Warrior Stings

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 Hey guys! The drawing to the side is the official Damen tattoo and it is not changing! Please ignore all the background drawings I tried erasing, but I drew it! Hope you enjoy! Thank you for being so patient! When I last uploaded, you guys got me up to #24 in Fantasy and #36 in Action!! That is the highest it has ever been!! Thank you guys so much!! I love you all!!

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Chapter Eleven

Warrior Stings

“Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.” – C.G. Jung

 

            I walked down the hallway on my first day of sixth grade, on my way to first period, when I saw some rather rotund kids crowding around a smaller one.

            “You the new kid?” one of the kids said in an abrupt, rude voice.

            “Y-yeah,” said the girl in the middle. I couldn’t make out her face because of the kids surrounding her,

            “What’s your power?” the same kid asked, making me guess she was the leader of the group.

            “I-I have to get to class,” she said, trying to push past them, but they pushed her back into the little circle.

            “Why won’t you tell us?” the leader asked, “There are other ways I can get the answer,” she said, patting her chubby hand that was in a tight ball.

            When the other girl continued to remain silent, she pulled her fist back, preparing to punch the girl. I started to run towards them when all of a sudden, the chubby girl’s arm stopped midair. She looked confused. Everybody looked confused. There was nothing but air in front of her fist. She visibly struggled to move her fist, but to no avail did it move. Then suddenly, it came back to punch her in the nose and a figure materialized. It was the girl getting bullied and she had a huge smirk on her face.

            “Now do you understand why I didn’t tell you?” her one gray eye visible through the brown curtain of hair ablaze with triumphant glory.

            The big girl nodded and half ran away with her posse.

            The brunette then looked at me and I smiled. “Hi, I’m Arella.”

            “Ophelia,” she greeted, smiling back.

            “Do you need any help finding your classes?”

            I grinned at the memory as I looked at the framed picture of Ophelia and me in the sixth grade, hung on the wall of Damen and my apartment.

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