds me of my parents. It was something the three of us did together every morning and night. A family. I think that they were planning on having another kid soon, but then everything started falling apart.
It would be nice to have a little brother or sister to talk to. It would be nice to have anyone to talk to. Maybe I was just nervous today because it's April. The time until January stretches on, seeming like forever to wait. Eight years is a long time. Sometimes I wonder if they've changed as much as I have.
Does Dad still have unruly blonde hair just past his chin? Do his green eyes still sparkle when he laughs? When he tells stories, do they breathe? Can his fists still glow with the power of Shou-Lao? Are his arms still strong and welcoming?
Does Mom's hair still reach past her waist in a thick black-brown braid? Are her eyes still brown, twinkling like the stars when she talks about her family? When she is nervous, does she still wring her hands? Can she still Dream-walk with me at night? Is she still warm and loving, ready to hold me when I cry?
Then I wonder if they even remember me the way I do them. After all, eight years is a long time. Would they even recognize me anymore?
Of course they would. They would see my Chi, my life force. Mom would laugh and say how my green eyes are exactly like Dad's. Dad would grin and hug me, saying that my wild hair reminds me of Mom, and then she would chuckle softly.
Embracing my fantasy reunion to my heart, I sink into my pillows, exhausted from simply existing.
…...
School. Miserably, I roll over, burying my face into the blankets.
"Lilly," Ava hisses, and shakes me again. "Danny's here."
"Danny?" I mumble, the words catching in my throat. Suddenly, I feel wide awake, excitement surging through my veins. "Dad? DAD!"
"Shh," she says quietly, leading me to the living room. The curtains are drawn, and the clock on the mantle shows 2:36 AM. On the couch, a man lays. His blonde hair is mussed, and a thick blanket covers him, but he is unmistakable. Daniel Thomas Rand-K'ai, king of K'un L'un, my father.
My heart leaps up, and I run over into a long embrace. "Lilly," he breaths into my ear. His arms are strong, and he still smells of incense.
When I let go of him again, I see the bandages across his chest, stained red. "Dad?" my voice wavers.
He smiles, trying to sit up further, but Peter pushes him back down. "Woa, Danny. What did you do, get into a fight with Scorpion or some ninjas again?"
Dad shakes his head, squeezing my hand. "This is no joke, my friend."
I can't believe it. Dad is actually here. This moment I've dreamed of for eight years is reality.
"So... you're saying you did, then?" Peter asks.
"Not funny, Peter. Not funny." Ava shakes her head. "Seriously, Danny, what happened?"
Dad's face is grave, and I know that something big is going on. About to happen, anyway. If it didn't already. "HYDRA happened."
Ava swears loudly, and Peter jumps. "Oh, Schnitzel!"
"Why am I so stupid? WHY DIDN'T I LISTEN TO LUKE?!" Ava rants.
"They built a 'time machine', as they call it," Dad says tensely, and I seize up. Time is one of those things that you just don't mess with. It's like a straight line, going on forever in both directions, without any beginning or end.
Peter, though, visibly relaxes. "Well, they can't make it work. It's proven. You'd have to be able to go just below the speed of light to do that—I mean, famous people other than myself have done the math! There's no known fuel that can do that in practice. Theoretically, yes. Probability of happening, same as Luke reading War and Peace."
"Then our friend must have read such a classic, because it is possible," Dad confirms. I slide against the couch, resting my head in his lap.
"How the hell is it possible, then?" Ava growls.
"Emmaline," he says simply.
"They effing caught her?!"
"Certain things are inevitable."
"Danny, seriously. It's about time you explain how she's even alive! I wouldn't believe you, but I saw her alive, all broke up and sad on our doorstep six years ago," Peter exclaims, leaning against the wall. "She looked exactly the same as she did when she was nineteen! Like she hadn't changed at all, but she had Lilly with her. God, Danny."
I scrunch myself up, wishing that I could disappear. How can this be happening? Mom's in the hands of HYDRA? We should be starting on our way to K'un L'un by now— we should have started the journey back years ago.
No, we should never have left.
Dad stares at his fuzzy blanket. "She changed her mind last minute to favor her true path."
Peter bangs his head against the wall. "You suck at explaining things!"
Yes, well, nobody ever explained anything to me. I was always left to figure things out on my own.
"Friends, I value your lives. Ignorance is a blessing in times like these, and a shield from worse things to come. If I were not injured, I would have come straight here and left with my daughter, but as I am, and you have extended an offer of friendship, I will be invading on your hospitality for the next few days."
Peter stares at Dad, dumbfounded, then says, "That's the longest thing I've ever heard you say at one time."
"Dad," I whisper, struggling to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks, "can we just go? Please?"
He slowly shakes his head, hugging me to his chest. "No, not yet. I owe you an explanation."
"You owe her an explanation?" Ava roars.
"Yes," he replies simply.
I bury my face into the blankets, oblivious to the argument. At last, my father has come for me. I can be happy and smile now, right?
Instead, I want to cry like a small child. I want to show the world how angry I am, how cheated I feel. We were supposed to return to K'un L'un, the three of us, and live our lives in paradise! Instead, I'm here. Listening to this. Peter and Ava cared for me, and I am thankful, but I want nothing more than to forget them and return home, to my family, friends, my life. This can't be my life, it isn't possible! Yet it is.
Sort of.