Awoken By Passion, Page 2

Chapter 1

  Stolen

  The torment of dark vivid dreams played on my thoughts and faded in the haze as my reality became a world of fog. I stared blankly at the dappled hues of morning light as it filled my room with warmth; casting shadows along my desk and books. The darkness held my attention, and yet, it consumed me into a thought of awareness.

  For three months now, there was nothing but my strange and unavoidable world. Shifting through the motions of everyday actions, which consisted of simple unthought out processes. Eating, sleeping, and walking. They were there. Yes. I could cope with the normal. Talking, laughing and joking. They were not a part of my normal world, or my fog. The day I discovered I had no voice hadn’t stopped time from moving. Time I could not erase, but that day; three months ago, was removed. It was empty of any thought, any action or any last words I may have had.

  My world of reality resembled a foggy dream. I remember it well. Three months ago, I had a best friend. I had a voice people heard, and I had a smile to share. Now, my voice refused to work, and my smile hadn’t been seen since. My best friend had been cremated in the local cemetery. Nothing but a stone slab said she’d ever lived. It wasn’t her. She had been burned to ashes, and all that she was—was gone. She died in the mysterious accident that I survived and she didn’t. It was a mystery because accidents like the one I suffered, didn’t happen in the small town of Kenneth. How I was knocked into a river by and unknown vehicle—through a steal guard rail with no injuries other than a coma, while Melody suffered injuries that were not consistent with the kind of fall we had—she didn’t survive and none could explain it. Suspicion and mystery surrounded the miracle accident.

  I had lost my voice due to the constant screaming—least that’s what the doctors concluded. They couldn’t find any reason for my voice to be missing. One actually joked that my voice simply upped and left without reason. Another had commented I had plenty of reasons to be silent. A third doctor thought I’d been frightened to the point, my attacker said he’d kill me if I spoke and that I was to feel completely safe talking to them; if and when I felt comfortable.

  But none of this was possible.

  I couldn’t talk.

  And I tried so hard it hurt to think of words to move my mouth as if I was normal.

  Elizabeth had tried all kinds of doctors; even herbal remedies, Chinese medicines to witch doctors—that was a joke. Tea leaves and sleep didn’t change a thing. Since that day, I locked myself in a shadow of unheard words. No one could hear me and to them, I was mute—and deaf, since they had to yell at me if they had to talk to me. Deep in my head, I had plenty to say, plenty to scream about; and it was why my reality became an endless flow of fog, moving through time with no degree of recognition or interest. Some days the fog was thinner than others. Days that I knew, I was more aware than I wished; and today was one of those days.

  I glanced at the calendar on my desk, the butterfly fluttered unmoving on the top page with a quirky phrase to keep one’s mind optimistic. I’d read the same word for the last five days. Strength. It was what I needed to get through this strange and unavoidable life. It was three months to this week that she died. Time shifted; time I wished returned to me. I was lost in my sadness, my torment of not remembering and not knowing.

  An endless supply of fog was what I liked. For three long months, it helped me to avoid the real, including those in it. It didn’t matter either way. For I knew it was the three months before that I wanted returned, or even four months before when the world made sense. Now three months on, my world was not normal and it would never be normal. I couldn’t talk to anyone and no one spoke to me. The words I said were in thought. The fog thickened and before I was aware, I was dressed for school. Dark blue Jeans and an olive tee with a peach zipper jacket. Her jacket. Brushing my burgundy curls roughly in the steam covered mirror. My face was a blur; a flicker in the hazy mirror of jade eyes, pale white skin, and a moon shaped face showed some form of me. It was nothing but a glance. A recognition—that I was here. I’d survived. Seventeen—yes. That’s what I was. Here and she wasn’t.

  “Kera, you’re going to be late.” Elizabeth called from the kitchen.

  Elizabeth Watson was the perfect mother; I never worried about a father, though when I was young and noticed all the other girls had a dad, I asked, “Where was my dad?”

  Elizabeth sat me on the sofa, tucking a curly strand of hair behind my ear. “Your dad isn’t with us anymore, honey. He—” She had faulted in her words, with a press of her lips she continued. “He left when you were still in my belly and he hasn’t returned. Don’t you worry. You’re a special girl. You have me all to yourself.”

  Who was going to question that at the age of five. I had known only love with her, even when mum was dating now and then. I couldn’t ask for a better mother. I was her world, as she was mine.

  She’d brushed her hair into tight buns today, a desired style for her work. Hot Bakery. She wore the red shirt and knee length skirt well; she was just a few pounds under solid. I on the other hand, was skinny; thin and underfed is what some had called me. I wasn’t always this tiny framed, sure, I noticed that my clothes had gone down two sizes, but it wasn’t that I didn’t eat, and like all the doctors who saw me about the vocal problem—time heals all—so they say.

  As I entered into the kitchen, mum’s green eyes were warm, greeting me with a smile, as her face held laugh lines. These days she seldom did laugh. Taking in the butterfly claps in her hair, the floral scarf around her neck and the light jacket on the stool, she was ready to leave. It was what she did every morning before she left. I wasn’t rude to her as I took a seat at the kitchen bar. My silence was normal. As too was her eyes, watching me with interest, waiting and hoping I’d talk.

  I didn’t.

  “I’ll be late tonight,” she said, as she slid the bowl of cereal towards me. “Will you be alright to start dinner?”

  I nodded as I poured the flakes and added the milk.

  Sure. I’ll start it, so you can take over. Was what I’d normally say, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even bother moving my lips anymore.

  Since the accident, Elizabeth started to learn sign language in a hopes to make me feel normal. She spent hours trying to read my lips, but with the weight of Melody’s passing and my voice not returning, I shut down and refused to do anything, other than nod or shrug.

  The normal continued; finishing off my breakfast and with a new layer of fog, a smile to mum, I gathered my books into my duffle bag; I headed for the door.

  Outside, the spring breeze blew my hair in all directions until I gathered it to one side and out of the winds line. I headed along the side of the house, taking the path across the meadow. The blossoming scent of spring stirred my senses as the dew splashed my shins. My route to school had been the same for the last three months. The wooden fence had been erected for the horses and cows that had been on this land years ago, but now it was worn, broken, and pointless in even fixing. I stepped over the two fallen pails with ease and made my way to the dirt path I’d claimed as my track.

  It was a hidden path, twisting its way through dense bushland, towards the main part of town. The sound of running water was gentle; a trickle as the gully constantly flowed endlessly south and into Dim’s creek. Crossing the rickety bridge, I listened to the echo of my footsteps on the aged timber. I exhaled deeply when I reached the other side, because I’d made it across. Safe.

  The brush was dappled in shades of darkness, which I found mesmerising. I didn’t have to cross the high bridge of Dim’s creek, or pass the homes on the other side of the brush. I could take the bus to school, I could even have one of the neighbours give me a lift, and by normal standards, Elizabeth could have given me a ride. But I couldn’t and I wouldn’t. The first time driving home since the accident, was shocking and unexpected for both of us. Neither of us expected me to scream in pain, soundless as it was. I freaked out and opened the door of the car while it was moving. I ran away fr
om the bridge and it was ten minutes before Elizabeth found me, soothing me enough get in the car. I was adamant that I couldn’t pass the bridge. For unknown reasons and unknown answers, Elizabeth had to find a different way for me to get home. After that, I’d never crossed it again. Taking the path through the back properties and onto the main road, I turned left for several streets and then right, heading up the side alley towards Kenneth High. I wasn’t worried by the dark shadows or the silence in the brush land. They were comforting, understanding. The twenty minutes walk through the woods and another fifteen to Kenneth High was normal. Just another normal day; without her, that was the not normal.

  Walking fast to my first class was mundane. As I passed the gathered groups of high spirited students, I focused on the crakes in path. Heading to the Math block, I ignored the endless stares and constant sighs of annoyance. The other students had become accustomed to my behaviour. They rarely showed any emotion other than caution, and avoidance. Their faces made it real, and I would not want to see real. The other students had taken to my silence smoothly. Few held a different emotion. Amanda Taylor crinkled her nose as I passed her, that didn’t bother me. She wasn’t my friend. She was one of the A-Team girls—pretty girls who went to wild parties, dated boys and had rich parents, and the B-Team, who were the athletic boys all cheating on their assignments to get where they need, constantly made bad jokes about me losing my voice. The A-Team were the kind of girls all magazine companies had photos of; the best shiny hair awards; the endless shades of lip-gloss, nail polish and shirts that stay see-through, even when there is no water. They were the kind of girls that didn’t sit on the sideline when it came to dating. They were the rich girls, spoilt and possibly snobby. I wasn’t rich, and I wasn’t poor either. But to Amanda, who was the kind of girl that made it to third base on her first date; had the up-to-date fashion, and always had something smart to say—was the snobbiest girl I’d known.

  I shook off her thick jacket and slung it on the back of the chair, near the window at the back of the room, taking my seat, I didn’t want to notice the students and their weird way of including me into their conversations.

  Carter Freeman winked with a lazy smile in my direction. “Hey there Mute Kera. How’s the horse whispering going.”

  His coy comment had me roll my eyes from under my veil of hair.

  Better, when you’re not around, would have been my remark. I couldn’t respond to his taunts or anyone else’s. They all had something mean to say, though horse whispering was a new insult. I pulled my text book from my bag, draping my curls across my face and focused on studying.

  Yes, numbers helped sort out any problem.

  I’d recently moved to Math B. For some strange reason I had become exceptionally well at adding and deducting long rhythms of numbers. I didn’t care when four weeks ago; Mr.. Wright had insisted I join his class for the rest of my eleventh year. This class held no memory and no recognition, a relief, maybe, but I felt a pinch of guilt knowing I would miss my old class. As I flipped the pages of my workbook, I didn’t pay attention to the chatter of the class, though, like a bad song on the radio, I couldn’t help but listen.

  “Did you see that Mercedes out front?” Asked a boy, three seats in front of me.

  “I did,” said another beside him. “It was super fine. Man I’d love that.”

  “Yeah,” added Carter—one of the B-team boys. “And wouldn’t that give me points with Valerie.”

  “Sure it would,” mocked Flynn.

  “Tiffany would love it,” said Brant, three seats to the left of them. If the B-Team had a king, he was it. “It wasn’t this year’s model,” he scoffed. “Only show off rich people would buy something like that.”

  “Or a new teacher,” said a student at the front.

  “Nope,” said Carter. “New student. He drove it himself.”

  “Oh, I saw him …” said a girl; she was too excited by their conversation. “He was—hot.” She turned to her friend to fill her in on what she’d seen. “I hope he’s in our year.” She beamed.

  “Tugh,” said another boy. “Don’t mean a thing. He’s still fresh meat either way.”

  I blocked out the discussion as the babble continued and grumbled inwardly as the realisation of a new student sunk in. He’d be accepted by the B-Team in no time, and besides, he wasn’t the first to be a new student in Kenneth. Claire Stevens, a girl who sat a space to my left was chatting quietly with another girl. She was once the object of everyone’s interest two months ago—not mine. And she fits in perfectly now. A little shy, definitely hesitant around me, but she was now a part of the school. Four months ago, I might have talked to her, I might have even been friends, but I didn’t. Due to the fact that she came here two months ago, and I was in no shape to talk to anyone, and still didn’t.

  I pondered the equation, grateful that the numbers helped me focus, but not about to block out the chattering students. I was surprised when they were silent while I worked. I was happy to finish my sum, but lost with the silence and glanced to see the new student standing at the door. Mr.Wright had stepped past him in a hurry.

  “Sorry I’m late my little calculators,” he thrilled, placing his suitcase on the table. He was one of the few teachers to be happy too teach. He smiled and nodded to the stranger at the door. “Oh yes and you are?” He waited with a wry look. The new student nodded, handed him a note and the teacher beamed. “Right. Right. Mr. Coffer, nice to meet you.” He clasped his hands together excited.

  The new student nodded with a glance to the room, nervous would have been the way a new student should look, perhaps fearful of the other students. If I’d walked into a new school, I’d have sweat on my palms, and a need to swallow hard, not to mention walking fast to my seat without making eye contact with anyone. But the new student didn’t show any fear. His eyes scanned us with a sense of intrigue.

  “Right, yes. Every one, this here is, Ethan Coffer. You can take a seat, and I’ll see what I can do for a lone textbook for you.” Mr. Wright smiled, not about to do a history of where Ethan came from and that was disappointing.

  I watched as this stranger moved gracefully and beautifully across the room. He didn’t show fear as he walked the rows of ogling students. His face was angelic. It was so handsome for a teenager it screamed dangerous. And his squared jaw line and deep brow was flawless. He held a teen dream of the perfect cute boy and the bad boy on the hard side of life wrapped in one. I found myself and every other girl around, gasp at his tall smooth walk. Just under six foot, he was tanned, well built for a teen of seventeen, and I could say he’d easily spend time in a gym, but he wasn’t overly built, which gave him that alluring lanky look. I could detect the foundation of well-toned abdomen under his tight grey tee, and muscular biceps as he held a notebook and pen in one hand. His dark hair waved to the nape of his neck as his eyes held on everyone for several seconds before moving to the next. Passing across the girls to the boys with equal length; making the girls blush and inhale to his gaze, the boys creased their brows and raised their chins. I was drawn to him instantly. As his green eyes locked with mine, seconds could have passed, and in that gaze, it was minutes—hours.

  The instant I saw him, I wanted to tell her about him. To whine about his super good looks, his graceful movements. The way his lips held a smile without smiling, and his long lashes were seductive and secretive in the same breath, not to mention his hair because it was different to normal hair.

  I couldn’t tell her.

  I wouldn’t be able to, and couldn’t tell her about anything ever again, no matter who or what it was. I’d never speak again. And with that knowledge, I averted my eyes to the numbers and continued with my calculations aware he’d taken the empty chair next to me. I shifted uneasy, allowing my long curls to drape to my left so he was out of my view. It didn’t hide the knowledge he was still watching me.

  As I neared D Block, a shudder of hope and sadness washed through me. This was one of many buildings
that held memory—the good kind. Walking in a daze, I swallowed hard and focused on the sight at the back of the class. Melody, sitting at her desk. I smirked at the memory of her bubbling with joy, waving to me to join her by the large window. I always sat on her right. I always had the window views and I always pulled from my bag a spare hair tie, since she always shuffled her hair with annoyance in English. I would talk endlessly with her, whispered and at times secret notes handed to one another behind open books we were supposed to be reading. With a nod at the memory and a smile in my thoughts, I dropped my eyes to the hard floor.

  It wasn’t real.

  She wasn’t there.

  The seat was empty, as it had been for three months.

  I wished it never was empty of her; I wished and prayed that she’d walk in late for class or that she’d drop her pen after clicking it in a high-speed race of nerves, wanting to ask Peter out.

  School was the one place I couldn’t escape her, and I learned to suffer—literally—in silence. What happened to her? What did we do on that Saturday? I could never answer those questions. Where had we gone? What had we discussed? To hear her voice and know everything was okay, and that all was right in the world. It was all I could do with my foggy world and it was a torment of my thoughts as it had been since that day.

  I dumped my bag to the floor and pulled out my copy of the Outsiders. Flipping the pages, I started to read from where I had left off last night. It was minutes after I started reading, when I was aware of the sudden silence. I chose to ignore it this time. I knew why there was a silence. The new student had entered. His courage in the first class was whispered and noted by all. Mr. Jamison greeted him with as much enthusiasm as Mr. Wright.

  “Ah, yes. Ethan. Nice to meet you. Good news with your father joining us here in Kenneth. Take a seat next to Kera.”

  My eyes shot up in anger. Mr. Jamison had not only said my name, but my worst fear in the same sentence.

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell and run from the room, or worse, I wanted to speak up and say, it was already taken. He can’t sit here.

  It was her seat.

  It was her desk.

  The feeling came deep in my abdomen—my legs were knocked from under me, and I was drowning in the dark water of emptiness. My heart was racing, my fingers went numb, and my breath caught on escaping, as my perspective gave in. And the knowledge my fog was slipping from my reality. Realisation swept over me.

  She was gone.

  Never will I be able to see her; only in my small strange vision of hope did she exist. Knowing it was wrong and strange was my doing, I had accepted that, maybe, just maybe I’d gone insane, but not to the point I needed medical attention, but still. It was my hope I wanted to see her, to talk to her. My memories helped keep my fog in place; it was all that held me together and for the most part, helped me avoid anything real. And now my fog was seeping and drifting at the edges.

  Seconds had passed since Mr. Jamison had spoken to Ethan, and now he was walking towards me. I glared at him in disbelief as he gracefully slipped in to the seat with ease as if the hard plastic was made for him. An anger deep inside started to fester; the kind I couldn’t control or explain. The lights above started to flicker, encouraging my rage. He was a foot from me. He was doing as he had done in the first class, taking in everyone with a degree of intrigue. He was most likely a normal guy, who was probably nice and interesting to talk to, and no—I didn’t want to know him. I didn’t talk. And the anger I was feeling was for him, he was taking away my memories of her.

  I glared with hatred so dark; even I didn’t know I had it. The flickering lights caught his attention as Mr. Jamison flipped the lights numerous times to stop the buzzing electricity. The other students were glancing at us—him. All of them were interested to know him and the annoyed look on Amanda’s face showed with bitterness. She wanted him to sit next to her, but all the tables in the classroom were in two’s; there was no room.

  I wished there was another seat he could take, one away from me.

  You shouldn’t be here. I hissed in annoyance when his eyes turned to me; the lights stopped flickering, and I was a little surprised to see silver eyes. No, he had green eyes. How was that possible? Shaking off the thought of his eye colour for another time, I continued to glare.

  That’s her seat, and you shouldn’t be in it.

  He didn’t return the cold stare, as I would have thought. His brow creased with a look of an apology, his lips twitched with sympathy for a sixth of a second. Shocked by his actions; I dropped my gaze to my book, making extra care my hair was a thick curtain of cover.

  I’m not your friend. I hissed towards him, in thought. The light above flickered, like a steady beat. You’re not mine. And I’m not going to budge. It’s her chair. You stole it … Part of me wished I could speak; yell at him for daring to make eye contact. Another part of me couldn’t hide the knowledge he had. The first realisation in three months, that someone noticed me here at all. But it was for all the wrong reasons.

  I tried to reason with it, I couldn’t be angry with him. “It’s not his fault. He’s new.” The voice of Melody nudged my thoughts.

  No. He’d taken your —her seat and he smiled. Two things that shouldn’t have happened. Three months or no three months. Four months ago, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Gossip with her was a big possibility, but now it was downright wrong.

  I couldn’t focus.

  I stared at my book, glancing at words with little acknowledgement. It didn’t help with the flickering light above me. The words rolled together as I turned pages, some leaped forth. Betrayal, unjustified, inappropriate, unreasoning … words that held my thoughts on the awareness that he was still here. I couldn’t read, but I couldn’t stop pretending I wasn’t. I turned the pages counting off time, hoping it was working. It seemed logical if I couldn’t read the book to at least make it look like I was. English went slower than I dreamed possible. If I pretend he wasn’t there, it might make things easier. I wanted my friend here, I wanted Melody beside me, even if it meant he was in front of us, and we could peek at his dark locks, but that wasn’t possible. A hushed laugh eased from his lips. Risking a peek, a tiny glance and that was it, had me stare at my book again. Ethan had peeked at me from the corner of his eye—he was watching me.