Chapter 1 - Invisible

Hariko Suwezawa

Gazing at the school building, I know that I shouldn't tempt fate. There's no way I can back out of school. I hate school.

Living in British Columbia is laborious enough, especially when your humble abode is situated in the mountains. Yes, we suffer the icy winters when you can get frostbite just from having snow dropped on your head. Seriously, it's that cold.

But school is definitely the worst about being here. School is overrated. School is as hell as shit. Because the truly unassuming people could never survive one day without persecution. Which is why I don't fit in anywhere.

I stumble through the doors, averting my eyes to a resting place on the floor as students shove past, greeting friends (none of whom are mine) and fumbling with their lockers. I'm invisible. No, more inferior than that. Worthless. Stopping at my locker and photo (which was shot in the most terrible light possible), I read yet another shaming sign, claiming:

"This whore is an ugly, self-loving slut. If you want to live without disgrace, stay well away from her and the places she hangs out, this shabby locker being one of them."

Great. So they build up as the days roll on. Well, I suppose things could be worse - I'm nearly fourteen, with my birthday being in five days. I wonder what's in store for me...

Almost as immediately as I think this, I am slammed hard into my locker (face-first, of course). Lifting myself cautiously from the metal compartment, I reach into my pocket for a tissue to wipe the vermillion fluid that circles my body from the two outlets which it is dripping from (if you haven't guessed already, I'm bleeding and no one gives a shit). Then my eyes skim up dizzily towards the guilty party. A cheerleader from the fangirling squad, I presume. She doesn't notice the damage as she bounces after Morgan West, one of the most popular boys in Grade 9. He'd never give me a second glance. Ever. Oh, he's acknowledged her beaming smile. Yep, she's a fangirl, alright.

As the bell rings for Lesson 1, Religious Study, I thrust open my now dented locker (bear in mind this year has only just started) and hurl out the books I need for the day. To my surprise, my practise has worked. They all land in neat, perfect order in my black satchel, which is covered in band merch patches and stickers. Huh, I think. That'll probably be my only happiness in the entire day.

Religious Study was fine, to my astonishment. I was even given the chance to prove a point to the class, who (as they would naturally) ignore me. However, the teacher didn't. In fact, he praised me for being eloquent! Ha, I ruminate in my third lesson, P.E. . And they thought I was a low-scorer because they never saw me. Well shame on them. No praise for their sorry asses.

Phys-Ed is one of the few lessons (apart from music) where I can hear my own thoughts properly without grief at school. Whatever I do, I love the air against my body as I move. My true self lies there, and for once no one criticises. Most of it is just kinetic, with everything falling into place when I do well. Immersed in my thoughts, I tumble into a virtuoso backflip on the trampoline without difficulty. Me and Miss Archer can't help but grin at the shocked faces veening at us as I hop off the trampoline to watch the next student.

That's my downfall in the popularity chain. I become viewed as a show-off. Coming out of the girls' changing room, I'm smashed into the wall by Neit, a brutal, burly barbarian of a bully who wouldn't hesitate to thrash anyone that makes the fangirling squad jealous or embarrassed; in particular myself, whom Neit has never liked for prejudicial reasons (I'm a metalhead. No one likes me here). Realising that I've committed the first of the two options which upset the ladies, I cringe; on the contrary, I'm relieved: I know I can stand the beating he'll inflict on me. It's not like I haven't been in this scenario before. On the other hand, the voice that usually comes into form when I'm in my taekwondo lessons forces me to fight. With no way of controlling myself at this point, I let my instinct take charge.

So, I give Neit a hard kick in the chest for all that he is worth.

Smirking at his crumpled form, I turn to saunter away but, quicker than lightning, he is in front of me, shattering my head powerfully against the wall, blurring my vision. Phospenes flash in my eyes. Swaying, I attempt to keep my balance, seeking support in the structures either side of me, certain that nobody would aid me after defending myself against Neit. He left the corridor thirty seconds ago, refusing to take any chances of being caught by a teacher, or any requests from the other girls to own up. Neither that nor escorting me to the nurse's office, which lies on the other side of the building.

Harboring the knowledge that I don't have the ability to gain assistance from anyone else, I drag myself to the nurse's office, prepared for the bucketload of questions that I'll be asked about the wound on my head. Hopefully I'll make a convincing enough excuse to avoid a phone call home.

"You fell over in the corridor? The floors around here are solid and slippery, so I can't say I blame you." Yes, I told a bare-faced lie, if you haven't already got the tab. To be honest, I don't really have much choice. If I spoke too much, words would form in the wrong places. Besides, as I pointed out before, I know this situation all too well.

"Thanks for not questioning me too much about it. It's just that I can't say a lot because it's really painful and kind of awkward."

Phew! I think. Nurse Yates doesn't seem too skeptical about my explanation as to how I obtained the wound. As long as I go home, I should probably be fine. There, my Mom could treat my head. That would lessen the pain, right?

Thanking the nurse for a cold ice pack and some ibuprofen to soothe the raging beast called agony, I trip gracelessly out of Nurse Yates' office, careful to maintain the pressure of the ice pack on my forehead as the ibuprofen takes effect. But I still see stars. Just as I pass the principal's study, my sight fades into obsidian as the ground claws up to my vulnerable body.

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

Cracking my eyes open, I squint at my surroundings as a machine (presumably a heart monitor) beeps monotonously beside where I'm lying. A hospital.

Shit! I'm in a hospital bed?! My wound was that serious? The only answer that resonates in me for that question is the drip feeding crimson into my arm, and my smarting forehead. Ok, that's a yes. But the worst excruciation of all this is that I'm pretty sure that it wasn't a student who found me. It was a teacher.

Next, I note that my Mom is perched on a chair at my bedside, visibly shaking, her jet black hair a shambles.

"Mom?" I shift myself into a sitting position under the sheets, speaking in a bleary voice which almost juxtaposes my own. "I didn't make it home by myself?"

"No," Mom shivers, eyeing me intensely. "Are you ok, sweetie? Apparently you fell over in the corridor. At least, that is what I was told. But that isn't plausible, not with an injury like that! Please don't tell me that you were beaten up again!" My Mom practically goes into a fit, her deep brown eyes wide, raving on in her Japanese vocals, despairing over her multitude of the worst possible thoughts on what happened to me.

I need to stop this! "Mom! Enough already!" I almost yell. She falls silent. "I'm fine, ok? Yeah, sure, I got whacked around a bit for doing better than them and defending myself afterwards. But I had some pills, and the ice pack worked, so I'm alright now. And anyway, I've had worse, haven't I? Quit fretting." Well, that wasn't exactly a lie. Neit had done much worse to me than I dare mention at all. I'm lucky that my family didn't find out that it was him who assaulted me for the one day I came to school wearing band merch.

Mom heaves a massive sigh of relief, like the weight of the problem is completely off of her shoulders. "I hate the fact that you got beaten up, even though you told the truth this time. But you're ok now, and it definitely won't happen again. Just be careful, alright?"

Nodding without hesitation, I reply with a weak smile as a dizzy spell washes over me. "I'll be fine. After all, I'm out at six, right?" At least, I believe the nurses said that. My conciousness then was hanging by a thread - and I was underwater somehow, which holds no logic unless they put me on morphine.

"Yes, Hariko. I'm leaving now, so be wary, my little Suwezawa. And don't inconvenience the staff, ok?"

"I won't."

Suwezawa is my surname. Despite the fact that my father is English, we have a Japanese surname, because my father took my mother's surname when they got married. Clearly, I've seen their wedding certificate enough times because it's wedged right in the way of the TV screen on the mantelpiece. They moved to Canada five years before I was born. However, my dad still manages to talk with a Canadian accent. That makes no sense to me though - my grandparents from his side of the family speak in a purely London dialect. And they live here.

While I'm explaining this, the doctors come over, holding pens and clipboards (some with copies of my incredibly full medical history, I assume) to check my wound's progress. Their response is astounding.

"The wound is healing remarkably fast!" the first one exclaims. Define fast. Is it dangerous? I ponder.

"I've never seen a wound bounce back so rapidly. This is almost inhuman... It's nearly finished..." the second one purrs, watching my wound, a child in awe. Eh?!

"We should send her home early," the last one flashes me a grin which instantly comforts me as soon as it appears. Contemplating my next actions, I check my watch. Quarter past five. Now I can go.

"Thanks for looking after me." I give the doctors a genuine smile, receiving them aplenty from the people who protected me while I recovered.

Shuffling towards a payphone, I suddenly notice that my dad's snowy white Chrysler 300S, Olaf (yes, named after the snowman) is parked conveniently next to the hospital exit. Obviously Dad anticipated me potentially being early. He has a knack for foresight. Speak of the devil. Dad leaps out, worry sweat in his light brown hair, pouring down his face, but I can sense his body is flooded with relief.

"Hariko! You're ok!" He wraps his arms around me. Feeling exhausted, I sag into his warm chest.

"Your mom said that you were hurt! Where is he?! I'll slap him!"

Trying not to laugh, I just about muster "How did you know it was a guy?" Gosh, the things he figures out sometimes...

"Just a guess. How's your head, anyway? The doctors let you out early, so is it safe for me to presume that it got a bit better?"

"It doesn't hurt anymore," I reply truthfully. "I can handle jerks like him anyway. I nearly gave that guy a run for his money." Needless to say that Neit has no sportsmanship whatsoever. That, and I'm stronger than my appearance alludes.

Immediately, Dad grips my shoulders tensely, his hazel eyes serious. "I can't have anybody hurt you like that again, ok? We both understand that you're not invincible, and recently, it's been all too loud and clear that you've been going through a living hell. You're moving schools, where maybe at least you won't get hurt. Or bullied - and don't hide that from me because it's plainly obvious."

Wait. What? "How comes Mom didn't tell me?"

"I don't know," he admits, resigned. "When she found out that you were hurt she couldn't emulate a word until she knew you were ok. But even when she returned, it was like attempting to converse with a brick wall. That's how stressed she was."

That makes total sense. From when I was first born, Mom has always been a complete worry-wart - especially if someone related to her gets hurt (usually me) or vanishes into thin air.

"Well," I wink at Dad. "Let's go and stop her from worrying anymore, eh?"

"Yeah." Dad mutters, his expression strong and determined.

Based on what my Dad noticed, I nodded off as soon as the journey home began. My body was drained from stitching up the wound on my head, and the tension was so immense that my eyes wouldn't heed my command. Mom is glad to see us as we traipse through the front door. Squeezing me and Dad into a hug, she starts chattering away like everything is mundane reality. That is, until I step in.

"So, I'm transferring to a new school?" I enquire casually.

Glaring at Dad, Mom hisses "Elidor! We were meant to tell her together!"

"How could we, Marya? Hariko should at least be let in on what will happen in her life when we make decisions for her."

"I'm right here, you know." I give my rowing parents a steely stare, which causes both of them to abort their argument.

"Yes, you are. We're not going to let you get hurt like that again," Mom pauses, biting her lip as her brow creases in thought. She continues. "But we'll have to wait a while to get you into the school. Your first day is five days after your birthday. They receive plenty of applications, believe me.

"They'll happily accept you. They're one of the best schools in British Columbia."

Ok... "Where exactly am I going?"

Mom smiles gently, although she is surpressing a burst of excitement.

"The Kootenay Mountain Academy of Combat."

Dammit! I shake my head vigorously. Yeah, sure, I take lessons in taekwondo, kendo, kali, archery and darts, but I'm not insane enough to be part of an almost military style school. Although the idea of training in a school of such experience in that field evokes a feeling of strength within me, and it reigns supreme when I respond with "Ok," shining with pride. "Let's give it a try."

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

As I sit calmly in my room, I observe the world shifting through my window; trees dance in the wind without a care in the world as birds constantly attempt yet fail miserably in landing on their branches; whilst a cacophony of sounds echo from the roads and buildings beyond the glass in front of me. Bored out of my mind, I doodle in my sketchbook, where all my emotions are expressed through drawings and text that make me feel less alone.

Just as I ponder over this, something (likely an animal) creates a perch using my window-ledge. A bird? How unusual for it not to topple off. Narrowing its eyes, the olive bird proceeds to peck at the transparent barrier between me and the outside world, in the hope that its effort would shatter it. Shit! I'm not safe here!

This is when I consider calling out for my parents, until something strange occurs.

Without warning, another bird swoops down, attacking the first with intent not to cull. The only way that I could describe the behavior of this bird is...protective? Why? Then, I distinguish the black and white markings that cover the creature's entire body. A magpie. Nearly swooning over my luck, I remember that magpies always watch over me, protecting me from harm.

I recall one day, when I happened to take my lunch outside to eat. The sky was azure blue, with not a cloud in view with the blazing ruler of the sky looming over his kingdom. Just as I was about to enjoy the first serene meal for a month, a gull divebombed me for my sandwich.

At first, I was convinced I was done for. Until a magpie hopped up to the edge of the roof above my table, knocking the gull out cold with a huge pumice stone (which frankly it shouldn't have been able to carry) that I've worn as a keychain ever since. If it hadn't been for that magpie, I wouldn't have eaten for another seven hours. That idea was quite dangerous for me, because I had anemia at the time. Without the food, my iron tablets couldn't work. That bird potentially saved my life.

Recounting this nostalgically, I swivel back to the window, concerned because the magpie is losing the fight with every hit it suffers. Willing it to win, in my head, I beseech it in my head to continue to fight. On the other hand, I can visualise the pain the magpie is burdened with, and the first bird aims its beak at the magpie's throat, ready to launch the killing blow. But I can't let it! I won't! They've done too much for me to just watch!

"NO!" I scream, startling the first bird, without ranging into my parents' earshot. Reaching through the gap where the window floods my room with air, I slam my hand into its beak as the first bird tries to land its kill.

However, when I step back, I realise I've produced the impossible. As I shoved my hand into the bird's beak, I first slammed in a mouthful of fire, too.

Red flames, engulfing the ugly green bird as it flails, shrieking in an unholy tone, attempting to extinguish the incandescence that spreads through it, before cascading to the mercy of the ground. Confuzzled, I focus my attention on my hand, and its just-discovered strength. What the fuck is going on?! Of course, I receive no sane answer from my brain.

Breathing in and out slowly, my eyes revert back to the sky outside. That's when I hear a quiet tap on the windowpane; so light that had I not been anchored in the right direction, I may not have even heard it. Curious, my eyes dart downwards to glimpse the magpie roosted on my neighbour's skylight.

Cheeky sod. "Hey!" I chirp. "The man that owns the skylight you're stood on will kill you." The magpie tilts its head in befuzzlement. You were probably already aware that confusion looks better sideways. "He has a license to shoot birds." That isn't a lie, either. He shot my other neighbour's budgie at point blank range when it escaped. And he wasn't prosecuted.

For a second, the magpie examines the skylight, then looks to me again, deciding not to risk it and settling on the tiles belonging to my house. Then the magpie nods at me, as if to show me gratitude, and it stares at me warmly for a moment, before taking flight once more.