❝everything you want is at the other side of fear.❞
ｊａｃｋ ｃａｎｆｉｅｌｄ
___
ＷＡＳ it really so wrong that I was relieved when Monday came round?
The prospect of normal lessons felt more appealing than my adventures from the last few days.
I guess it should've been obvious then what was going to happen next. There were too many people on guard in the dining hall. Too many members of staff exchange wary glances when I approached. There was even a slight look of hesitance in Morgana's eyes when we had exchanged glances. Then, I thought I was just being paranoid.
But the large men blocking my path as I tried to leave the hall along with my new group of... friends proved otherwise.
They had tried to wait for me of course, Valerie and the rest, but Redmond appeared out of nowhere, shooing them away like a shepherd dog keeping back the innocent flock of sheep from escaping.
The explanation for my weekend-long separation was that I needed to be kept quarantined, under surveillance - just in case my abilities actually comprised of me emitting some toxic radiation that could endanger the lives of everyone in a kilometer radius, including the already molecularly unstable students.
Well, at least that's what they said. I think they were just looking for an excuse to find out the source of my powers - or rather, the lack of them. What they really needed was a valid reason to keep on running tests to find out what exactly was wrong with me.
And even now, I can't say who was more disappointed that final morning: me, or the doctors.
With a sigh, I flicked through the magazine they had put in my quarantine room- or as I liked to call it, White Hell due to the excessive amount of white used in the decoration of the room.
Amidst wondering what exactly their obsession for the colour was, I couldn't stop worrying that I'd ruin something, even when I'd been brought my meals, I'd felt compelled to be careful - just in case I'd stained one of the white walls, or the white bed with the white sheets or the small white table and chair, or the marbled white floor...
The last straw would've been if they had forced me to where white clothing as well to match the hospital-like environment of the room, but it seemed they'd known better than that.
The only good thing from all this is that I wouldn't have to deal with it much longer. Any moment now and I should be free to go, Dr Layton had said.
For now, I'd just have to be entertained by ...The Mad Scientist?
I sigh as I read that part aloud. Of course it was a magazine dedicated to the art of improbable, theoretical and borderline unethical science.
Fortunately enough, one of the younger scientists (or perhaps an intern? None of that was really explained to me) knocked, appearing partially through the doorway to deliver a message.
"Miss Sparke?" he says, prompting me to look up. "You are free to go now."
Finally.
❧
"Emma?" Cass's voice echoes through the room at the sound of me opening the door.
For a moment, I stare into the empty room in confusion, until her figure appears out of the adjoining bathroom. She detaches a mascara wand from her eyelash to take a proper look at me. "Oh good, you're back."
She sounded relieved, which surprised me- especially considering the fact that besides our initial conversation, we hadn't actually spoken a word to each other.
"I'm back." I reply with a weak smile and an ever weaker attempt of a wave.
"I was wondering whether they'd let you back for the first official day of lessons," she admits, in between applying bits of her makeup. "How was the white hell?"
"You call it that too? I thought I was the only one bugged by all that." I couldn't help but hide my surprise at that too.
"No way, that place bugs the hell out of me," Cass replies with the hint of a scowl on her face as takes a seat at the edge of her bed. "They still make me go there once every couple weeks. I keep telling my mo–"
Cass abruptly cuts off the rest of her sentence with a sigh.
"Never mind." She changes the subject. "So I take it you'll be in lessons this week?"
"I don't see why not," I respond with a nonchalant shrug as I watch her get up from her bed, and try to run her fingers through her thick tangled curls.
She looks up at me, and suddenly pulls her hand out of her hair.
"That's good." She accompanies this comment with a vague nod, before sidling past me so she was at the door instead.
It was odd. She was not acting so detached anymore, but she wasn't the bubbly, talkative Cass I'd met on that first day either. It was... something in between. And I wasn't quite sure why.
But as if honing in on my thoughts, Cass delivers her third surprise of that morning.
She smiles. A genuine one. One that showed kindness, like she was mentally saying 'hey, I've been there before- it'll be okay. Being the new kid doesn't have to be so bad!'
Or perhaps it's just my imagination.
"Well. I'm going now," she says, lingering by the door. "You'll probably want space to get changed in peace and all."
I glance at the clock. From what I had been informed of so far, it wasn't obligatory to go but the breakfast bar was open all morning until 15 minutes before lessons began. We technically didn't have to be anywhere for another 45 minutes. So where was she going?
Cass halts midway through slipping out of the room, and like before, she pokes her head through the crack to add her all important side notes.
"By the way," she begins, "I'd try no to make a bad impression on the teachers. I'm ninety-nine percent sure most of them are either retired agents or ex-spies. And most of them are pretty..." she trails off. "Well. You'll find out."
"What—?"
"Well, bye!"
Without any further elaboration, she's gone. And I'm left alone to consider:
What was that supposed to mean?
❧
Apparently having ex-spies and retired specialised agents as teachers meant they did not appreciate it when you were 1.24 minutes late to lessons.
"Miss Sparke, I acknowledge that you are new and I understand the fact that you got a little lost on the way, but nonetheless, we do not appreciate tardiness in this class," the teacher, a graying-haired woman in her fifties said.
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," I apologize in a low murmur as I trail into the room. So far, I didn't think I was succeeding too well in the 'make a good first impression' thing Cass had advised me about. Great.
I keep my head bowed down as I enter the room, until I hear my name being called by a familiar voice.
Or well, at least a form of my name, I guess.
"The Great Spark returns," Markus says with a wide, lopsided grin.
My head shoots up and I return the grin with ease. Sure, I had only known Markus for 40 minutes but it was a relief to see a friendly face nonetheless.
"You do World History too?" I ask, though the answer stared me in the face.
"Of course. Learning about ancient civilizations, pointless wars, revolutions and eras and being forced to remember a crap-ton of dates? Does anything else sound like more bliss than that?" he replies.
"I honestly can't tell if you're joking," I confess.
"Neither can I sometimes," he responds. "Come, there's a free seat next to me."
I take him up on his offer and settle into the chair he was talking about, inwardly relieved I wouldn't have to ensue the awkward task of searching for a spare seat.
"Are you sure it's okay?" I ask anyway. "No one sits here, do they?"
"New semester, new rules," is Markus' offhanded reply.
A moment later, I notice the teacher, Ms. Grahams is chiding a newcomer at the door.
"Mr Wade... I suppose I should have known better than to expect you to be on time to one of my lessons- even if it was the first one of the year," she says in a disapproving tone.
Logan, the guy from the plane - or as Mrs Grahams had referred to him 'Mr Wade', simply shrugs and flashes her an innocent smile as he slides past her and into the room.
My mouth drops a little - he had gotten by with barely a warning!
"Dude, I think Grams is going soft on you," Markus comments as Logan approached us.
"What do you mean? Grams has always loved me," he replies with a wink as he settles in the seat behind Markus.
Markus merely snorts at Logan's statement. "If you say so, Logs. By the way, have you met Emma?"
Logan's gaze finds mine, as if he only just noticed my presence. He looks momentarily surprised before his features relax back into a nonchalant look. "I have actually," he reveals.
"You have?" Markus raises an eye in confusion.
"We were on the same jet," I quickly explain.
"Aww, Logs, you finally have some company after what - four years," Markus laughs. Logan rolls his eyes but chuckles along as well, like it was all related to some inside joke. I frown.
Wait a minute.
"You guys are friends?" I ask.
"Yeah...?" Logan and Markus answer, nodding their heads slowly in unison like it should have been obvious.
"But, what about the other day- you were sat 10 feet away from each other but you wouldn't acknowledge each other's presence," I explain, referring to the morning at the dining hall.
Markus and Logan momentarily exchange looks. Markus looks like he is about to say something but he is quickly interrupted.
"Mr Osaki, I would appreciate it if you continue your conversation when you are not in my lesson," Grahams interjects, shooting a warning glare enough to make Markus fall silent.
We quickly all revert our attention to the front of the room, and for a while, I think my question forgotten until Logan leans over to quickly whisper something in my ear:
"Not all Cass's dilemmas are mine too."
I turn my head around to throw him a confused look, but by then, he has returned back to his work, and it becomes apparent he is more focused on work than enlightening me on the meaning of his words.
Not all Cass's dilemmas are mine too.
❧
Surprisingly, the rest of the day went by well. I was glad to note that most of the teachers were in fact not punctuality-obsessed old ladies and that I was able to find some of the lessons somewhat enjoyable. It almost felt like being in a normal school again. No one did anything out of the normal, or said much about it for that matter.
Later, Willow explained it was because Morgana had prohibited mentions of the 'super' word in a learning environment because she felt it made people not take their education seriously.
"My theory," Willow had said, "is that she's afraid of the word. Sometimes, I think she wishes to pretend she was running a normal school, not one dedicated to bettering superhuman teens."
She and Valerie had met up with me at lunch again, where I'd been attacked with hundreds of questions inquiring what I'd been doing all weekend and why exactly it took all weekend. Apparently most of their testing had never taken more than a few hours at most.
Obviously, I didn't have any answers to their questions - I didn't know them myself. But all in all, the day had still been ... pleasant.
It reminded me of my first day.
Not of school- no. My first day at the daycare centre at my parents workplace.
I wasn't quite sure why it stuck so much. I had a vivid picture of that day stuck in my head. Almost as if it was 3 weeks ago and not 13 and a half years.
Three year olds weren't supposed to have that good of a memory, were they?
But I did. And I could remember the feeling. The same feelings as now. Excitement. Curiosity. Hesitance.
It was on a Monday as well. I'd always loved Mondays. They signified the start of something new. A new week, a new chance of being a better version of yourself, or achieving something new or discovering something different. Back then, I liked different.
And different came in the form of a little boy sat alone on a small, round table.
"Earth to Emma," Valerie says in a comical voice as she waves a hand in front of my face.
"Sorry, did you say something?" I ask sheepishly. I had been idly following along with their plans for the last 15 minutes with no clue as to what they were actually talking about. I was too immersed in my own thoughts.
"We're thinking of going to the Rec Room," Valerie repeats herself.
I scan the group behind her. By 'we' she meant Willow, Markus and herself. As soon as the lesson ended, Logan had gone MIA again, back to sitting alone with Cass. I was burning to inquire further, but I knew it wasn't really my place to ask. Besides, Valerie's statement had piqued my curiosity.
"What's the Rec Room?"
"Right, New Girl and stuff." She realises. "It's this – "
"It's a recreational space for the students without adult supervision - with the exception of a CCTV camera," Markus interjects impatiently. "And we've been wasting way too much time discussing this: want to come or not?"
I am about to say yes of course, when a sudden thought dawns to me.
I scrunch my nose in disappointment as I remember the other reason why Mondays were suddenly so significant.
"I think I'm supposed to have an extra lesson at five," I confess apologetically, shaking my head sadly.
And by extra lesson, I meant my Morgana-ordered therapy sessions with Professor Horowitz.
❧
It was funny to think I was being made to go to therapy again. And in a way, it was cyclical.
After the event that took my parents life, it became apparent the only way I was going to start talking again was if a shrink was involved to help me forget my past. And now, with my past quickly catching up with me, and I'm being sent to yet another therapist to make sure it gets there faster. As I manoeuvred my way through the chilly labyrinth of hallways that made up the basement, I couldn't help but find it a little ironic.
Back then, on the days I did feel like talking, Dr Hessner used to make me recall my favourite memory. I remember I used to change my mind frequently. Nothing ever stuck for long. Now, if I was asked the same question, I think I'd choose that first Monday at the daycare when I was finally allowed to spend the full day at my parents' workplace.
A soft smile plays on my lips as I pause to read a ground plan of the basement floor to figure out where to head next. Office zero point five two... Office 0.52... Who puts a decimal in a room number?
I mumble it to myself over and over again to remember but soon enough, my mind drifts back to the memory.
I recall the bright room stuffed full of vibrant assortment of plush toys and games within its soft pastel walls, sticking out sorely amidst its sleek, minimalistic surroundings. I also recall the sole little boy with the floppy light brown hair sat somberly in the middle of it all, in a world of his own.
Realising it was only going to be the two of us in the nursery had made my dad anxious.
"Relax, Theo," Mom had said, "she's only three. You don't have to be worried about boys yet."
Three and a half, actually – I remember wanting to object.
Dad had frowned at that. "I wasn't even thinking about that, Arlie," he objected with a pout. "I was just worried if we were doing the right thing after all- what if they don't get along?"
Dad had always liked worrying- about me and Mom especially. I suppose that was something I got from him, because all I seem to do lately was worry. Even right now, I'm worrying about getting to this place on time without getting lost for once.
When I am finally satisfied that I'm headed down the right hallway, I let myself slip back into my thoughts.
I remember Mom had rolled her eyes immediately after. She did that a lot when Dad got dramatic. "I'm sure they'll get along," she had ensured him. "It's early days. And besides, as I said before, Emmy-"
"–needs more friends her age," he had finished. "I know, I know. Being cooped up in a shockingly tiny 100 square feet mansion won't do her any good."
"No need to get sarcastic," Mom had replied amusedly, squeezing Dad's cheek until his frown turned into a smile, and Mom's smile turned into a straight, red, serious line. "Trust her," she had said.
I frown as I finally reach the door in question. She had said that, hadn't she?
Had she been saying that about Morgana? Or was I letting my imagination get to me. Just because the memories seemed so vivid, didn't mean they were correct... right?
I shake away my thoughts, and bring my knuckles up to rap against the doorframe,
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Realistically, the conversation hadn't really ended there, but all I remember next was a short sigh from my father, followed by three syllables, "I'm trying."
At that precise moment, the door swings open to reveal a middle aged man with a worn tweed jacket, hipster glasses a just-above-shoulder length mane of unruly dark brown curls (that were greying at the roots) and a slightly feral look in his eyes.
For a moment, he simply stares at me like he was trying to figure who exactly I was and why on earth I had knocked on his door. But then, with a click of his fingers he finally got it.
"You're the one Morgana is making me talk to," he states, more to himself than me. He rests a finger on his lips as a thoughtful look appears on his face before continuing again. "The fire girl with no powers, right? Ella, Etta, Edna..."
"Emma?" I interject. It came out more of a question than an answer. I frown. He was making me question my own name.
"That's it. Come on in." He turns back around and waves his hand in a gesture I took to mean to follow behind.
With a look of bewilderment, I follow behind. At least, I couldn't say these next few months weren't going to be interesting...
❧
Professor Horowitz was looking through a file.
Specifically, my file.
He was murmuring to himself as he read through it, rubbing a hand on the stubble across his cheek where he sported a a five o'clock shadow.
"Very interesting," he says. "You have enough backstory here to become the protagonist of your own superhero comic, the dead parents, comas, tragic fires, mysterious abilities... hmm, oh and that too," he adds in a surprised octave at whatever new information he encountered, "all very dramatic."
I furrow my eyebrows. "Aren't you supposed to be discouraging me from doing things like becoming a superhero?"
His eyes momentarily flicker to mine from across the other side of the study. "Shh, we'll begin in a moment. I'm reading."
My frown deepens. What sort of session was this supposed to be?
I exhale silently as I glance around the room for anything that could keep me entertained in the meanwhile. It wasn't much of an office, though I did appreciate the cosier feel to it in comparison to the other rooms I'd walked past on the way here.
My gaze eventually falls on the wall behind him, where I am surprised to notice a certificate of a doctorate in psychology as long with various other scientific degrees. It made sense, of course- Morgana wouldn't just send me to spew my 'feelings' to some random homeless guy (at least I would hope not), but to me, he looked more like an eccentric English teacher than a qualified psychologist and possible genius - but then again, who was I to judge?
"How come you don't go by your title?" I suddenly ask.
Professor Horowitz lowers the file again to raise an eyebrow at me.
"You know, Dr Horowitz- instead of just a professor," I elaborate. "I mean, the DA is technically not a university so you aren't really a professor either."
"I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions?"
I shrug, hoping he would answer nonetheless. He doesn't.
Instead, he goes back to reading and I go back to daydreaming until Horowitz is done reading secrets about me that I'm not allowed to know myself.
Despite all my talks about loving Mondays and different and excitement, I remember by the time it came for my parents to actually leave me alone in the daycare, the nerves had finally kicked in. I was no longer excited and curious. Just afraid.
All I had wanted to do was stay with my parents for as long as I could. Forever, if forever was possible.
But after a few whispered words of encouragement and promises to be back by lunchtime, my parents had convinced me to go in after all.
They had both crouched down to my position, each placing an encouraging hand on either of my shoulders. And then, Mom - or maybe it was Dad, or both, I couldn't remember, leaned in and softly urged, "Go on."
"...Go on."
I blink, realising that part had been said out loud. Not by me, nor my ghost parents rising from the dead to reminisce over old memories. No, it was Professor Horowitz who was looking at me intently as he repeats:
"Well, go on. Tell me about yourself."
I notice the file is now neatly folded and discarded to the side.
I glance at it, then back up at him. "But you've read my file. I thought it would already say everything you need to know."
"That?" he replies, gesturing to the file offhandedly. "No. That's just procedural. Inside there is what they think they know about you, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's you. Or at least, it may not be the version of you you perceive yourself to be. After all, how we see ourselves and others see us are not one and the same."
I keep quiet, pensive.
"So tell me," he continues, leaning forward and placing a hand under his chin while he let the other one to wave around to illustrate his words, "who is the real Emma Sparke?"
The real Emma Sparke?
She was someone who until a few weeks ago, had been legally dead for almost 11 years.
But I knew Professor Horowitz hadn't meant it like that.
So I speak, I tell him about the real me. Or at least, as much as you can tell a random stranger you just met who you know is being paid to psychoanalyse you. Though surprisingly easy to talk to for a guy who looked one less bath away from becoming a hobo (ignoring the expensive Rolex on his wrist and his designer hipster glasses obviously), there were still some things that were difficult to talk about.
I could talk about my relatives and the fact we were usually close, but not the reason why 'usually' had recently become an overstatement. I could talk about how Andrew had been my best friend for 11 years, but not how increasingly difficult it was getting to keep it that way. Or about how I obsess over a flavour of ice cream that doesn't exist anymore, but can't bring myself to start explaining the tradition with my parents that had sparked it in the first place.
And as if catching on every time I withheld a piece of information, the frown on Horowitz face deepened until 10 minutes before the end of our hour session, he began to resemble a fifty year old, sulking bulldog.
"Well, it's obvious what your problem is," he states bluntly, maintaining his deep set frown.
"It is?"
"You're holding back. Physically and emotionally," he replies flatly. "I can tell just by you talking here. Even when I encourage you to show your real self, you still put up a wall. You're afraid to break that wall down. And you can't control something you're afraid of."
My mouth parts, ready to let the quickest retort fly out, but nothing comes. . . because he was right. I am afraid. Visions of the school back in Haven were enough to explain why. They engulf me, choke me - almost as much as the smoke that smothered the air did. I couldn't stop myself from saying it aloud.
"What if I have a reason to be afraid?"
Maybe it was the way I said it in a hushed voice, or maybe the look in my eyes as I said it, but Horowitz's disapproving look morphed into something resembling pity. It is his turn to fall silent.
He raps a pen on the edge of the desk until something finally clicks in his head and he dives down behind his desk to retrieve something.
I pull my gaze away from my lap to eye him curiously as he hands me a small notebook.
"What's this for?"
"I want you to think of as many reasons as you can as to why you shouldn't use your powers," he instructs crisply.
I pause. "You mean, why I should use my abilities."
"No, I mean why you should not," he confirms with an erratic shake of his head. "I had other ideas, but I realised I would unfortunately most likely get fired for sending you off campus. And even more unfortunately, I'm not allowed to get fired."
"Huh?"
Every word he utters was making less and less sense.
"What did we discuss about who's asking who questions?" He chides. "I've spoken. Session is over. You can leave now. Shoo! Just remember to bring the notebook with you next week – and try not to lose it, by the way, notebooks aren't cheap these days."
He rambles like this all the way to the door, guiding me out before I could fit in another word.
"Bye!" he says cheerily before shutting the door in my face with a resounding thud.
:: 💫 ::
I know most people dislike really long chapters (except in the cases of a few exceptional authors) so I do really apologise for the mega-long chapter. It's currently 4500+ words and I feel hesitant to even write an author's note because I feel I'm slowly draining life out of everyone who reads this with ever extra sente- sorry I'm rambling. Okay, I'm gonna cut this short by using good ole fashioned lists:
1. I have no idea which version of English I write in anymore. American or English? Anyone remember? Because I'm sure this is riddled with a mix of the two. Sorry.
2. Approximately 3-4 chapters left of Part One. Unfortunately, this book is going to be hella long, so prepare yourself for the obnoxiousness that will be Part 2.
3. Yes, I realise I could've easily split this chapter into two. But I'm an idiot and a lazy idiot so I didn't. Plus lists make this look even longer smh.
4. Finally, if anyone cared/notice I'm trying to integrate flashbacks in different ways so it isn't always in tedious long stretches, however if this feels too disjointed and/or confusing to read, do tell me- constructive criticism is always appreciated ♥️
Till next time mi loves,
♕ Carmen ♕