Starseeds: The Broken-Winged

| 1 | Nightmare

Aqua Lordaire

I didn't know where I am.

I cannot hear anything, touch anything and feel anything to give me an indication of where I could be. All I can see is an incessant baleful, noxious, ominous obscurity. And for some reason, I was scampering, an atypical terror battering my insides. I reduced me rapidity, and all of a sudden, whispers can be heard, as if ghosts decided to come and molest me with a demoralizing viciousness through murmurs and mutters.

I cannot clarify what the anomalous phrases they're whispering, yet the whispers produced this jittery feeling inside me. Not because of the unexpected unruly nippiness, but of the knowledge of not knowing who or where these whispers are coming from. I ignored the theory of ghosts living here – come on, ghosts aren't real – although, as I gaze harder at the darkness entrapping me, I was proven erroneous. The darkness is . . . shifting. Moving. Like shadows. The whispers are coming from the obscurity. From the shadows.

Out of the blue, I see a woman. An old woman. Dressed in grubby, mucky, cleaved rags. She's sprinting. Trying to. Her left leg seems to be injured judging by the fact that she's limping, and there's blood saturating her shredded, rag-like trousers. For a second I couldn't figure out the reason why she's running, until I comprehended that the darkness – the hefty shadows – are chasing her, terrorizing her, mocking her, attempting to latch onto her withered arms.

"Leave me alone!" the elderly woman implored, her voice hoarse from startled tears. "Leave me alone!"

"You called The Malefic for assistance," the shadows snarled atrociously. "This is her assistance."

"I take it back!"

The murkiness ensnared the old woman. She gyrated around, her burgundy, puffy eyes amplifying as the shadows hovered above her. Her crumpled cheeks are blemished with tears. A three-digit number is marked on her forehead.

"I take it back!" she screamed. "I don't want her assistance! Not anymore!"

The darkness guffawed sombrely. "Once you call, she will come. It is the same with him. They will take your most valuable possession. They will make sure you have no salvation."

"It was a mistake!"

"A mistake? It is never a mistake. You called her. She answered. There is no going back. No deals. No pleas and pleases. Nothing."

The woman scanned her surroundings, finding a method to flee. "But she's not here," she said; her expectancy withdrew when she realised she is actually ambushed. "She's imprisoned. She can't escape. She's gone. So she can't hurt . . ."

The old woman's voice trailed off abruptly, her eyes engrossed in front of her.

A pallid arm, smeared with blotches of menacing crimson and chilling burn marks, immerged from the iniquity darkness, and the silhouettes exposed a face. An indistinct one. As if the shadows were given commands not to expose the person's identity.

"Impossible," the elder woman muttered. "Your body was –"

"Come closer," the individual suppressed in the silhouettes rasped.

The woman shook her head, recoiling rearwards, petrified

"Come closer."

"No."

"You called me –"

"I called him."

"He gave me permission to take you. Come closer, my dear, and I will give you anything you want."

"No thanks. You can go and f**k yourself."

The figure chortled, and the ashen hand was towed back into the obscurity.

"Kill her."

The aged woman tensed. The darkness immediately countered to the unknown human being hidden in the gloom. I watched in dismay, shock and revulsion as the dimness crept closer, encircling her, somehow clawing onto her skin. The old female's precarious, tormented screeches broke out, cramming the void as the obscurity gulped her.

I broke into the sprint. I couldn't handle witnessing someone getting tortured. I cannot observe the woman, since the darkness is veiling her. However, when I was so close to her, I scrutinized what the sinister darkness is doing to her. Its' shredding her. Shredding her skin. Chopping her body into pieces. And eating her alive.

I tripped over, and my body banged the ground harshly. My knees and palms scrapping the floor. How is there a floor when there is nothing but darkness enmeshing you? It just didn't make sense.

The blood percolated from the dead woman, pooling around her, skulking to me, tarnishing and dousing my pyjamas and my –

My body plunged to the ground, my head banging the floor with a strident THUD. I groaned at the nasty smack, puffing profoundly at the same time. My heart is thrashing haphazardly in my chest. My body wrenching upwards, sweat leached down the sides of my face and neck, gluing tresses of my hair to my skin. Glimmering rays of the morning star trickled through the velvety curtains of the windows, unhurriedly approaching me.

My fingers massaged my head. I blinked three times, the sleep hastily deserting me, and I registered what I just experienced. A dream. I exhaled sharply; relieved it was just a damn dream. 

And then my relief immediately died when I saw the blood flawed on my palms. My eyes enlarged, gradually voyaging down my chest, witnessing the blood soaking the shirt and shorts of my pyjama set. I looked at my bed sheets. More blood.

The door abruptly banged open, and Kiyoshi Sato and my father, Christian Lordaire, entered.

Dad and Kiyo inspected my room: the picture frame of my mother, father, brother and me that is shattered due to my plummet to the ground, the muddled, drenched bed, and then settled on me.

"Why are you on the floor?" Kiyo asked. Kiyoshi Sato is a nineteen-year-old Japanese man with hooded, dark eyes, sleek, black hair that prolonged to the nape of his neck, and skin as soft as a baby's.

If what I experienced is a dream or not, the dread flooded me either way and eventually reached my eyes. Petite tears glide down my cheeks, my body quivering hideously.

"Aqua?" Dad moved to me, concerned when he saw my tears.

My British father is fairly attractive with prosperous, fair, chaotic chocolate-lava-brown hair; high, faultlessly shaped and angular cheekbones; perfect, chiselled jaw-line obscured with a vague stubble; and gunmetal-blue eyes. My eyes are blue, but a dissimilar shade – light-cerulean. I have my mother's eyes. Ryker has Dad's.

"Why are you –" He paused, observing my bloody hands.

"I . . . I had . . . a dream," I stammered, the panicked tears never ending.

"A dream?" Kiyo echoed, hovering over me behind my father.

I described my dream, stuttering and faltering here and then. When I was done, Dad and Kiyo substituted contemplating glances. They're having their implicit discussion again. They always do. I don't know why I concluded it that way, but whenever they look at each other for a long moment, I couldn't help but conjecture if they're having a mind-link.

"It's just a simple nightmare," Dad said softly, although there was a tentative qualm. "Nothing big."

"Just a simple nightmare?" I repeated. "Nothing big? Dad, I have blood on my hands. Blood that I saw in my dream. How is that 'nothing big'? How is that a 'simple nightmare'?"

"Nightmares can be vivid."

"But not this vivid. Dad, this isn't the first time I've been having these nightmares. I get these nightmares once or twice a year, and every time I do, they're different but more horrendous than the previous one. What the hell is happening to me?"

Subsequent to my previous encounter with a nightmare, I didn't have another one for months. Three or four months, I believe. It gave me optimism that I won't have to undergo them again. Yet, I have to be confirmed otherwise. I have to get traumatised once again.

"Aqua, it's fine. Nightmares are normal – even ones that are more horrific than the normal ones. There's nothing abnormal about you." Dad's lips softly rise into a loving smile. His thumbs brushed my tears away. "There will never be anything abnormal about you."

He replicates that sentence every day. It's one of his methods of expressing his fatherly fondness for me. It's his way of saying that there is no daughter on earth who can be compared to me, that there will be no one who can be more unique than me. The words are heart-warming and they make me feel conceited and proud to be his daughter, though sometimes I have a feeling that his words mean something more extraordinary.

"Well, this is a lovely way to start a special day," Kiyo muttered derisively. He eyed the bloodied bed sheets, and then my soaked pyjamas.

I frowned. "Special day?"

"'It's your birthday, Aqua. Remember?"

I actually forgot it's my birthday. My fourteenth birthday. Another birthday full of gloom, solemn and boredom. Kiyo's right – starting my fourteenth birthday by waking up with blood all over you is definitely a beautiful way to start the day. I wonder what's next – will I injure myself and soak my entire body with blood all over again?

"Happy Birthday to me," I cheered monotonously.

Dad helped me up to my feet. The stench of the blood nauseated me, and I resisted the urge to gag.

"I'll put the sheets to wash," Dad said. "And Happy Birthday, darling." He kissed my sweaty forehead. His nose wrinkled. "Take a shower. You stink."

"Thanks," I muttered.

Dad chuckled, walking out with Kiyo.

I grabbed some clothes from the closet and went inside my bathroom. Peeling off my clothes, the cool air embraced me. I stepped into the shower cubicle. A grateful exhale broke out at the beautiful sensation of hot water refreshing me, cleansing the blood from my skin.

Panoramas of my outlandish nightmare exhibited in my mind. The darkness . . . The whispers . . . The old woman dressed in rags . . . She was running – well, trying to since she was limping – from the darkness . . . The darkness ate her alive . . . Moreover, what does The Malefic mean? I've heard of malefic before – it means 'causing harm or destruction'. However, the darkness described The Malefic as a she. So, who is this Malefic?

Maybe Dad is correct. Maybe the nightmare is just a stupid nightmare after all. I've been watching horror movies recently, so maybe the nightmare was produced from my encounters with the films. Still, the term 'The Malefic' is bothering me. Perhaps it's a name for a fictional character in one of those superhero productions? My brother may know what it means . . .

Ryker isn't living with us anymore. Ever since the disappearance of my beloved mother, Marina, he decided to move away and live with our good Uncle Davis (Dad's brother) in Essex, England. I always wondered why. He never gave a precise reason to create a vast distance between us. I miss him. We may talk to each other on Skype, except it was two years ago when he all of a sudden paused contacting me. Dad said Ryker has some issues in his neighbourhood, or that he's concentrating on preparing himself for his GCSEs.

I'm not living in Boston anymore. I hate Boston, anyway. Especially the police. They didn't, in actuality, do anything to unravel the mystery of Mom's disappearance. Apparently, the whole stabbing case was impractical – they said that it looks as if a ghost stabbed Mom (which is clearly improbable), and that's when they gave up.

Dad, Kiyo and I have been moving around all over the world: from Italy to France, from France to Russia, from Russia to Germany, from Germany to India, from India to Australia, and from Australia to New Zealand. We've been living in New Zealand for over a year, which is a relief because I am really fed up with the incessant roaming-the-world thing. It's exhausting. I don't know why we're like gypsies, moving everywhere. And it really astounds me how he has so many friends in the entire globe that are willing to help him.

I've been attending to school. When I turned eleven, I stopped. Well, technically my father decided to home-school me. Again, I have no idea why. Honestly, I miss going to school. I miss meeting new people and making new friends. This home-school thing is just a downer.

Kiyoshi Sato came into my life last year. His parents are dead, and he had nobody until he met my father who benevolently gifted a room for him to live in. From that day onwards, Kiyo has been living with us ever since. He's like a brother to Dad and me. I'm contented he's living with us since he's always my company. It's better than staying at home all day, doing nothing but reading books and studying. Not that I hate books – I love them. Studying? Obviously, I hate it.

Downstairs, Kiyo watched something on his iPad while enjoying Dad's homemade breakfast. Kiyo grinned at me.

"Got any plans to do today?"

"No," I muttered, sitting next to him. What is there to do? Just like my previous birthdays, it will be drop-dead boring. All I have to keep me productive is reading and watching TV shows – which I don't mind to do, but eventually I will get tired of it.

"That's good," Kiyo says. "Cos we got a plan."

"And that is?"

"The beach."

The knife Dad clutched clattered onto the chopping board, and he firmly swerved around to glower at Kiyoshi. "No," he said brusquely.

My hope died. "Why?" I demanded.

He looked at me. "It's dangerous."

I rolled my eyes. "It's only for today, Dad."

"Exactly," Kiyo said. "Chris, I know you're busy with work, but I can take care of Aqua all day. I am her babysitter after all."

Dad shook his head. "Kiyo, you of all people should know how dangerous this world can be. Especially today. The people . . . they're not good . . . They're murderers, rapists, liars –"

"I can defend her," Kiyo interrupted. "And Aqua is good at self-defence. She knows how to give a bad guy a good, roundhouse punch. She's not your baby girl anymore, Chris. You need to accept that."

Dad remained silent, contemplating about the situation. He's generally protective of me. I suppose all fathers are. He permits me to go outside, though only if he comes along. The last time I visited the outdoors was last week.

"I do accept that," Dad murmured. "I do accept that she's not my baby anymore. I just . . ."

"I'll keep a close eye on her," Kiyo promised.

Dad considered for a minute, and then heaved a sigh. "Fine. Kiyo, If anything happens to her I swear to God I will bloody –"

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

"You can come with us," I suggested. I can sense the uneasiness settled on my father's shoulders, and from the way he never looked at any of us through his considerations I also knew that he is having second thoughts of his consent. I love my father. He gave me everything I ever wanted, and witnessing him being so stressed – which is nearly all the damn time – sorrows me.

"I would love to, darling, but I can't," he countered, rather softly. "I got some work to do."

Dad has all the qualifications he needs to get all the best jobs to produce money. He was a teacher, a scientist, a doctor and an engineer. Now, he's just sitting in his office in the house, typing away relentlessly on the keyboard.

"Oh, OK."

Kiyo stood up. "Okay, then, let's go."He looked at me. "Want to bring anything to the beach?"

"No."

"Then let's go."

My house – a two-storey structure with light-cream walls, royal-blue roofs, a balcony, a vast garage and magnificent front yards speckled with beautiful bushes alongside a marble pathway – may be secreted in a muddle of gigantic trees, although it is not so far away from the town in South Island, New Zealand: Gore.  

Kiyo and I trekked the pathways to the town, and once we reached Gore, I saw a commotion. A horde of Gore citizens were congregating around a tree, muttering back and forth with one another, either aghast or enquiring.

I caught the sleeves of Kiyo's Hawaiian shirt. "Can we check that out?" I pointed to the bunch, my customary inquisitiveness revisiting me.

Kiyo scrutinized the throng of people. "The police are there," he said.

I looked to see that he's right. Amongst the huddle, there are at least two or three authority figures guarding whatever is behind them. That only strengthened my interest. They're trying to gently shove people away from the case, demanding them to move back, and in doing so the sirens of an ambulance upset my eardrums.

I advanced to the scene.

"Aqua." Kiyo tried to pull me back. I shrugged his hands off and jogged to the people.

I rammed through the crowd gently, reaching the front. The ambulance that I heard coming hauled into an abrupt, serious stop.

Behind the three police officers, is another authority figure clutching a blue, large sheet, tugging it over a . . . a body? I perceived the aged face of a woman, then the rags, then the three-digit number marked on her forehead.

The body is shredded.

Chopped.

My hand clamped over my mouth, the panicked tears I had this morning returning to my eyes.

It's the old woman from my nightmare.