The Red Bluejay, Chpt.1

I'm not normal.

 

Never have been, never will be. I've always known. Always. It's just been apart of me, I guess. At first I had thought that it was normal, that everyone could do what I could. That was a mistake I quickly got over. I have to cover it up pretty quick though. There's no way I'd ever let the fuzz take me away. It just doesn't register in my mind.

 

Anyways, normal is definitely not me. Normal would be taking ballet at the age of six, not martial arts. Normal would be buying lip gloss and nail polish, not knives and guns. Normal would be get tired after running for ten minutes, not ten hours. Normal would be getting and IQ of 100, not 146. Normal would be sweating after holding a 200 pound weight, not after holding a 600 pound weight. Normal would be having your cut heal after a couple weeks, not a couple minutes. Normal would be hearing a cry from a few feet away, not a few kilometers. You see where I'm getting at?

 

But enough of that mushy crap. Let's visit the extremely boring math class in which I'm currently attending, shall we?

 

******

 

"Evelinde!"

 

Mrs. Murphy's voice h my dreams like a knife through flesh. Not like I have any dreams, though. And if I do, it isn't a good sign (unless it's of a sign saying "good" of course, but I have yet to dream of that). I waken instantly, an automatic reaction drilled into my brain from years of martial arts training. I look up at my math teacher's stone-hard features, now flushed with anger.

 

"Yes, ma'am?" I say, expressionless.

 

"Math class is not naptime, young lady," she scolds, "Now pay attention or else it's a trip to Mrs. May's room for you."

 

I nod. But, right when her back is turned, I lay my head down on my desk and try to return to sleep.

 

Suddenly a weird feeling creeps down my spine, causing me to shiver. A ominous cold spreads from my back to my legs and arms, striping me of any warmth in my body. Fortunately (or not to fortunately), I've felt this before . . . right before I was almost robbed (stupid suckers didn't stand a chance). The Reaper Chill, as I call it.

 

My head snaps up and I scan the room, my sharp eyes not missing a thing. Then I work on my hearing, spreading it to take in all of the school. Other than the usual mumblings of the other middle scholars, nothing was out of ordinary. I was just about to resume my nap when a particular sound caught my attention. The sharpening of a blade. It came from the lower level, right outside the janitors closet. Soft footsteps follow and I know the person is on the move.

 

A loud, agonized scream echoes through the school, loud enough for even the other students in my class to hear. They freak.

 

"What was that?"

 

"What's happening?"

 

"Is someone hurt?"

 

"Can I have a taco?"

 

Mrs. Murphy tries her best to calm the class, saying it'll be alright and that it's just some moron playing a cruel joke, but they don't buy it. I don't blame them, I wouldn't either if I didn't have my ultra sensitive hearing.

 

A loud banging on the door quietens the room and everyone holds their breath. I can hear him (its a him for sure). He smells of blood, steel and gunpowder. From the sound of the metal brushing fabric, I can tell that he has a gun in his pocket and the knife in his hand.

 

A scratched voice sounds from the other side of the door, muffled by what I'm guessing is a ski mask, "Open this door right now. I don't want to hurt you."

 

All the students cower and one girl starts to sob. When no one makes a move to the door, the man makes a harsh laugh.

 

"Your choice."

 

With a high-pitched splintering sound, the door splits in half and a man walks in. He wears a crooked smile that reveals yellow-stained teeth and mattered, greasy brown hair that sticks to skull like a second skin. In one hand, he brandishes a gleaming a knife ten inches long and his other hand is stuffed in his pocket, presumably holding his gun. His entire front half is covered in fresh blood.

 

"Now, hand over Evelinde Stardust and I will walk out of here without another death on my hands, got that?" he hisses.

 

It's obvious from his wandering gaze that he doesn't know which one of us is Evelinde. But unfortunately, my shocked classmates give me away by "sneaking" glances my way. The man, noticing their glance, grins wider and walks over to me.

 

"No!" Mrs. Murphy shouts and blocks the man's path.

 

Without warning, the guy whips out his gun and fires a volley of bullets. The bullets slam into the teacher's chest and she goes down, blood pooling at the man's feet. The kids gasp and the sobbing girl starts to cry.

 

The man reaches over and yanks me to my feet. With one bloody hand on my arm and the other holding his gun pointing at the students, he exits the room.