Chapter 1

Introducing a slow awakening - becoming aware of change.

Chapter 1

Her eyes fluttered open - it was the beginning - of what, who could say, but it would be beautiful. A beautiful, butterfly's dream.

* * *

It began as a dream. Like a dream. Like nothing she had seen before. When she discussed it with her friends on forums and Skype (and the few she had made at school), there was a general feeling of increasing confusion. No one seemed to know what it meant - other than the fact that her mother's boyfriend, as usual, was a creeper. Still, it drove her to the internet in search of answers - but only got her muddled, vague forays into the future - or into her current psyche.

It began as a dream, and as a dream, it recurred again - sometimes as often as three times a week. Time went by and she couldn't help but wonder what it could mean. Twiddling her pencil, staring out of her History classroom's small, slanted windows, she replayed the image over and over again in her head. It had become a familiar sight to her - as lucid as any kind of reality she had toyed with.

A simple dream really: Lance standing over her, face shadowed by the darkness around them. She could only tell it was him by the faint moonlight which set a little of his silhoette in relief. There was the familiar slant to his shoulders - the kind of set which said that he was deep in thought over something - or maybe not. He would stand like that over the television set and bang it, cursing it - complaining loudly about wanting a flat, high-def screen. She knew it was him by the familiar rough asthmatic breathing.

Part of her immediately screamed for help - but the cry was internal and the night revealed no help. Her mother didn't come running (but then, when did she ever?) - and nothing stirred in the house. She could only lay there, as he stood there watching her - and then her vision would dim - and she would drift away thinking, "Damn, I wasn't able to hit him this time either..." Deep down, then, she knew, she was the kind to strike back.

It left a taste of bitterness in her mouth. And when she woke up with a gasp, he would be gone from her dream and it would be morning and the sun would be trickling through the dusty windows which had seen better days. She would slowly trudge downstairs, bewildered and grumpy because of it, barely get a 'good morning' out before settling down to a bowl of cereal.

And Lance would be there - with her mother in tow - complaining yet again about another thing which he hadn't had the energy to fix himself. Watching them both had the potential of annoying her. Her mother, who couldn't fry an egg to save her life, would fiddle with the microwave - standing there in her threadbare lingerie.

Makes me wonder, really, what Lance sees in her. It's not like she's God's gift to the world or anything. And as for Lance himself... well... I guess he's not much better.

Lance, in the mornings, wasn't a sight to behold either: an unwashed t-shirt with goodness knows what on it, and some crumply plaid boxers which had seen better days. He would slouch down on his seat and yell at her mom for things - and her mom, bless her heart, would try to comply while battling yet another hangover. The air was blue with curses and she wondered how much lower could she go... She could swear on really bad mornings she was playing some kind of mental limbo - She would roll her eyes and snort to herself, wishing her Dad were there. He wouldn't take such nonsense.

No, he wouldn't.

But he wasn't there - a blonde with ambition and less issues than Mom - had taken him away, and he hadn't returned.

On bad days, she couldn't blame him.

Perhaps this would be one of those bad days.

Her teacher called her name and she responded automatically, ignoring the laughter of her classmates. They weren't as interesting as her dreams.

* * *

Her name was Kara. Kara, if you went by thinkbabynames.com, came from the Latin name Cara which meant, 'beloved'. On the other hand, babynamesworld said her name meant 'friend', 'beloved' or 'black'. It confused her - how the plethora of information could be so contradictory. A part of her wanted to keep things just so and make sure it was all orderly.

A part of her, which wanted to go to University to study for English Critical Theory, wondered if this was all part of the misinformation created by people who wanted to have power. Power over the minds of others. How many other Karas out there had googled their name in hope of having some meaning to their seemingly random life?

Did they base their whole life on the concept of being beloved or friend? If that's the case, I've failed at both, she thought. But then, it's not like I'm trying to be somebody's poster child. And Mom couldn't care less.

Some part of her wondered what kind of person she would be, if her Mom had only cared a little more. How much of it was the fault of genetics? The fault of parenting? The fault of personal natural flaws which grew or diminished with time?

Even now - at a mature age of seventeen - and to some that wasn't mature at all (really the whole thing was so subjective it made one feel rather woozy) - she had always mused over what could be laid at her door and what would be laid at her mother's... what could be laid at her grandmother's....

And was this a viable question to begin with? What kind of thought would this really engender? It was nothing more than chasing after the wind, surely. For a second, something pressed down - a memory of a small poem - something her father had used to quote:

A centipede was happy quite,
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.

She had laughed as a young child at the picture which arose in her mind. Yet later on, as understanding slowly dawned, it became less laughable.

Sitting there, in History class, Kara came to realize that she was, perhaps the centipede. But it posed a question, who was the frog?

* * *

Her bedroom was a small square in the corner of the smallest, ugliest house on the block (which was saying a lot, since the neighborhood was 'over the tracks'). On the second floor, there seemed to be no insulation - so that in the winter, her room was very very cold - and in the summer, her room was twice as hot. It went without saying there was no central heating in that home - and no air conditioning - except in the master bedroom (Lance wouldn't have it any other way).

A long time ago, she had moved all of her belongings (which weren't many) into her tiny hole of a room. This cramped things a little, but she had chosen to think of it as homey - if a tad bit messy. She always had to make a point though, to clean, before her more OCD friend could come over. Sometimes, she would lose sight of the floor - and her books would pile up something awful.

Then some kind of a cleaning fit would come upon her, and she would sit and sort through her papers and books and clothes and cdes and dvds and all of her past time trinkets - and recall memories of a larger house and a happier home.

One without creeping Lance. One without alcohol except for the occasional wine glass at Christmas. When they could afford wine.

Every year, her dad gave his daughter a card with a short message inside. She appreciated the money which accompanied it, even more. One day, she knew, a better part-time job would be in order.

Very soon, she thought, a large sum of money will be in order - and working at a coffee shop isn't going to cut it.

Still, it was work - and work in such a neighborhood - overshadowed by the industries and exploited by the corporations - was an important find indeed.

Although it wasn't her favourite kind of activity - dealing with stupid people on top of dealing with hormonal classmates - Kara had managed to do well - and slowly gained seniority over the few years she had worked there. Turnover was high in the drive through. But she stuck it - if not for pride in her job - then, for need of new entertainment. Dvds and manga didn't grow on trees.

Over time, her room gained more clutter - somehow, subconsciously, it became a wall between her and the rest of the world. Perhaps, she hoped that in her dream, creeper Lance would trip over a stack of books and break his neck and die. Leaving her in peace.

But she never had the satisfaction of seeing such a dream... He always left as he had come - noiselessly - on the wings of darkness -

Her window, above her bed, had a few limp curtains which were very light thanks to constant bleaching of the sun. The sill was black from the grime of pollution which poured out of the tall chimneys of factories above them. Long ago, she had given up keeping them the pure white paint they had been.

Outside her window, a stunted pine tree stood - it's branches weedy looking and never bearing the amount of cones a healthier tree could produce. No squirrels perched there - not anymore - although, if you talked to Mr. Finnegan down the street, he would tell you stories of the days when there was less urban sprawl and factories - and more of nature and green growing things.

Then, the birds had sang outside the windows, he said, and had come to perch on the seed feeders and the tall flowers that could grow even naturally in one's backyard.

If there was one good thing that Kara was glad for it was that she couldn't see the desolate tiny plot which her family called a backyard. It was more her mom's stoop, to sit on throughout the day, slowly getting more drunk through the afternoon. Sometimes, Lance would go out to weed-eat - or grill a burger. She never went back there... it was the kind of place which sapped the soul. Beyond her row of houses, was wire fencing and beyond that rolls and rolls of cement, wire and glass and other slag and raw materials for whatever was manufactered in the looming buildings of Max Bros. and General Motors.

So, the curtains were drawn, and she could sit there, in the twilight on her bed. Watching as the light faded on the still glossy posters on her wall. Wondering if tonight, the dream would come again.

* * *

Beyond the continent, across the ocean, a young Asian boy sat on his bed and watched the light grow within his room. It didn't dance on his ceiling - nor did it illuminate the room very well. Without looking outside his window, he knew right away what kind of day it would be. It would be business as usual: grey smog, thick and heavy in the air, obscuring the city skyline.

Optomists years ago had thought that with the arrival of the atomic energy, the skies would clear about the ancient Chinese city. But Li Biming's generation knew better. Economic stress had given rise to grander projects - and more allowances for the corporations to grow without restraint.

So the smog remained as it had for his father and grandfather. The pressures remained the same - now that Indian was again threatening to surpass China in population size yet again. And with the rise in populations, in both countries, came a rising need for increased amounts of food and other resources, he was sure the Earth couldn't give.

And there he was: a young boy, already caught in the great wheel of life's pressures. There had been the choices of his father and mother, poring over the right pre-school to enroll him in. It would set him on his path in life, they were certain - as it had done for them. But then, his mother had died - his father had remarried and had been given twins - two young boys. And Biming found himself superfluous.

That was never good.

He had a feeling that somehow, like some piece of flotsam and jestam, he'd be whipped up in the maelstrom of life without a teather - like a cormorant diver's boat before a monsoon...

So he worked twice as hard to avoid the fate of migrant workers and wondered if that dream would ever pass -

The image of his father, bending over him, eyes sorrowful and disappointed in the dark of the night.

* * *

She was a samurai - neither girl nor boy. A fighter for justice, protecting the ones she had held dear. Protecting their memories. She was slashing her way to the main plaza hoping to avenge the ones she had lost. Her steel blade was stained red with the blood of the soldiers who fruitlessly tried to target her - but her feet were swift like the wind.

Leaping into the air, hands fiercely clenching the hilt of her blade, she let the wind carry her forward. Flying step through the air - intangible like a ghost - as her sword swept down, she enjoyed the panic in the eyes of the men before her. It was a Louis Cha scene - and she was the disciple who, against all odds, including her Western heritage, had successfully completed the steps of her shifu - now a true disciple of the arcane martial arts.

Nothing would be able to stand up against her - not the soldiers, the machine guns, the bombs or the high security surrounding the dictator -

Before she knew it, she was had penetrated the inner sanctum. It was remarkably familiar. It was -

A small cluttered bedroom with a twin bed underneath a window. There was a girl under the sheets sleeping and a man looming over her...

She woke up.