• 1. Cornered

    Twilla Thrushcross huddled in a corner of her bedroom. She could hear her tormentors yelling under her window. She had always been taught that Gazers were nonviolent; it was a standard lesson at school. But that was back when everyone had regarded Twilla as a Normal, a child destined to grow into a Gazer like all the rest. That had been her life until the year she turned fifteen, when everyone else in her class had already had their first visions. When she was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, people just thought she was a late bloomer. But no person had ever had a first vision after the age of fifteen. Twilla had missed that sacred initiation into adulthood, and that was when she had become an outcast.
    What the teachers neglected to mention, to the disadvantage of Twilla, was that Gazers were violent to anyone who was not a fellow Gazer. And that was how she had ended up having to hide from her former friends. Twilla, by this time, had turned seventeen, and had endured two years of abuse; even her parents seemed to dislike her. Living in solitude could be quite enjoyable, and Twilla could stand the bruises, but the tauntings she could not abide.
    The words of the Gazers would cut her as their beatings could not, and she was not one to take it quietly. The few enemies brave enough to actually touch her escaped with more injury than she attained during the fight, yet they still attempted to make her acquiesce to their assaults. Twilla always figured that they thought each beating would weaken her until one triumphed, she knew they were wrong.
    But what she did not know was that I was watching her, though she knew of others. The others were from her world, monitoring her behavior and deciding whether or not she would become a threat to their perfect society. I was playing spy for a different world, one where she would be worshipped and adored. For now I shall serve as narrator and soon, Twilla will find her voice again, breaking her vow of silence and narrating her own story.
    Twilla was frozen now by their vicious words. Those she had counted as friends, or at least not enemies, were cutting her to pieces. Twilla alone realized how truly powerful words were, and had found them only to be powerfully bad. She no longer remembered the endearments she used to receive as a child. She remembered nothing happy; the bad times overwhelmed her mind, pushing out all happiness.
    Twilla knew that they would leave soon, but not before making sure she was trapped with her misery. It was almost ritual now. Twilla left the school where she was under the protection of barely tolerant teachers, and she ran home as fast as she could. If she had beaten her classmates to her house, which she usually did, then she would hasten to her bedroom, hoping that they would not come until she had made it to her safe corner. In any other circumstance Twilla would have stood up for herself, but one thing they thankfully did not know was how their afternoon taunts utterly froze her. She would be still for hours, as immobile as a rabbit caught in headlights. This was completely involuntary for Twilla would have liked nothing better than to face her evil oppressors head on. But she simply could not. Her association between powerfully bad and words started the first time she froze, the first time she was barraged with crawling insults that implanted themselves in her heart.
    The Gazers left when it became dark, and Twilla gratefully stretched. She walked to her picture wall and added another face. The wall was nearly full by now, covered in pencil sketches. Twilla had been drawing these since she was thirteen. They were people that popped into her head and wouldn't go away until she had drawn them. She resented their persistence, and yet felt as if she had seen these people before. That was how the picture wall had started. Twilla just couldn't make herself throw the pictures away, and they fascinated her, thus the picture wall came to be. She would study them for hours, trying to figure out why they were so familiar. Twilla had often been on the verge of uncovering a hidden memory when her stomach would growl, the only sign that she had been studying late into the night. She never ate when her parents were around, never wanting to inflict her presence on them. If they were asleep than she would creep downstairs and grab whatever food she landed upon first, rushing back to her room when she had enough. And that was Twilla's life. She hid, she fought, she drew, and she studied the faces.
    Twilla woke to sunlight streaming through her window. It was a school day again. She dressed herself in the outfit standard of students: white blouse, brown skirt, brown vest, and brown shoes. Twilla loved the plain uniform for it's inconspicuousness. Looking in the mirror, she brushed out her cropped hair. It would be time for another cut soon. The original cut had been designed to disgust the female Gazers, who prided themselves on their long hair. She ran outside, just barely making it onto the Transport Vehicle. They were waiting for her.
    “Here comes Blind Girl.”
    “Blind Girl, can you SEE me!?!”
    “You better not sit with me Blind Girl, I might lose my Vision.”
    “Hey Blind Girl, you know what's gonna happen at lunch today?” The last cracks his knuckles menacingly, making it very clear what was going to happen. Twilla walked to her usual seat in the back, the only one that was ever empty. It had old gum stuck on most of the surface; graffiti of every kind, and what looked suspiciously like a vomit stain. Twilla took out her sketchbook and started to draw a face that had been bothering her since she fell asleep, appearing in every dream and acting unusually insistent. First the eyes, very beautiful eyes; then the nose and mouth, eyebrows, hair, ears. A woman. But this woman carried a double sense of déjà vu. As in, feeling déjà vu about one of the faces she had already drawn. Twilla was puzzling over this when a large hand snatched the picture away.
    “Hey, look what Blind Girl drew!” Denny yelled. Denny had been Twilla's best friend when they were little Normals, now he was one of her worst tormentors.
    Twilla snarled and tried to rescue her sketch from his clutches. Denny just laughed and held it higher.
    “Looks like our little Blind Girl's trying to see what she would look like if she had hair.” Twilla froze in the act of clawing Denny's raised arm and looked up slowly at the picture. It looked exactly like a longhaired Twilla. But she hadn't had long hair since she was a Normal, and the face could not be mistaken for that of a child. Denny obviously didn't realize Twilla's preoccupation, because he kept right on yelling.
    “Blind Girl thinks she could be pretty! Hey, Kynne, take a look!” Denny passed the picture around, still oblivious to Twilla's abnormal behavior.
    Just then the Transport Vehicle slammed to a stop, jolting Twilla out of her trance. Denny dropped the piece of paper to the floor and stepped on it, leaving a dirty imprint of his shoe. She quickly picked her drawing up and scrambled out of the vehicle, trying to make it to the school building before anyone could catch her.
    Twilla sat through each boring class in contemplation. She was sure that the picture could not be her, and sure that she had seen this person before. Many times. And in her minds eye she again summoned the image. Red hair to the point of being nearly black, thin nose, high cheekbones, green eyes, oval face, fair complexion. The only difference besides hair length was a small beauty mark next to the left-hand eyebrow. No one she had ever seen looked like this person, and most definitely not her own mother. Her mother had soft brown hair, a round face, brown eyes, and dark complexion.
    Twilla was still focused on this mystery during lunch when she looked up to find herself surrounded. Gazers of all sizes were clustered around her lone table in the corner. Twilla looked around in vain for an adult face, she was most definitely not in the mood for a fight against mob mentality. She reached for her knives only to remember that she always left her sheathes at home during school. She was supposed to be safe there. The knives she had bought early on, when she had no longer felt safe in her own home, and now she was unarmed. Stupid no weapons policy.
    “I told you we would come.” It was Denny's friend Kynne, the one who had cracked his knuckles and leered at her on the bus.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid! She thought to herself. I had fair warning. Even a letter opener would have been better than nothing, but no, I had to be too preoccupied to even think of stealing one! Twilla stood and braced herself for the fight, grabbing a metal butter knife from her tray, not very sharp, but it would still do.
    “Little Blind Girl thinks she can fight us! What I want to know is how she expects to fight if she can't even see us?” Raucous laughter followed Kynne's 'blind' joke.
    Twilla spits on his face, the rage welling up inside her. Kynne roars and pounces, landing on top of her. She lashes out with her knife, grinning in grim satisfaction when she feels the metal sink into his beefy, strangling arm. He gasps in pain but maintains his hold on her throat. She pulls the bloody weapon out and stabs again, this time hitting a muscle. He lets go with a yell of agony, and the knife is wrenched from her grip, still stuck in his shoulder. Kynne swears and yanks the metal out with a nauseating sucking sound. Blood drips from the deep wound. He seems barely effected by the blood loss, like stabbing a bull and expecting it to halt its attack. She had angered the bull.
    Other male Gazers leapt at her, led by Kynne. Twilla kicked and bit and punched, hearing many grunts of pain. Blood spatters the floor, making them slip. One grabbed Twilla's shirt for balance and with a rip her blouse is torn and bloody. She growls in anger. How dare he rip her shirt. Twilla is no longer Twilla, she's a lioness. Snarling, she jumps onto the perpetrator, scratching him with her nails. Blows rain down on her like bullets, but she refuses to stop her attack. Then one lands on her head, rendering her incapable for a few crucial seconds. Kynne dragged her off of her victim and threw her to the floor; he then proceeded to pummel her with all his strength. Twilla let out an unearthly sound; part scream, part wounded wildcat. It rebounded off of the walls and echoed back to them in a piercing tumult, making the glass in the windows shiver. The sound also alerted the teachers to the fight. Staff and hall monitors alike came running. Kynne and the other Gazers were pulled off of Twilla, and she was left coughing and gasping on the floor. The kindly old nurse helped her up and led her to the infirmary.

    *************

    I had three cracked ribs, a broken nose, four broken fingers, a fractured ankle, and innumerable cuts and bruises. These were all easily fixed after a Saver was called in, forcing healing liquids down my throat. And though the physical wounds could be melted away in minutes, I couldn't stop trembling no matter how hard I tried. They had tried to kill me. I had always known that they would beat me, but I just hadn't ever been able to imagine them as killers.
    “Twilla dear, the Committee Head would like to speak to you.” The nurse says after her consultation with the headmaster.
    I get up and walk slowly to the headmaster's office. The office is plain: sterile like the rest of the school; white walls, white desk, white chairs, white carpet. The white is only interrupted by the occasional shine of metal and the comparatively colorful forms of two seated adults. One is the headmaster: brown suit, brown shoes, brown hair, ruddy complexion, hairy hands, frowning face. I liked to think of him as walking dog s**t. The other occupant is a woman: pink power suit, pink shoes, pink lips, bleached blond hair, sharply severe expression. A hostile flamingo.
    The headmaster coughs and asks me to take a seat. The seat, which is placed across from the two already seated, is hard and uncomfortable; the chair of the interrogated.
    “ Twilla, this is Ms. Satchet, head of the Committee for General Welfare and the Relocation of Recalcitrant Citizens.”
    Oh, so now I’m recalcitrant, some insubordinate citizen of their perfect society. I nod in acknowledgement.
    “Twilla, the council has been looking into your case for some time now, observing your interactions between others, generally keeping an eye on you. I know this must come as a surprise, and you may feel this as an invasion of your privacy, but I assure you that we did it only for the good of all.” Ms. Satchet says in a simpering voice.
    “No surprises there Head, your little spies were never very good at hiding themselves. I assure you that they saw only what I wanted them to see. I don't feel invaded.” She stiffens and sniffs in disapproval at my bluntness. The headmaster just looks staggered at the fact that I had actually spoken.
    “Well dear, as I said, we have been keeping an eye on your... unique situation. For the most part we had wont to remain passive, but the scene that took place this afternoon has forced us into action,” she pauses to look at me reprovingly, then continues. “You know dear, that in the fight you injured many students. Kynne, who is the son of a very prominent committee member by the way, had two stab wounds, one very deep. He also suffered broken bones and teeth, not to mention many superficial abrasions. Others suffer from fractures, cuts, bruises, breaks, scrapes and blood loss.” I grin in satisfaction.
    “Young lady, this should not be amusing to you,” huffs the headmaster, turning dangerously red.
    “Indeed it shouldn't be! Twilla Thrushcross, we are going to have to take serious action here, actions that you will not find so amusing!” Ms. Satchet loses her composure for a few moments. I laugh.
    “I figured that you would blame me, I've really just been waiting for you government people to hush up the Freak. Do what you like to me, though if its death I would prefer the option of suicide, saves you the trouble and lets me keeps my dignity. I'm just glad I got the chance to take down a few people with me.” I say this all without fear. The trembles are gone.
    “How dare you!” She screeches. “How dare you speak so calmly of the situation! How dare you speak such blasphemy about the committee!”
    “I dare because I have nothing to lose! What, you think I should be happy that I've had the privilege to live in your precious world? You just don't understand that I don't want to be here, you think this place is so great. Well, it's not great if the people you grew up with suddenly try to kill you because you're a little bit different, and not even different by choice! Just tell me what you plan on doing with me, I'm sick of beating around the stupid bush!” Now I'm the one losing it.
    “Fine. The committee has decided to relocate you to another world. You will be supplied with foster parents until you turn eighteen, and an allowance after that. Correspondence between worlds is discouraged. The world is lovely; though much more archaic then you are used to, we figured it would be best with your violent disposition. Transport will arrive tomorrow, along with a guide. Welcome to your new life Miss Thrushcross, I hope that was plain enough for you. I would like to depart on cordial terms, so I bid you good luck.” She holds out her hand expectantly. I snort in reply and stalk out of the office.
    Yes, it figured that I would be relocated. The new world sounds appealing, and I think I know which one it is. Mediaeval, the old land. Mediaeval is made up of talentless people, with the occasional Gazer, or other talented person mixed in. They used weapons daily, and a hierarchy was the ruling force. It would suit me well. I would miss none here, not even my parents; they had abandoned me when I needed them most. They probably wouldn't even know I was gone.
    By the time I get to my last class the bell has rung and student are clogging the halls. I am very noticeable with my torn and bloodied clothes. I don't want to be noticed. But more noticeable yet is Kynne. His shirt is soaked in blood; his, mine, and others.
    “You'll pay for this Blind Girl!” He shouts, attracting more attention then was already drawn.
    “You bastards got what you deserved, though if you were dead it would be better for the world. Less vermin.” I growl. My silence has ended and I'm going to give it all I've got. Now I'm fierce.
    “ You spoke.” Kynne is struck dumb by my speech. Too dumb to even realize that he was insulted.
    “Yes, you idiot. My lips moved and words came out, that's what we of actual intellect call it. Now move out of my way before I stab you again, pencils work just as well as knives.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I'm sorry, but there is no excuse for your existence, an over fertile parent might help explain the accident, but it would be a pity to open old wounds.”
    I put extra venom in my words. I will cut him here and now, he wants a fight and he will get one. Some in the crowd giggle. They found his disestablishment amusing. Self-righteous carnivores.
    “You find this funny do you? You turn on your own like jackals. Enjoy this little scene children, it will be the last.”
    I push past the bulk that is Kynne and jog to the waiting Transport Vehicle. This time I take a clean seat. No gum, no vomit. No one argues with my new seating arrangement. I laugh darkly, my last day here and they choose to be wary of the Blind Girl. If only I had scared them into fearful acceptance years ago. It could have saved me many bruises.