Dark Storms, Volume One: Edge of the Knife

Between the ages of four and sixteen, in the United Kingdom anyway, a child will attend school. It is compulsory, though who knows how many of them actually learn anything. Still, some will go onto Sixth Form, University, good jobs and good careers (or bypass one or both of these and still attain a good life), and those must learn so much. In those twelve years, a lot of information is pumped into the brain, some of it retained and remembered for a lifetime, some slips out as soon as the foot steps out of the classroom.

Like all children I attended school, and as it turned out my brain was a master at storing information. But one of the things I learnt very early on, a lesson more valuable to me than how to add or subtract, was that children can be very cruel, if there is even a hint that you are different.

I never knew exactly why I was different, after all I was not the only orphan at my school, even in my class there was three of us from the same home. Still, they picked up on something none of us could identify, and I was never really accepted into the small group of friends that formed throughout my school years.

Quickly I learnt to live on my own – when I was seven; I felt that I did not need friends.

Maybe not the healthiest accent for a child so young, but there was nothing I could do. No one wanted to befriend me, so I lived without, and I was not bothered by this. Well, not constantly. There were times when I would have to bury my head in my pillow at the orphanage because some girl in my class was having a birthday party and had invited everyone else, or because I had not been allowed to join in with a game of football. But these times were few and far between.

Like most lonely children, I sought comfort in the pages of books. The characters contained inside these pages were my friends, though of course if I ever needed advice or someone to talk to; they were not the ones who would respond. So any problems I had I kept bottled up inside, I kept them to myself.

Coming up to Christmas, when I was eleven, I was pulled into the office of Julia, a young woman who had been working at the Orphanage for almost a year. She looked up and smiled gently when I entered, gesturing to the large comfortable chair in front of her desk. Slowly, I lowered myself into it.

“Melinda, is it?” She asked, checking the sheets of paper in front of her, before her eyes flickered towards my face. “How are you today?”

“Fine.” I muttered, wondering what this meeting was for. Julia was the woman who dealt with the ‘welfare’ of the children, and I had, so far, had no dealings with her.

She leant forward slightly, studying me with her chocolate eyes. “Are you sure?” She questioned, pen posed above a piece of paper, ready to make notes. “Are you happy, Melinda?”

“Yes.” I replied coldly, watching as she made a note on her pad.

“Well, you don’t seem to make much of an effort with the other children. You like reading, correct?”

“Yes.” I decided to ignore the first part of the sentence, as she nodded slowly.

“I see...why don’t you play with the other children?”

“They don’t like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“They think I’m odd.”

“And why would they think that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you made an effort. You have been here a long time Melinda.”

A long time...longer than most children. Usually kids moved on within a year, in rare cases it could take a year and a half. I had been there for five years, I had seen children come and go, adopted by happy families who would love and cherish them. It was another reason the kids avoided me, because obviously there must be something wrong if no one wanted me.

“You need to try with the parents who come in, too.”

I knew exactly what she meant; they were fed up of having me there. Whenever ‘prospective parents’ came to the Orphanage, I would bury my head in a book, sit in a corner while the others played games the wardens encouraged them to play, games that would emphasise how cute they were, that would make the adults consider adopting them.

I had a very good reason for ignoring those who came in; part of my brain felt sure that eventually, some long lost relative would come for me and take me away. I wanted someone I was linked to by blood, not some random stranger who had no idea of my family past.

I knew my mother had an aunt and cousins in America, somewhere in the United States I had family who, I was sure, if they knew my predicament (though a rational adult mind would reason that they hadn’t heard or cared in five years) then they would hop on a plane, come here and get me, taking me to a different, new life.

I just had to be patient, as patient as I had been for the years since my parent’s death.

After a few more words, and her request that I come to her if I was upset or worried or just needed to talk, I was dismissed. Two months later, to my surprise, I was being escorted from the Orphanage grounds, and was heading to a new life. All because I was different.

It started when the Orphanage had a visit from a business couple, interested in putting money into the home for parentless children. With them, they brought their daughter, and we were encouraged to act as we would on a normal ‘adoption day’. I sat to one side, half watching other kids playing games while, once more, I dig out one of my favourite books and fell into the life held inside, disappearing from the life I had.

I paid no heed to the couple and their child until my hands suddenly went freezing cold.

My eyes strayed to my fingers, to see sheen of white ice covering the tips. The book fell to the floor, and I felt a pair of eyes staring intently at me. I lifted my gaze to see the dark brown eyes of the girl watching me with curiosity.

Scared she had seen something – I didn’t need to give anyone any more reason to dislike me – I leapt from my seat and moved quickly towards the toilets.

Once inside, I ran my hands under the hot water tap. They didn’t warm. I moved my hand, hovering my palm over a patch of water on the counter. From the centre outwards, the water began to freeze, an ice patch appearing there.

“You’re different.”

I whirled around at the voice, soft with a slight Japanese accent, to see the daughter of the couple standing in the doorway, staring at me with those deep brown eyes. Her face was not accusing or damning, instead it was thoughtful and curious.

“No I’m not.” I insisted; fear spreading through me like the ice I had created.

“It’s OK.” She whispered, stepping forward. “I am, too.” With that, she held her hand up, and I gasped to realise it was encased in ice.

“Leave me alone!” I cried, darting past her and out into the corridor, breaking into a run and heading for my bedroom, tears streaming down my face.

I had no idea what any of it meant, and the whole thing terrified me. It was confirmation that I was different, that there was a reason why other children avoided me. I locked myself in my room, proclaiming illness to avoid school. My twelfth birthday came and went with no recognition from anyone, and a few days later I was once more called into Julia’s office.

Slowly I knocked on the door, listened until she called ‘come in’, and pushed the door open. I slid into the room, glancing at the other woman sitting opposite Julia. She was very pretty, with blonde hair pulled back and leaving a few curly strands to frame her face. Both women directed smiles towards me, though the stranger’s was much more real.

“This is Marie Dust.” Julia explained, throwing a hand towards the younger woman as I took a seat. “She comes from a school.”

“A boarding school.” Marie’s gentle smile, for some reason, made me feel warm. “Where you can stay all year round, if you like.”

“Leave here?” I asked, keeping my excitement at the prospect under control.

“You don’t have to.” Marie insisted. “If you do not wish to leave your friends or home...”

“I have no friends.” I replied, allowing my eyes to flick briefly to Julia. She looked almost shocked at this, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Why Melinda?” She asked. “We have a lot of children here who have scored higher in academic and sporting terms.”

Marie chuckled. “We believe she would be an asset to the school, and her grandparents were very good friends with the Headmaster. He expressed an interest in seeing how Melinda was, and offering her a place at the school if we were able to.”

“You tracked me down?” I bit back a smile.

“Yes.” She nodded slowly. “We did.”

“I want to go.” I kept my eyes locked on Miss Dust.

“Good.” She stood up. “We’ll pick you up this time tomorrow, is that OK?” She glanced at Julia, who gave a quick frown.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” She bowed her head slightly before departing from the room.

That evening I packed the few belongings I owned, and fell into a disturbed sleep. How could I drift off when I was this excited? I was agitated the next day, waiting for Miss Dust to return. Fear spread through me as I wondered if it had all been an elaborate joke; eventually, with twenty minutes until her supposed arrival time, I had convinced myself that I would not be leaving the Orphanage and that Miss Dust was not returning for me.

Then, as I was about to return to my bedroom and unpack my tiny bag, I heard a cry from the window. One of the older children was pointing to a dark blue Mercedes and I couldn’t hold back my smile as Miss Dust stepped elegantly out of the car.

She spotted me through the window and raised a hand in a wave. The other children gasped when they saw me waving back.

“Whoa.” One young girl stared wide eyed at the pretty woman walking towards the door. “Is that your new mum?”

“My new teacher.” I explained proudly, stepping back and gathering my suitcase. Soon, I was sitting in the back of the car with Marie Dust, as she told me what this new school really was about. I couldn’t help but laugh when she finished, having picked up on the words ‘special’ and ‘unique’. “I’m not special.” I told her. “Not in any way, especially the way you described.”

She chuckled, a sweet soft sound as she reached forward and took my hand. “You created ice, did you not?” She tilted her head to one side, blue eyes twinkling. She carried on talking then, describing in detail when I had first arrived at the Orphanage, how I had stolen sweets off a child, my insecurities about being different and my desire to be normal. “I know what it’s like Melinda.” She lifted her hand and placed it on my shoulder, as she did so something inside me snapped.

Tears fell down my face as I began to talk. “Yeah, sure you do, with your middle class life, loving parents and oh so sweet boyfriend. None of them care that you can read minds, do they? They’ve never treated you as different. It’s not like your parents died when you were six; Nick and Rachel never left your side! They found the school for you to attend, they helped you develop whatever you call this, and you think you know what it’s like to see your parents die and know there is something different about you and know there is something there but you just can’t see the reason why other kids avoid you?”

Her hand dropped from my shoulder, her eyes wide and mouth open, gaping in amazement. “Melinda, how did you know all that?” She asked, staring openly at me.

Again that deep seated feeling of fear, horror sitting in my stomach like a stone. I had seen it all; everything had been in my head, like an image from a television. I shrank backwards, gasping for breath as if I’d swam the Bristol Channel. “I don’t know.” I sobbed, falling into her as she reached out and wrapped me in her arms.