Half-Breed

by Zachary Smith

  Chapter 11

  My eyes focus on the white ceiling above, already it’s light out, I know this as the sun shines brightly through my closed curtains, but I’m in no rush. Instead, I lay on my bed staring up at the little dark spot I’d noticed a few days back. And this is where I’ve remained since meeting Talia three weeks ago and having my life changed, forever. It’s surprising, as the doctors have always said my night terrors occur more when I’m stressed, yet I haven’t had one since. But I have been dreaming, and it’s the same dream, replayed over to me each night, with not even the slightest of changes.

  The dream starts the same as it always does. I awake in the college car park, laying on the ground, alone. Which would make sense as its night time and the sky is dark, not black, but close, with a slight prickly chill in the air. This alone should be enough to put me on edge, make me constantly look over my shoulder, like I did when I walked through the gardens on that night. But I have become detached to all emotions in this dream, cradled within a bubble that repels all fear and worry – not even the deafening silence is enough to tip me into an anxious frenzy. It’s then that I hear the distraught sobs of another, and as I turn to the direction they come from, I find the culprit. It’s a young guy, I’m guessing around my age, who kneels before me, crying hysterically into his palms. “What’s wrong?” I ask him in an uninterested, unfazed voice. But never receive an answer.

  So I take a step closer, muddling my way through the motions for a better look, but still, I cannot place him. He’s short; shorter than Riley, chubby and has wiry hair, coloured a rich syrup. Not once have I ever got close enough to see his face, as he keeps this covered with his hands at all times. So I call to him a second time and that’s normally when he composes himself, enough to speak at least. His voice is quiet, matching our surroundings and he nervously twitches as he tries desperately to keep his face covered. “I’m so sorry.” He says. “I just want it to stop.” Before he returns to sobbing uncontrollably, worse than before. This is when I need to speak louder, purely so anything I say can be heard, and I ask him what he wants to stop. To which he answers. “The evil.” Before blinding me with the shining whites of his eyes.

  Then, I wake, normally to the morning sun, which is unusual as it means I’ve slept the whole night throughout with no trouble. Even so, I still can’t shake the feeling it means something. Why else would it be the same every time?

  Sounding like a mini chainsaw revving, my mobile vibrates across the computer desk in a bid to grab my attention. So I walk to it, the only place I have walked to recently – bar the bathroom and kitchen. Having chosen to stay confined within the four walls of my bedroom, festering away in my sweatpants and t-shirt, for the safety of the public, as I’ve seen the consequences of this power of mine and the destruction it can cause.

  Turning my attention to my computer, I search the word Daemon, and to no surprise, it gives me many returns – mainly old tales. They speak of various Daemons with various powers, but all have one message in common. Daemons are evil creatures, masters of deceit that pray on the weak and innocent. This is half my heritage, my unwanted birthright and something I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life.

  My mobile vibrates again and Riley’s name flashes up on the screen. He really won’t give up today, this has to be the ninth or tenth call in the last hour alone. Over the past few weeks he’s normally given up after the sixth or seventh attempt, but not today – he must really be determined to speak with me. It’s not my intention to ignore him, after the day my power manifested I couldn’t bring myself to go to college, knowing what I am and what I could do. The first few days I didn’t even get out of bed, and my mum and tutors I was sick. Riley was fine with that excuse, in the beginning, sending only a single text message telling me to suck it up and get back to college, as he’s bored lunching alone. But as the days turned to weeks he began to call, once or twice at first, slowly increasing until today, three weeks since that fateful day and he just won’t quit. In all honestly, it would be nice to speak to him, or with anyone for that matter, other than myself or the computer screen. But I’ve left it too long now, and he’d have so many questions, to which I won’t be able to think up enough lies for, especially when put on the spot as he’ll most definitely grill me.

  It’s been the complete opposite for Matthew, as per usual. When I got back that night three weeks ago, he was in his bedroom so I decided to leave him alone, give him some space and time to digest what was happening to us. But the next day was no better, he’d left the house before I woke up, telling mum he was going to the gym and then to Patrick’s house after college, so he’d be back late. And it’s been like that since. Although there has been the odd occasion where I’ve caught him coming home, walking out of my bedroom just as he’s passing, forcing him to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t look my way. Instead, he’ll mumble hi or ask me how I am as he continues to walk, not even waiting or listening for an answer. Of course, I haven’t confronted him about it, which would give me the answer as to why he’s ignoring me and pretending I don’t exist. Which I already know. He fears me, and rightly so if I’m to believe these tales I’ve been reading.

  A quick surge of anger boils up inside of me. Of the billions of people on this Earth, why did it have to be me? Why do I have to be the unlucky one, cursed with this affliction? Out of frustration, I slam my fist down onto the desk, causing a shockwave to shoot from my stomach which ignites my hands into flames. In a panic, I push myself away from the desk, the dangers of fire taught to me as a child still prominent in my mind and tilt the chair back until I slam onto the floor, knocking the wind from my lungs. This has happened to me a few times now, whenever I feel anger or annoyance, my emotions become uncontrollable and take over, revealing themselves in an enraged blaze. Each time it’s no less frightening, even with the warning of an unnatural pain from the build-up of power that eventually runs through my veins; like lava, it boils me from the inside and brings a tear to my eye.

  Although I have been able to work out that once I can occupy my mind with thoughts other than anger – like pain – the flames disperse. A technique I am going to have to master if I ever want to leave my bedroom again, without fear of losing my cool and wiping out the entire town.

  The email chime plays as I return to my computer, it’s Riley. He’s given up texting and calling, now he’s started to email me. I don’t bother reading it, instead, I retire to my bed with one of my old comic books I have already read countless times.

  This is where my mum finds me, my face covered by the comic book and duvet wrapped around my legs. I must’ve fallen asleep, but surely I can’t have slept the whole day away?

  “How are you feeling?” she asks, peering through her glasses, complete with a business suit.

  I fake a cough, a little too loud and forced, but convincing enough – I’ve had a lot of practice these past few weeks. “I’m ok,” I reply in a low voice, giving the impression I’m bunged up. “I just wish I could shift this cold.” I cough again, to top it off.

  She purses her lips. “Maybe I should book you an appointment with the doctors–”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. I think I’m over the worst of it now.” I interrupt, knowing I’m busted.

  “And college?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’ll be going back tomorrow,” I confirm, my voice already sounding a lot better. “I’ve already called my tutors to inform them.” A complete lie. Now I just have to hope she doesn’t follow it up and call them to check/catch me out.

  “That’s good,” she says with a smirk. “The fresh air and normality will do you good.” Then, she scans my room, searching for something as she sniffs the air. “Have you… burnt something?”

  My eyes immediately shoot to the desk, and the small black mark I’d left behind. “No.” I flatly reply. “You’re home early?”

  There has always been one sure way to distract mum, something Matthew and I have always done sin
ce we were children, and that is to ask her about work. She then spends the next ten minutes telling me about the new project she’s been working on, using all her fancy jargon words, so I have no idea what she means. Something about a migration, that includes systems and spreadsheets. In other words, something that’s incredibly boring. Then after her mammoth speech, she goes downstairs to make us both lunch, the reason why she’s home. That, and to check up on me – probably to catch me out.

  My mobile vibrates again, but I don’t even contemplate looking at it, I already know who it is and I have far bigger problems to deal with, like returning to college tomorrow. The thought already sending me into a spiral of anxiety, I don’t even think I’m capable of taking a step out the front door, it’s been that long. I take a quick breath. Calm yourself Mitchell. I can stay away from people, no canteen at lunchtime, sit at the back of classes and leave early if I really have to. Riley will understand, I’ll just say I’m really contagious.

  Bing! Goes the email chime, again. Followed by my mobile dancing across the desk. I would have thought by now he’d have gotten the picture, what’s so important that he needs to contact me this badly.

  I give in, merely to avoid another disaster by becoming further irate by the incessant sounds. Favouring the emails first, I open it in the hope I might be able to send a vague reply or get some idea as to what he wants, potentially helping me steer the conversation my way should I have to call him. I was wrong, his message is short and to the point, it reads. Please call me, it’s urgent. But before I have a chance, his name flashes up on my screen again, and I hesitantly answer, leaving my finger over the disconnect button, just in case.

  “Mitch!? Mitch! Are you there?” he asks, sounding panicked.

  Words fail to form. Hearing his voice – a different voice – reconnects me with the outside world, a place I now fear. Already I’m thinking of hanging up, but he speaks again. “Mitch, you have to get to college. Now!”

  “Tomorrow,” I assure him. “I’ll be back in tomorrow, you only have one more day to go.”

  “No, it’s not that,” – he pauses – “It’s Matthew. Something’s wrong with Matthew!”