The bench that sits on the dewy, wild grass in front of the river has begun to show traces of ivy spiraling up its legs. It is beautiful in an eerie sort of way, and as the water rushes to its nameless destination, the bench is just there. I think that's why I like it so much. The bench reminds me of me, alone and still in the midst of nobodies trying to reach anywhere and everywhere.
I look down at the book in my hands. Darkest Chaos. I have read this book many times before; it has always been one of my favorites. It has some sort of pull on me, stronger than the chained bond that I share with the bookshelf. I often long to escape inside this book, inside the science fiction world of the Kingdom of Stella--of magic, royalty and mystic words that can change the world.
Stella is a kingdom of enchantments and knights, a universe of good and evil. I remember the main character Kyrstin, whom I had revered like a real person while I grew up with her story. She and her friend Gretta had gone on so many adventures, filling the black and white void in the world with neon colors.
Wistfulness begins to creep through me, cold but welcome. As I stand there, on this winter evening, memories wash into my mind.
A black rose. Chains of gold. Frozen ink.
Wait. Since when have I had memories of roses and ink? A slight sense of foreboding travels up my spine. I'm kind of scared.
No. Shaking my head, I let out a little laugh. I can't be bothered with this—it's cold, and I have better things to be doing right now. I look up from the book and walk towards the bench, promptly sitting down.
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I open the book. Taking a deep breath, I flex my fingers. I wait for the dull vibration, the rhythmic pulse to course through my veins and allow me to focus my thoughts. Lifting my hand over the book, the words gently lift off of the page and into the air in front of me, framed by the echoing sound of the river and the deep green of the trees. Both hands raised now, I begin playing with the words, the letters, each individual mark. They are dancing in the wind with their ballet slippers as I make shapes with the freedom that escapes from the words.
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This is magic.
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Ever since I was younger, I've been able to lift things with my hands. I like to call it levitation. After my parents left, I spent long hours alone on the bathroom floor, rocking back and forth because I was lost. I remember hearing the tick of the clock slowly twirling into mindless time, my bleary eyed self not even bothering to find out what day it was. It was that year when I found solace in words. My mother had always loved books and words, so I decided to give them a try. I became addicted, reading for hours at a time, never sleeping, never eating; I was living in my own world, the epitome of chaos.
I lost the gold-studded pin when I was nine. I never really had thought much of it; even though it was the last thing my mother gave to me, I never cared for hairpins or jewels and quite very much wanted a good excuse to get rid of it. So two weeks after my ninth birthday, after I had finally come out of my lonely shell, I did. And I found out that I could levitate objects and words.
Aunt Holly had decided to play music in my room. It was just the two of us, and she was my best friend, my only friend. On that day, we had a mini party. We were bouncing to the beat, jumping on the bed and running around the room like boisterous children. My aunt remembered that she had something on the stove that was about to burn, so I was by myself in the room while she ran to the kitchen. I was too enraptured in the music to wait for her, so I continued to let out my hyper energy.
It was from that moment that everything fast forwarded. Somehow, the hairpin had gotten into my hands, and me being the careless child that I was, distracted by the jumping and singing at the top of my lungs, I let go of the hairpin. And it flew across the room as if hurled, covering more distance than a bouncy ball could have if I threw it. Then it disappeared. But as I raised my hands, more objects began to lift. I remember looking around, bewildered, wondering what was happening. My veins were pounding, the sensation awkward and new. Eventually, the truth sank into my veins: it was magic. At first, I tried to ignore it. I was already different. Where did the power even come from?
But it was strong. Soon, every time that I lifted my hands, something would lift and clatter to the ground. Aunt Holly was oblivious, however; she'd always joke about my "clumsiness."
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As the power grew stronger, so did I. My aunt called me a star-gazer; I thought far and wide and lifted words until I was free. I wasn't alone; I had the power of twisting words into shapes, words into dreams, weaving them until I was exhausted from living inside the marks of each letter. I stopped lifting objects; words were my savior.
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The river had always calmed me as a child. And as I sit there, all by myself on the bench and making pirouettes out of my words for what feels like hours, I feel a tranquility that I have never felt before.
But then the book grows hot. I can almost hear the crackling of flames as my legs start to feel the sensation of impending burning.
I yelp, flinging the book out of my lap. Heaving, I stand up and try to brush off the heat from my jeans. I take deep breaths, trying not to pass out from shock.
Oh my god, what happened to that book?
My heart rate lowers, just slightly. I try to convince myself that I had just been imagining things.
No, the pain from the almost-burn was real.
And then I am blinded by light.
Colors emit from the book, as vivid as hued lanterns shining on dark nights of the new moon. Red, green, orange, blue, aqua, pink. The book is shrouded in a vortex of pigments, and I am terrified; my throat is constricted with shock and all I can feel is a numb sensation traveling throughout my body.
The pages with the color of white washed walls immerse me into a tunnel of caved in reminiscences, and I am falling, falling until I lose sense of time and I don't know what is going on, what has just occurred, and why, oh why, did this have to happen to me?
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Slamming against the ground with an impact of pure force, I let out a cry of defeated agony. My insides are churning, confusion swirling through my mind, and my legs are still sore from the heat of the book.
The first thing I notice is the hauntingly calming chill. The balmy ice of the air feels like fire to my skin, and the breeze holds the scent of fresh holly berries.
So it's winter here, too. I note.
Wait. Where's here? I'm perfectly safe—I'm right back at home, sitting on my favorite bench!
Opening my eyes the tiniest bit, I almost pass out from what I see. There is no river.
I curl up against myself, shaking from fear, hoping against hope that if I close my eyes and open them again I will be back at my spot next to the stream. I stay in that position for a long time, telling myself that this is just a dream, a nightmare, anything to keep me from facing reality: that I am far away from home.
I slowly sit up, stars bursting in front of my eyes as the blood rushes to my head. Deeply inhaling and exhaling, I wait for my head to clear.
No. I can't be somewhere else, it's impossible!
But I can levitate things. That shouldn't be possible either, should it?
My episode of crying in the bathroom seems almost frivolous to the emotions I am feeling right now. I can fix everything, I can, if only I can go back home.
Please. I think to anyone who's listening.
A sharp pain bolts through my arm as it is almost yanked from its socket, and I hear a loud, mirthful cackle above me.
"We've got her, haven't we, now?"
My head lurches up and I bite hard on my lip to keep myself from screaming. A man stands, centimeters away from my face, with a beard as dark as ink and stubble lining his cheeks. He grins, and I let out my horrified shriek. I can taste blood.
"Put her next to the other prisoner!" he calls out. I'm blinded by the sudden sensation of cloth being wrapped around my head.
I sit there for minutes.
My wrist is released, and I feel a tug on my other arm as another man drags me onto a rough, coarse platform. Pure dread begins to tingle through my stomach, traveling to my fingertips. Whatever I am feeling is miles beyond terror.
Where in the world have I gotten myself into?
I sit there, unaware of even the position that I am sitting in. I hear the loud bang of a door being shut, and then the squeal of a motor as whatever vehicle I am in begins to move.
I hear a shuffle behind me. "Here, let me help you untie that," the soft voice of a girl startles me.
I jump, or at least try to, as I evidently am not able to move in the posture I am in.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" she hesitates slightly before continuing. "They took me as a prisoner too, but I wasn't blindfolded. I'll take yours off for you."
I feel her nimble fingers working their way through the blindfold as she unties the knot.
"Thank you so much," I say, grateful. I am able to see again.
I sit up, and turn around to face a girl with dark, golden hair and sorrow filled eyes. I can't make out much of her in the shadowed illumination of whatever craft that I am in, but she looks to be about the same age as me.
"I'm sorry that I dragged you into this," she speaks again, meeting my eyes.
"Why would you even think that this was your fault?" I protest. But the fear begins to creep into me, vibrating and torturing my mind, back from its temporary respite. "No one else is to blame except those bearded thieves!"
She smiles sadly.
Taking a deep breath and sounding more optimistic than I feel, I say, "Okay. We'll get out of this. We can do this. The men were stupid enough to put me next to you, the person without the blindfold. That just proves that we're more intelligent than them. Now all we need is a plan."
This time, the smile reaches her eyes.
"By the way, what's your name?" I ask.
"Gretta," she says. "My name is Gretta."
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