Starseeds: The Broken-Winged

| 2 | Phanumdi

Aqua Lordaire

The nightmare I had earlier was unquestionably not a simple nightmare. It's definitely not common in the human population. I'm absolutely sure of that.

I staggered backwards, petrified, horrified and flabbergasted. The paramedics that rushed out of the ambulance assembled around the chopped victim, concealing the severed body with theirs and commanding people to move back.

The startled tears soothingly cataract down my cheeks. My hammering heart never calmed down, only increasing its' swift palpitates second by second.

A hand touch my right shoulder. I didn't need to turn around. I already know it's Kiyoshi.

"Aqua?" He slowly twirls me around. His thumbs brushed away the tears. Concern crammed his dark, hooded eyes. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Usually, I feel humiliated to cry in public. But, in this situation, how could I not? I literally had a brutal, vicious nightmare. And that nightmare came true. The signs are evident: the three-digit number, the chopped, severed pieces of the old woman's body, the old rags . . .

"It's th-the woman," I cried, the tears skulking into my mouth. "The o-old woman . . . from m-my nightmare."

He immediately understood me, despite my stammering. Through the probing crowd, he caught a glimpse of the severed old woman. He observed the three-digit number, the blood, the rags, but he mostly focused on the three-digit number.

"Five . . . seven . . . eight," he murmured. "Five-hundred-and-seventy-eight years . . ."

His eyes then scanned our surroundings, his arms suddenly circling around me protectively. He tugged me to him, burying my face into his neck, concealing me with his hands. What is he doing?

"Maybe we shouldn't have left the house," he said regretfully. "We should go back –"

"No!" I jerked my head back from the crook of his neck, glaring at him. "I don't want to go home. It's fine. I'm fine." I wiped my cheeks and my soaking eyes furiously. "It's just a stupid nightmare. A stupid dream. If this is how my life will be like – devilish and insane – then I can adjust to it. It's fine. I'm fine. Let's go to the beach."

"I don't think that's a good –"

"Please? For a few minutes? Like twenty or thirty? Then we can go back."

He thought about it. Then, he heaved a sigh, a sigh that's shaky from fear. But fear from what? Fear from more glimpses of more chopped victims?

"Fine. For fifteen minutes. Let me just call your father." He drew out his mobile and dialled my father's number. For at least forty seconds, Kiyo ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket. "He's not available. Come on – beach."

Gore Bay is undeniably stupendous. Tiny hills rippled the surface of the land. Tresses of the dark-green grass rustled backwards as the fresh, regular, salty breeze ghosted past. The sand beneath me is soft and mushy, tarnishing my bare feet. Seagulls flapped above, jamming the atmosphere with infuriating squawks. The calm ocean sprints towards me, as if I'm a magnet. As if I'm some type of creature that can trigger unpredictable and powerful serenity.

The beach is not packed with that many people. Only a few families are here with their pets, laughing, giggling, running around and squealing with elation. There's a small food court up ahead, and people assembled in it with their beloved ones.

Kiyoshi is still trying to contact my father. Dad hasn't answered any of his calls, and worry creased Kiyo's face. He heaved a sigh, submerging his phone into his pocket. "Fifteen minutes, OK?" he reminded me.

"Yeah. OK. I'm just going to go for a swim."

"Alright, just don't go too far for me not to see you!" he yelled as I furthered away from him.

There are cliffs and hills encircling the beach, enhancing the horizon. I promenaded towards a small hill, its' cliff stretching over the shimmering surface of the Gore Bay sea. The sand is smooth, and imprinted my footsteps as I climbed the small hill. I reached the top, and I noticed a small horde of young people. They all seem to be the same age as me, if not older. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

They all looked at me, and stared for a moment. Their stares immediately let me know that they're wondering why I'm invading their personal space. Well, this is really a public area, so if I'm intruding anything, they should either locate themselves somewhere else or ignore me and let me to enjoy a good set of fifteen minutes.

A guy stepped out from inside the circle of his friends. He's pretty good-looking: has the typical, classic Australian blonde hair, tanned skin and sparkly blue eyes.

"Hey," he greeted with his thick Australian accent. It's not really rare to see Australians in Gore, New Zealand.

"Um, hi."

"You okay? Lost?" he asked.

"Uh, no. I just came here for a dive." I always climb this cliff to perform a magical dive into the sea. It's refreshing, and triggers exhilaration in my body.

"Do I know you?" he suddenly enquired.

Before I could respond, a girl barked, "She's that home-schooled kid." The girl who spoke advanced to us. She's really pretty, with honey-blonde hair and brown eyes, gorgeous tanned skin. She's dressed in a skinny bikini set that exposed way too much to captivate the guy's attention. "You know," she said, "that freak girl whose mother disappeared."

My frown deepened. How does she know about that

The girl noticed my frown because she said, "Word travels fast, hun. Your mom's death was global news for a while."

She's not wrong. Mom's disappearance was viral only for a week, and then the news paused chatting about the case.

"She's not dead," I said, trying not to sound snappy but failed. It's only been a minute with this girl, and she's already getting on my nerves with her revolting words. How dare she say that in front of everyone? How dare she say that to me? I wanted to slap her, to rip that smug smirk off her face – literally – but I considered better of it, and decided to be wise and maintain my fury. It's not usual for me to get furious, but if you insult my mother or anyone I love, then I'll do things far worse than yanking your hair out of your skull.

She arched her eyebrow. "There was no update on the case for seven years, and she was never bothered to say "Hey, I'm here!". I'm sure she's dead, love."

"There wasn't an update because my father wants to keep the case private," I said through gritted teeth. "And why would you care, anyway? It's not your damn business."

The girl's smirk widened. "Aw, are you hurt? All because of words?"

"No. I'm not," I lied, hoping I sounded definite than I attempted to be. "Why, you think you can bring me down with words?"

"I never said that."

"You implied it. Sort of." From the way she's behaving, I know without any doubt that she just wants to pick on someone randomly and just tease, tease, tease. "Anyway, I'm sorry for interrupting you and your hangout. I just came here for a dive. I'll go somewhere else. Have a nice day. Bye."

I sauntered away, the distance between them and me increasing rapidly. Soon enough, I was alone. The beach's breeze graciously rammed past me, caressing my skin, and tresses of my coiled, dark-brunette hair sashayed backwards. I moved closer to the edge of the hill, and stared down at the sea. The surface mirrored me, with tiny waves spiralling over it.

I see a girl with dark-brunette helix hair, light-tanned skin and light-cerulean-blue eyes with vague dark-bags hanging beneath. Her shirt is crumpled, and her shorts are worn-out. She looked hopeless and vulnerable. Yet determined and wishing.

I look so much like my mother. Whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I see Mom in me. And when I do, it hurts.

I miss Mom.

So damn much.

I wonder where she is right now. It's been seven years since her disappearance, and still there was no sign of her. Maybe it's because the police gave up on the case. They said that it's too improbable and complicating. As if a ghost actually stabbed Mom and stole her. If they could put more effort into the case, if they could try at least harder, then it won't be improbable and complicating for them to solve the dilemma. If they found Mom sooner, then I won't have to continuously suffer from stress and depression.

The beach is the common place I go to soothe myself. It's enchanting. It really is. Around dusk or dawn, the sky will be streaked with radiant, overwhelming colours with silhouettes of birds soaring, and the sea will yawn out its' benevolent waves. The beach gets ten times more beautiful around night – the moon will reflect itself on the sea, and glitter the surface as tiny waves will roll up and smash back into the water. It's enchanting. Magical.

I jumped off the edge, and my body angled downwards. I plunged into the sea, and immediately, my clothes are saturated. Wisps of my drenched hair elevated around me like a bubble, and the chilly sea embraced me.

Throngs of fishes scampered away, petrified at my sudden entrance. When they realised it's only me, I somehow can feel them calming down, and they resumed their every-day swim. Some even approached me and stroked me with their scaly skins. The fish acted as if they know. As if they like me . . . As if they have respect for me. I don't know if that's a good thing, a bad thing, a weird thing, or possibly all three.

And that's when I saw them.

Tiny creatures swam into my perception. They had delicate, pearl-flawless, smooth skin and shells were attached to their fluorescent, scaly fish tails. Their ears were pointed. Their eyes shifted into a million startling shades of different blues. They had large, dragonfly-wings that fluttered as they swam. Their hair was fine, long and snow-white. They're odd-looking for a fish. At least, that's what I think they are. Fishes.

They gazed at me as if I'm the odd-like being in the sea. Their shimmering, colour-altering eyes then glanced at their neighbouring partners, seeming to exchange a few dialogues. I can tell by the way they opened their mouths and closed them.

Their attention diverted to somewhere else, and for some reason I followed their gazes. There, submerged in the sandy sea floor, was something shiny that captivated my attention.

I took long strokes downwards. My feet touched the sea floor, pressing into it, feeling the mucky sand. My fingers curled around the object, tugging it out, the sand flowing everywhere as I do so. 

It's a weapon. A knife . . . No, wait. It's not a knife. It's too big to be a knife. It's more of a dagger.

The hilt was transparent and crystal-gold, hard yet smooth, with hollowed, artistic designs. At the end of the pommel, is a mark.

A mark I'm very familiar with.

My father has it on the back of his neck.

My mother has it on her right ankle.

My brother has it on his back.

I have it on my right arm.

It's a seven-pointed-star mark.

Dad said that the seven-pointed-star marks we have are merely our birthmarks. Though, it's too mystical to be a birthmark. Birthmarks are irregular circles. Not stars.

The stainless-steel blade is sharp and curved, with a text written in a foreign language.

"Pha-num-di," I pronounced. I should not know what it means, since it's a foreign language, yet the English translation of the word popped into my mind.

It means diaphanous. And diaphanous means "translucent, delicate and bright".

I've seen this dagger before. I've seen it on the beach, buried in the golden sand, or sometimes I've seen it floating on the surface of the perfect blue Gore Bay sea. At first, I thought it was just a toy, lost and forgotten, so I left it alone and continued with my boring life. However, when the dagger appeared in my dreams, that's when my curiosity triggered. That's when I was desperate to discover more information about the dagger. And today is the first time I get to actually feel the dagger – feel its' beautiful curves, its' sharp blade . . .

Suddenly, the seven-pointed-star on the end of the pommel blazed, and eventually the entire dagger glowed incredibly. A celestial white aura outlined the weapon. The odd-like fish dropped their jaws at the unexpected radiance, flabbergasted, amazed and perplexed just like me. I gasped when I felt something odd surging into me . . . Something sizzling, ticklish and uncomfortable yet pleasuring . . . it's crawling into my veins, into my systems, and just devouring my entire body with this sensation –

"Aqua!"

I glanced up. Kiyoshi can be seen, and he seems to be looking for me. I looked back at the dagger, which is still glowing, and my arms are now quivering from the extraordinary sensations. I averted my eyes to the fishes. Gone. They were all gone. All the fishes are gone.

I let go of the dagger, and it gracefully fell back to its' original spot. I swam upwards, shattering through the surface.

"You OK?" Kiyo asked.

"Yeah." Droplets of water cascaded down my body. "Fifteen minutes up already?"

He nodded. "We better get back before your dad gets worried."

I sighed. Whenever I'm enjoying myself, time always flies fast. I wished I could stay here longer for another ten minutes.

"Kiyo," I said when I met him at the top of the hill, "what language is the word Phanumdi from? Spanish? French?"

"Phanumdi?" he echoed, frowning. "It's not from Spanish. Or French. It's from . . . Latin."

"Oh, OK. What does it mean?" I already knew what it meant, but I want to hear Kiyo's answer. Kiyo can speak more than ten different languages.

"It has two definitions: it either means diaphanous, which means 'translucent, delicate and bright'," he replied, "or, it means 'celestial strength of the chosen'."

You might think that the living room of my house is fancy, but in New Zealand, our living room is nothing compared to other styles and themes. It has a clean, brown-wooden floor with white-royal, tall walls; one wall has a platform with a lantern, a fireplace and a large twenty-inch flat TV screen; a large, hefty, flurry gold-peach sofa on top of a white-gold carpet; a wide ceiling freckled with small, spherical lights, and immense doors that's wide open, guiding to the tiny garden.

  Dad is sitting on the sofa. He paused whatever movie he was watching and faced us. "Hey, darling. How was the beach?"

"Meh," I said. "It was alright."

He arched his eyebrows. "Just alright? What happened with the swim?"

"I had a swim. Obviously," I muttered. "And I had a talk with a girl."

"A talk?" he repeated. "Fill me in."

I told him everything – the conversation with the girl, about how rude she was about Mom. I didn't say anything about the dagger. Dad will think I'm crazy and just scold at me, commanding me to stop being ridiculous. I'll keep quiet about it. Now I know where the dagger is, maybe I can go back there tomorrow and have another look at it.

"Phanumdi?" Dad echoed. Kiyo told Dad about our two-minute talk after my swim. A frown crept onto Dad's face. "Why did you ask him that?"

"Someone said it on the beach and it was stuck with me ever since. I got curious about what it meant, so I asked Kiyo." I'm horrible at lies. I sweat slightly whenever I attempt to lie, and I stutter sometimes. Luckily, I didn't stutter. I hoped my lie was convincing enough.

Dad narrowed his gunmetal-blue eyes at me. He has a talent detecting lies. That's why it's very difficult for me to be dishonest around him.

I went to my room to change. It was clean. I presumed Dad tidied the mess whilst I was gone.

I went into the bathroom. My clothes are sticky now, clawing onto my skin. Some parts are itchy. I peeled off my clothes, chucking them on the white-tiled floor, and took a quick shower. After that, I dried myself with a towel and hunted for the hairdryer, which was on top of the cabinet.

I took out the hairdryer, plugged it in and flipped the switch. Humming a song to myself, my eyes roamed the bathroom randomly as I dried my drenched hair. My wandering paused on the sink.

I gasped. The hairdryer escaped my grasp, plummeting it the floor. It hit my foot, and I yelped painfully.

"Ow," I moaned, hopping on one foot as I massaged the other one, relieving the pain. "Ow, ow ooww."

"Aqua?" Dad shouted from downstairs. "Are you okay? I heard a noise! What happened?"

"I'm fine. Just dropped the hairdryer on my foot."

I heard Dad chortle. "Be careful, sweetheart."

"Aren't I always?" I muttered sarcastically.

My eyes settled on the dagger sitting on the polished sink. Its sharp blade sinisterly glimmered beautifully.

What the hell? How did it get in here? I never brought it with me. How the hell did it get in here?

What the actual hell is going on? First the nightmare, then the murdered old woman, and now this? Please, God, tell me this is just another dream.

I picked it up. What should I do with it now? Keep it? Show it to Dad?

Throw it?

No, a voice whispered.

I screamed. I screamed so loud that I staggered backwards. The dagger fell out of my grip and clattered onto the floor.

Don't throw it, Aqua. Keep it.

"W-who's there?" I stammered. Frightened exhales ruptured out of me. I spun around, searching for the source of the voice.

Don't be scared.

"Don't be scared?" I echoed, stretching the last word.

I'm merely a friend, Aqua.

"Who are you?!" I shouted. Why am I speaking to it? Shouldn't I be running away like a madwoman just like the protagonists do in movies and novels?

A friend.

"Be specific, please."

Don't throw Diaphanous away, the voice hummed, ignoring my response. Keep it.

I realised the voice is referring to the dagger. "Why?" I demanded. "Is there something special about it?"

Yes.

"What's so special about it?"

The voice remained muted.

Why did it go quiet now?

My attention rested on the shimmering dagger. It looked sinister, ominous, dangerous. I decided I didn't want it. I didn't care what the voice said. In fact, I probably never heard the voice – perhaps it's just my mind messing with me. I'm becoming crazy. Jesus Christ, I need help.

I grabbed the dagger and hastily walked out of the bathroom. I pushed the window open. Momentarily looking at the dagger, I contemplated if this was worth it. It is. That voice is just a hallucination. Nothing dangerous. Nothing big.

I used all my strength to hurl the dagger far away as possible, wrenching the windows closed afterwards.

I'm going crazy. Jesus Christ, I need help. Should I tell Dad? But will he just roll his eyes and shrug it off? Because that's what parents will most likely do if they hear that they're daughter is hearing a voice in her head.

I turned around, my hands on my knees. I inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. Each of them profound in order to soothe me.

I decided to have a small nap. It will calm me down.

I walked to the bed and crawled on the covers. I hesitated when I felt something prickly and hard beneath the sheets. Trepidation pinched me as I yanked the entire sheets off the mattress. I gasped.

It's here.

The dagger is here.

What the hell . . .

Aqua, calm down.

I yelped, jumping off the bed, gasping anxiously.

Calm. Down.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" I snapped. Why am I replying? Do I even know the voice is real? "How can I calm down when there's a creepy voice speaking to me?! I'm going crazy!"

You are not going crazy. Calm down.

"Who are you?" I shouted.

A friend.

"What type of friend scares their friends?"

A friend.

"Ugh!" I grabbed locks of my hair and tugged on them, squatting to me knees.

Calm down.

"What the hell do you want?"

I want you to calm down. So please, calm down. I promise I won't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I'm only here for you to help.

"Why would I need your help?"

Because everything is about to change.

"Change?"

Aqua, you have heard my voice before.

Bewilderment filled me. "I have?"

Yes. You have. You heard my voice when you're stuck in bothering situations. You heard me in your dreams. In fact, you saw me in your dreams, but I was merely a hazy image.

You need to trust me, Aqua. If you want to live, trust me. If you want to do good, trust me. If you want to succeed, trust me.

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about," I said. Somehow, the voice is expiring my anxiety, substituting it with relaxation. "What are you doing to me?"

I'm calming you down since you're not listening to me.

"You . . . what? How are you doing that?"

You are connected to me, which gives me the ability to help you even when you don't obey me.

"Connected to you? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

It's a good thing. Since we're connected, I know your thoughts, your feelings. I know your memories. I know how your body works and I –

"Whoa, what? You know how my body works? Oh, my God, you're a pervert!"

What? No! I'm not a pervert. What makes you think that?

"You said you know how my body works! Do you look inside it or . . .?"

No. I just know. It's a thing of this link.

"Man, that's creepy. How do I not know you're a paedophile?"

What makes you think I'm a man?

"You just sound like a man."

OK. Then what makes you think I'm a human?

I tensed. The voice got a point. "Are you a monster?"

Is that an insult?

"Well, if you are, then it's not really an insult. It's only an observation. But you can take it as an insult if you want to."

The voice chuckled. I'm not a monster. But I'm not a human, too.

"Then how am I supposed to trust you?"

Even if you don't trust me, I'll still be there for you. I will be with you at all times. I promised Him.

"Promised who?"

You won't believe if I tell you –

The door opened.

"Hey, Aqua." Dad smiled lovingly at me. "Come to the garden. We're going to . . ." His voice trailed off when he noticed the dagger.

I was so engrossed in the conversation with that voice thingy, that I completed forgot about the dagger.

Dad's eyebrows scrunched together in perplexity. "Where –" He took three, long strides forward and picked up the dagger "– did you get this?"

I struggled to answer.

Tell him, the masculine voice whispered. Tell him the truth. He will help you.

But how? Dad will just think I'm crazy and send me to therapy classes.

He won't. Aqua, he will understand. Trust me.

Did the voice just read my mind?

Yes. I read your mind. We're connected after all.

Does that mean I can read the voice's mind? Wait, does the voice even have one?

I have a mind. You can't read it.

That's unfair.

Tell your father the truth, Aqua. Tell him.

"Aqua, where did you get this?" Dad demanded coldly. His grip around the hilt furiously compressed, his knuckles turning pale.

"I found it underwater," I replied.

"And you took it with you?" he barked.

I flinched. "I-I didn't . . ."

"What do you mean you didn't?" he snapped. "Did it just magically appear in your room?"

Why is he getting angry? I never did anything wrong!

"It actually did," I whispered.

He tensed at my response. Then, he gritted his teeth. He yelled outrageously and threw the dagger across the room. It hit the wood of my wardrobe, quivering.

I yelped at his aggravation, cowering backwards. Never have I ever seen him this furious in my entire life.

He inhaled unfathomable breaths. Closing his eyes, he raked his fingers through his brown hair, sighing sharply.

He looked at me. His eyes softened, and the anger resided immediately when he comprehended my worried expression. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to yell."

"Why did you yell?"

"I . . ." He stared at me. Seconds later, his eyes shimmered. It took me less than a minute to realise he's welling up.

"Dad?" I said as a tear oozed from the corner of his left eye.

He hastily wiped it away, grumbling profanities under his breath heatedly. "Come downstairs," he said sternly. "We're going to train."

With that, he turned around and left the bedroom, slamming the door shut.

What the hell just happened?