Calamities of the Heart

Things weren't always like this. There was once a time when Hanalyn Kale was the center of attention, the ‘it’ girl. She was nice but could be a bitch, she was smart but knew when to be a rebel, she was sensitive but strong, she was everything that people loved and maybe even more—the recipe for perfection. But most of all, she was real. Not an ounce of fakeness was needed to make her the girl that every other one wanted to be, and every guy wanted to have. Things changed though. On the day of her thirteenth birthday, her worst nightmare showed up. Everyone thought it would just like any other visit—a short one. But it wasn't. It was permanent. And that's when she stopped being the 'it' girl. She stopped being the kind of person people wanted to be around. She did almost everything possible to make people want to stay away.

So here she was, holding her breath as she tiptoed down the stairs, being especially careful not to do something stupid, like trip over her own feet. This was the usual morning routine: try to get out of the house unnoticed. It has been exactly four years and nine months. She gasped sharply as a pair of vibrant yet dull green eyes stared back at her, mirroring her shocked motions. Her long layered black hair was messy and disoriented, sticking up in all different places and covering parts of her face. Under her emerald green eyes were dark circles, probably out of stress of lack of sleep. Her three-sizes-too-big fading black sweater hung loosely over her shoulders, partially covering her stained red shirt, hanging all the way down to the knees of her torn up jeans and her hands hidden deep within the sleeves. The girl who stood before Hanalyn was a complete mess.

Then Hanalyn laughed silently to herself.

That girl with the torn up clothes and messed up hair was her.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe that this was whom she chose to be—who she is. Sighing much too quiet for even the keenest ears to hear, she grabbed her ragged red and black checkered backpack and slipped on her only pair of black Converse and slipped out the door, being careful not to step on her torn up lime green and hot pink shoelaces. She looked around cautiously, double and triple checking for her probably drunken mother and him. Him being that one little messed up blimp in Hanalyn’s should-be perfect life—her stepfather. That is, if you can even call him that. The sadistic and violent man was the reason for her sudden personality change and isolation from the rest of the world, because, you see, for him, making only Hanalyn’s life miserable and painful in the walls of the house just doesn’t seem to be enough.

Not daring to take a moment to relax, Hanalyn made a run for the small alleyway right in between her next door neighbor’s house and a tall fence lined with big rectangular bushes that only a girl as thin as her could possibly fit in. It was her shortcut to school—and the only thing that assured she wouldn’t be beaten that morning. She gave a small, relieved sigh as she saw the path widening and the fence turning into a short gravel wall. Pushing herself up to her tiptoes and reaching for the top of the wall, she pulled herself up and jumped over, finding herself only a few feet from the bustling and obnoxious crowd of “fellow” teenagers.

A few glares were shot in her direction as she walked silently to the doors.

Hanalyn guessed that this was the result for her sudden change. Putting on the old, over-used cliché blank face, she weaved her way through the crowd, ignoring the daggers being pointed at her back.

Hanalyn was startled out of her dazed state when a yard stick suddenly slapped against her desk.

“Stay attentive, Ms. Turner.” The teacher, Mr. Watson sneered. She cringed at the sound of her stepfathers name associated with hers. Glaring fiercely at the teacher, she grabbed her purple notebook and flipped to the second to the last page, where her full name—her real name—doodled carefully in multi-colors—Hanalyn Annabelle Kale.

You see, one very important thing you need to know about Hanalyn is that she hates that name—Timothy David Turner. She absolutely loathes it—almost as much as she loathes the person himself.

Mr. Watson frowned. He, for one, absolutely loves Hanalyn’s stepfather. Probably only because of the fact that Timothy happens to be rich. Very rich.

But Mr. Watson knows nothing about how he really gets that money, and how he really treats everyone, and what he really thinks about him. But another very important thing that you should know about Hanalyn is that she has never been able to turn her stepfather in. Because, you see, asking her to turn him in is like telling a little kid to read Pride and Prejudice—not impossible, but definitely not easy. The hardest part, though, is the fact that she will never know why.

Mr. Watson opened his mouth to retort, but was thankfully interrupted by a rhythmic knock at the door. Every eye suddenly turned towards it, almost like a machine—all working perfectly fine, besides the little glitch that kept her head down as she packed up her notebook, Hanalyn.

Nearly every girl’s jaw dropped as the door slid open.

“Holy.”

“Fucking.”

“Shit.”

The bitchy trio who sat just a few desks over from Hanalyn said in that weird, creepy twin I-know-what-you’re-about-to-say way.

“Can you spell hot-tie?” Amber chimed, smirking at Alyssa.

“Can you spell not yours?” Ashley butted in, pushing the two in the background as footsteps to whom Hanalyn assumed belonged to this new kid approached. “I believe that since I’m the group leader here, I should call dibs on this guy.”

“But you already have a boy--” Alyssa was about to complain, but was interrupted by a hard smack in the arm from Ashley.

“Shut up! He’s right there, you idiot.” Ashley batted her eyelashes and waved ‘seductively’ at the new dude.

Hanalyn slid back in her seat, burying her head in a book. For her, this was just another annoyance—another transfer student who wanted to talk to her, which was definitely not on her agenda.

You see, probably one of the most important things you need to know about Hanalyn Kale is that she doesn’t talk. Because, you see, Hanalyn Kale is very determined to keep people away. Because, you see, these walls weren’t made to protect her—they were to protect everyone, although almost none of them deserved it. Because, you see, her being… well, Hanalyn Kale, it just doesn’t matter. And her being Hanalyn Kale, she will not talk. And she hasn’t made a sound—not a scream, not a whisper—for exactly four years and nine months.