» makeshift « chapter four up ;; critique appreciated

[videlicet]

wip
change·ling [cheynj-ling] noun
a child surreptitiously or unintentionally substituted for another.

From the dawn of time, Changelings have been persecuted; ignorance and fear feeding the flames that far too often consumed their lives at the stake, whilst jeering crowds watched on with sadistic glee. Depicted throughout history as beasts, monsters, unnatural, devious beings that came from no human womb. They were half-animal, half-human, born of the darkest sort of magic, for the sole purpose of tainting the Earth. They had no standing in society, and were forced to hide their true nature -either by masquerading full-time as humans, or retreating into the wilderness to live like the beasts most people believed them to be. Bigotry and hatred followed them everywhere, shaping their name with bitterly cursed letters. Changeling; those who share their body with that of a beast, with the ability to shift between either form.
Modern science has, of course, laid rest to all the ghosts that cling like cobwebs to the name. Changelings are not born of any supernatural interference, they are not demons switched at birth with human infants. In fact, they themselves are, for the most part, genetically human.
But over a millennia of prejudice is a hard thing to shake. Changelings have been accepted as a functioning part of society now, yes. There are no more executions, hangings, or burnings (for the most part, in the civilized world). Intermarriage has been legalized in seven countries, and humans and Changelings interact all over the world on a daily basis. They rub shoulders at most workplaces and stand in the same lines at restaurants and movie theatres. But, the persecution is far eradicated -far from even being close. Changeling youth are separated from human children the day they go through their first Change, fingers are crooked behind backs, and discrimination abounds. Ignorance leads to fear and fear leads to hatred. Always has, and likely always will. It's an indisputable fact of existence. As are Changelings.

Hannah Bowman was adopted two years after her birth, has never met her father, and has very few memories of her mother. She has lived in the same house since her adoption, grown up around the same people. She has her entire future set in stone, planned out to the finest detail. She will finish high school, attend university on very strained funds and a massive student loan that will likely haunt her for a decade after. She will get a degree in something practical, maybe meet a man, graduate, and enter the world of work. She'll amass enough funds to afford a decent house, maybe move to Europe, and, just possibly, start a family. She'll get a dog -a chocolate Lab- and name him Bruce. Hannah is happy in the security of her life.
Until November 19th, when her whole world comes crashing down around her ears, and she is forced to sift through the wreckage. The first Change is the event in which a child's body undergoes its very first shift from human to animal form. It occurs in children most often between the ages of 6 to 13 -earlier is rare, and later is even rarer. Hannah was fourteen when it happened to her.
She is shipped off to Petrichor Academy, one of the oldest Changeling-schools in the world, and the very oldest in Canada. Away from home for the very first time she can remember, Hannah must struggle to rebuild her perception of life -specifically, hers. Cold, grandiose buildings, a sprawling campus, and constricting uniforms fill in for the world she's left behind. She's thrust in amongst a crowd of strangers, and begins to acclimatize.
But that's when the trouble begins. Now is not the best of times to be a Changeling.

{This idea came to me from absolutely nowhere. I was at a swim practice, and it hit me like a brick, nearly full-formed. A few tweaks and detail-renderings later, here we are. I hope you enjoy it, and I will honestly be forever indebted to you if you offer critique!}

[videlicet]

» introduction
» chapter one
» chapter two
» chapter three


» Hannah Bowman : 14 years old | female | student at Petrichor Academy | light brown hair | brown eyes | Eurasian lynx shift
» Elizabeth Joan Darby (Beth) : 14 years old | female | student at Petrichor Academy | auburn hair | green eyes | Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever shift
» David Hayden Thorn (Davey) : 14 years old | male | student at Petrichor Academy | dark brown hair | light blue eyes | white-tailed deer shift
» Lucas Bowman (Dad) : 44 years old | male | accountant | greying black hair | grey eyes | human
» Jennifer Bowman (Mum) : 42 years | female | chef at Swiss Chalet | dark brown hair | hazel eyes | human

...more to come later.

[videlicet]

The rain fell in torrents outside the window, turning the world beyond into a haze of grey. The only spot of colour was the climbing frame; a pastel-streak of yellow in the monochromatic playground. It was depressing, Hannah decided, contemplating it with half-closed eyes from her seat by the window. At the head of the classroom, Mr. Baker was speaking about essays, or so Hannah assumed, because that was the only word she’d caught. Everyone in the room sat in variations of her position; heads on their arms, or in their hands, or, in a few cases, right against the desks. It was last period. The whole school was in a near comatose state, drilled to the brink of exhaustion in their previous three classes. All they could do now was watch the clock, counting out every second of the seventy-five minutes left of their confinement. Or, as in Hannah’s case, stare out the window, at the thunderstorm working itself up into a frenzy. In her unbiased opinion (as she’d spent roughly a half hour at each of them), it was the more interesting of the two options.
She shifted in her seat, resting two fingers on her temple and rubbing them in a slow circle. There was a steady pounding just beneath her skull, and a low churning roiling in her stomach like the storm outside. All she wanted to do was go home, and curl up on her bed with a book, or maybe just collapse and fall asleep right off the bat. The latter option was looking increasingly more appealing as time wore on. Only fifteen more minutes…
A violent crack of thunder shattered Hannah’s stupor, and, judging by the reaction of the rest of the class, theirs as well. Mr. Baker’s sentence dropped off into silence, and he looked up from his hands to his students, as if only just becoming aware of their presence. A ripple of muttering spread out, as it always did; rhetorical and obvious exclamations of, ‘Did you hear that?’ and ‘Scared me half to death!’.
“Class, quiet down! It was just a bit of thunder! We’re almost done here, just pay attention for ten more minutes, please.” Mr. Baker snapped, trying to regain (well, not really, as he never had it to begin with) the class’ attention. Hannah sunk lower into her seat, gritting her teeth against the pounding in her head. Her stomach did a sort of backflip, and her fists clenched.
“Hannah, you okay? You don’t look too good.” A whisper from somewhere behind her, accompanied by the prod of a pencil eraser against her back, caused Hannah’s head to rise slightly. She turned, to see Melody watching her with an expression of concern furrowing her brow and settling between her eyes. She smiled and jerked a nod in response, not trusting herself to speak lest she accidentally spew all over her friend’s desk. Melody didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press the question.
For that, Hannah was overwhelmingly thankful. She rested her head on her arms again, staring fixedly at the initials (or so she assumed) carved into the wood of her desk. RT, they read, ragged and deeply cut, but worn smooth by countless fingertips tracing over their surface. She brought out her left pinkie, and did just as all the others had, touching the groove and moving along the contours. It was a strangely comforting motion.
Hannah curled her pinkie back inwards suddenly, fists clenching until her knuckles were a shade from white. Nausea was beginning to rise up from her stomach like a wave, and two thoughts began a war for supremacy in her mind. Firstly, ‘I’m going to throw up,’ painted in vibrant and jagged yellow, and secondly, ‘Not in class, please not in class’ scrawled alongside it in a jarring shade of red. They tumulted together, clashing like the storm outside the classroom and adding to the cacophony in her head. The world seemed to narrow, and Hannah felt her hands reaching out to grip the sides of her desk as her body rose to make a dash for the bathroom down the hall. Her knee connected with the desk corner, sending a jolt of pain down through her nerve endings and straight to the synapses in her brain. It registered -pain. Then she fell over.
The next thing she knew, she was on the floor –cold, hard linoleum pressing up against her throbbing back, and the storm had somehow descended into the classroom, violent sound swirling around her, noise and light and sensation flooding in like a tide breaking the gates. For a moment, she was disoriented. Where was she? The reek of sweat, mingling with the aroma of perfume, and the sharp smell of pencil shavings. Too-loud voices of all pitches and frequencies, and then a head, swimming into view, far too close for comfort. Mr. Baker, leaning over her, brown eyes wide with what could only be described as shock crinkling the corners, stubbly jaw slack, mouth open, and coffee-breath contaminating her air supply. English class. Last period. Thursday, November 19th.
The words came a moment later, brain having to strain to pick out the meaning from the overflow of sound coursing in through her ears.
Loudest, came the voice of Mr. Baker, high-pitched and frightened, “Oh my God, Hannah! Hannah? Hannah? Hannah?” Underlying it, were the utterances of all her classmates; snippets of, ‘Oh my God’, and ‘Hannah’, repeating over and over like a broken record, and ‘What just happened?’ (and many variations thereof). But, most of all, there was one word, that struck her thoughts stone-dead, and sent a terrified chill down to the base of her spine. It whispered through everything else like the hiss of a snake, said quietly but somehow more loudly than all else at once. “Changeling.”
No. No, no, no, no. The word magnified in her mind, spaces dissolving and leaving one long tangle, twisting and solidifying, rebelling against the voices that dared lay their stifling verdict down. Changeling. As if. She was fourteen now –that simply didn’t happen at this age. Her life was set, path planned and concrete. That word was not allowed to sidle its way in now, and tear down those foundations she had spent so long building. It had no place in her life, so those people saying it right now, letting it pass their lips like a curse could just shut their mouths. Hannah felt a vehement snarl escape her.
Her blood slowed to ice in her veins. Mr. Baker’s face retreated, bouncing away but still retaining its minute detail, and the sounds of desk legs scraping and feet sliding away were the instrumental to the violent song raging in her head. She had snarled, for that was the only word that could be attributed to that… sound that had escaped her, that feral grating of vocal cords in a primal expression of anger. Hannah Bowman did not snarl. In fact, the human race did not snarl. They attributed the word to noises that resembled it to some capacity, but they themselves were not physically capable of producing the noise that she had just let out. Which left only one question to be answered. What was she?
Hannah struggled to her feet (was that the right word?), confusion and fear coursing in equal measure through her every vein. She looked down, seeing paws below her in the place of hands. Though she had been expecting it, the sight still threw her. It felt like a punch to the stomach. Animal paws -caramel-beige fur covering the four toes, and claw tips protruding ever-so-slightly from their sheaths. The world began to narrow again.
When she came to her senses this time, there was no throbbing pain accompanying her overwhelming sense of displacement. For a moment, she lay there, simply feeling the softness against her back, the warmth of something draped across her, listening to the sound of raindrops pattering loudly against a windowpane. Then everything came flooding back, and Hannah sat up with a jolt and an unintentional gaspy exhale of breath. She registered the bend in her middle, the way her hands strayed to either side of her, gripping the sides of the bed with their four digits and opposable thumb. Human. Never before had that word had such a profound effect.
Before she had time to properly catch up with her racing thoughts, a quiet cough from somewhere to her right cut her off. A woman sat in a chair a few feet away from her –short, dumpy, with grey hair rimming her face. It took a second, but Hannah placed her. The school nurse. The woman looked slightly discomfited, and Hannah followed her gaze back to herself. The blanket that had been placed on her had fallen to her stomach as she’d sat up, and Hannah was mortified to find that beneath it lay nothing but her bare skin. Mortification rose in her, combatting with the extremis of all her other emotions to send a hot flush of blood to colour her cheeks. She grabbed the blanket, and drew it up higher. The nurse gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, voice soft and kind, laced with sincerity and almost dripping honey. It was in wild contrast with her heavy jaw and deep-set eyes.
Hannah opened her mouth to reply automatically, the ‘fine’ already forming in her throat before she shut it with a click. For the first time, she stopped to consider the question. How was she feeling? Physically, she was completely sound; the sharp pain in her knee had long since faded, and the ache in her back was hardly noticeable. The pounding headache that had plagued her earlier had vanished as well, as had the violent nausea that had, in her mind, triggered the whole episode. But, the tone in the nurse’s voice had suggested a concern surpassing that of bodily-wellbeing. How was she feeling mentally?
“Lost,” she replied.
The nurse’s eyebrows raised, steely grey mountain peaks. “You had what is commonly termed your “first Change” a little over ten minutes ago in Henry Baker’s ninth grade English class. It is known that the shock of the event increases exponentially with the age the Change occurs at, so it is no strange thing that you fell unconscious soon after you realized what had happened. Mr. Baker took it upon himself to carry you down here while you were still in your shifted form. Moments before you woke up you changed back –also common; it is difficult to hold the change the first few times. Your parents have been contacted, and they will arrive soon. Does that clear everything up?” She recounted everything with such cool, collected factuality that one would assume that she dealt with this on a daily basis. But Hannah knew better. Even in elementary schools and middle schools, first Changes only occurred on average once every month or two. At a high school, it was practically unheard-of.
“I-it’s not that,” Hannah answered again, hearing the words for the first time as they left her mouth, “I know what happened –it just-“
“Frightened you? Confused you?” There were no eyebrow-raises this time around; the nurse was in her depth –this was the answer she had been expecting from the start.
“Yes –I guess so- yeah.”
The intercom by the cot Hannah was seated on let out a low buzz, and the nurse got to her feet.
“That’ll be your parents. I’m afraid your clothes are a bit out of state –you can wear them still if you’d like, but there are also replacement garments on-“ she pointed at the table that sat right behind the chair she had occupied until moments ago, “that table right there. Get dressed, and I’ll bring your parents in to meet you. Okay, dear?” She added in the last word after a pause, like an afterthought.
Hannah nodded, and slid off the cot. Her feet touched the floor just as the door shut with a click.

[videlicet]

Fingers steepled underneath a prominent chin, and Mr. Rigby leaned forward. “We have to discuss options now, of course.”
Hannah’s brow furrowed in confusion, and she looked across the table to the principal, who had leaned back into his chair after imparting that statement. Her gaze then moved to her parents, who sat side-by-side on her left. She watched with an increasing sense of foreboding as they met each other’s eyes, and nodded in turn.
“Are you really sure this is necessary?” her father asked, grey eyes concerned. “Can Hannah not continue to pursue her education here just as she has planned to from the start?”
Oh. Of course… how had she forgotten?
“I didn’t make the law, Mr. Bowman, but it is my job to enforce it. Changelings and humans have never been educated in the same environment, for reasons that you must be aware of. We can’t make any exceptions.”
Anger began to well up in her, and Hannah bit her tongue to keep from blurting out something that she would definitely regret later. So, she contented herself with merely thinking it, focusing furiously on Mr. Rigby’s receding hairline. It wasn’t his fault, she knew that, but he was there, and therefore he would take the blame until she found a more suitable receptacle. Why did they have that law? It was ridiculous; what “reasons” were there to justify the segregation of Changeling youth from regular humans? Had anyone stopped to ask her whether or not she wanted to be shipped off to some “academy”, and separated from her family and friends? How on earth was that in any way supposed to help her come to terms with the fact that her perception of life was falling to pieces around her? Had any of them realized that, she wondered. Had they stopped for a moment, to put themselves in her shoes? Her parents, who had received a phone call from the school little over half an hour ago. The nurse who had been in the infirmary with her when she woke up. Mr. Baker, who had carried her there. Her classmates, whose whispers she had regained consciousness to. And Mr. Rigby, who was sitting there on the other side of the table, doing his job just as he was supposed to. Had any of them paused for a moment, to wonder how Hannah Bowman was coping? Tears began to prick at her eyes, and Hannah set herself to blinking furiously, refusing to cry in front of the principal.
“I –yes, yes, of course we do. But, as it stands-“ her father paused, swallowing before continuing, “-as it stands, we don’t have the… sufficient funds to enroll Hannah in any of the academies that law dictates she must attend.”
Mr. Rigby looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I know there are funds set aside to help out families who aren’t as financially stable, and I’m sure you could apply for a scholarship to ease your way. I –the school can definitely look into that for you, if you would like?” His last sentence curled up into a question, and Hannah allowed herself a certain vindictive pleasure at watching the various expressions of discomfiture flit across Mr. Rigby’s face as he discussed her family’s finances.
Her parents glanced at each other again, and Hannah wished she could understand the silent conversation being held between them.
“That’d be helpful, if you wouldn’t mind,” her mother said, tucking a stray lock of dark brown hair behind her ear as she spoke. “When is it that Hannah must stop attending this school?”
Now Mr. Rigby definitely looked uneasy. “Well –erm- that’d be immediately.” The words jolted Hannah, and it must have shown on her face, because he put on an apologetic smile.
“Straight away? That seems a little harsh, don’t you think?” Her father’s tone was steely, and Hannah felt a burst of affection for him. That explained quite a bit… why her classmates who’d had their first Change back in elementary school had simply disappeared, never to be seen again. She and her friends had entertained a silly conspiracy theory for a while, laughing over it and discussing it together in hushed voices. It wasn’t a fond memory anymore, though; Hannah was beginning to feel sick to her stomach again.
“It’s the way it is,” Mr. Rigby offered, “we can’t afford any slipshifting in classes, and Changelings are especially prone to that during the months after their first Change. It’s an unfortunate situation, I get that, but I can’t change it.”
“What if I don’t want to go?” Hannah burst out, lurching forwards to place both her hands on the table. She felt the tears well up in her eyes again, and a violent surge of both anger and helplessness.
Everyone looked at her. Mr. Rigby, frozen like a deer in the headlights, opened his mouth but no words came out. Her parents turned to her, apologies written all over both of their faces. They’d accepted the situation already, and weren’t going to help her fight it. Hannah felt her stomach sink to her toes. She’d woken up this morning just like on any other day; she’d stumbled to the kitchen and poured herself some cereal, then made it back to her room to dress herself for the day, then brush her teeth and fight her unruly hair, before heading off to school. She’d made it through the school day like any other, taking half-hearted notes through Geography, mentally screaming throughout Math, giving it her best shot in Phys. Ed, and paying attention in English –until her nausea and headache overwhelmed her and reduced her to lying pathetically on the desk. How had the world managed to go so wrong?
“We don’t have much of a choice,” her mother answered at last, voice soft. She nudged her chair closer, and reached out a hand to lie on top of her daughter’s. Hannah withdrew her hand from underneath, placing it on her lap in a fist. It was probably a cruel gesture, one that would fill her with guilt later, when her mind finally stopped racing, and she was allowed to slowly contemplate the events that had so thoughtlessly torn life as she knew it asunder. But, at the moment, Hannah didn’t care. Her gaze turned to meet her father’s; dark brown connecting with soft grey. He was gnawing unconsciously at his bottom lip.
“Your mother’s right,” he bit out at last, each word grinding to a full-stop before the next overlapped it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed silently, and Hannah jerked her head in a half-nod, already feeling a burning sensation of embarrassment at her outburst. It coiled uneasily in her stomach like a snake, only adding to the returning nausea.
Mr. Rigby presumably felt the same way, because he had his hands clasped together in front oh him, pointer fingers beating out a discordant rhythm on their opposite hands. His eyes were downcast, as if he was trying to spare the family in front of him a moment of privacy. “I think we’re finished here… yes?” he offered, pushing out his chair with a creak, poised to leave.
Hannah’s mother looked away from her. “Yeah, I think we are. Thank you.”
Mr. Rigby stood up, offering them a wan smile. “The school will contact you about procedures and such within the next day or so –I will collect information on scholarships and the schools available as well. We would have had them ready, but-“ he spread his hands wide, in the universal gesture of ‘well, what can we do?’ accompanied by an apologetic grimace, “-this isn’t exactly standard procedure for us.” His gaze flickered momentarily to Hannah as he said that, and she felt a stab of completely unfounded guilt. It was quashed almost immediately –this wasn’t her fault! She didn’t want this, and never had.
Her father got to his feet as well, reaching his hand across the table. “We appreciate your time, Mr. Rigby.”
“Mr. Bowman,” he clasped his hand roughly, then released the grip, and made his way toward the door. He stepped through it, before stopping in his tracks, and turning his head back to address Hannah. “I’m… sorry. And-and congratulations?” he fumbled, and Hannah caught a glimpse of colour beginning to rise in his cheeks before he turned away again and strode out the doorway and out of sight.
A short while later, Hannah was finally on her way home. She pressed her head against the cool glass of the car window, listening to the patter of the rain outside. It had slowed from the tempestuous storm of earlier to a steady drizzle. But the broil of emotions and thoughts inside her head hadn’t calmed at all, no matter how much Hannah tried to slow her breathing, clench and unclench her fists, channel it into the armrests by her sides. She felt as if she were slowly and painfully imploding.
“How are you feeling, Han?” her father asked from up front, hands clenched around the steering wheel. The concern was evident in his voice, though he tried to hide it, and painfully visible in his posture; the tautness of his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, how he sat, ramrod-straight, not allowing himself to relax into the seat.
“Fine, Dad,” she lied in answer.
“No you’re not,”
Hannah stiffened in her seat, drawing her head away from the coolness of the window. Gaze shifting to the back of the driver’s seat, before moving down to her hands, which had clasped themselves in her lap without her noticing, Hannah made no reply. What was there to say to that, anyways? In fact, what kind of question was it that had prompted her answer in the first place? How did her father think she was feeling? Hannah bit her lip to stop the well of tears threatening to break over once again. She’d held them back successfully so far –there was no way she was going to succumb now. No, they would have to wait until she was safe in the privacy of her bedroom. Then, and only then, would she take the moment to mourn for the life she had lost. Everything. In the span of less than thirty minutes, Hannah had seen her whole world, all her plans for the future, everything she thought she knew, torn down around her. It wasn’t fair, she thought again, the fury of it tinted a violent red in her mind.
Not another word was spoken until they pulled into the driveway. Hannah felt a sharp pang at the sight of her house; two floors, modest in size, brick, with a front door in an embarrassing shade of orange. Nineteen Oak Terrace –the address she had spent most of her life residing at. Strange, how it could look both so similar and so different from how it had that morning. She got out of the car.
Once inside, Hannah shucked her shoes in silence, not bothering to pick them up and move them over to the rack. On any other day, that would’ve earned her a sharp reprimand from either of her parents. Today, her mother merely picked them up in silence, moving them herself before retreating into the living room in her husband’s wake. Hannah watched them go for a moment, feeling an irrational spike of anger. They were giving her space, she knew that –she wanted space right now, more than any form of confrontation- but she couldn’t help but feel as if they were brushing her off, in a sense.
She took it out on the stairs, pounding into them as she stomped up to her bedroom.
The door was flung open, banging into the wall with a sound that elicited a wince from Hannah despite the fact that it had been her intention in the first place. For the first time, the familiarity of her surroundings did nothing to soothe the roiling of emotions within her. It had always been able to calm her before, the sight of her white-and orange checkered bedspread, the bookshelf positively messy and overflowing (in striking contrast with the positively Spartan appearance of the rest of the room), the light orange of her unadorned walls, the feel of the cool wooden floor against her bare feet. But not today. No, today, Hannah was too far-gone. She slammed the door with a frame-shaking reverberation, and bounded over to her bed. She jerked the curtains shut, cutting off any remaining light source. And then she did just as she’d been waiting to since she’d realized just what had happened to her in English. Hannah cried, sobbing into her pillow with a violence that had only taken place once before -when her dog had died when she was eight. The tears fell until they ran dry, eyes red and painful, stomach aching, a hollow feeling in the centre of her chest. Hannah brought her knees up to her chest then, wrapping her arms around them and hugging them inward. Her pillow was wet against her cheek, and she closed her eyes, replacing the darkness of the room with the emptiness behind her eyelids.

[videlicet]

Golden morning light spilled into the bedroom, touching everything but illuminating nothing. Hannah forced her eyes open, looking blearily at the window. Someone must’ve come in earlier and opened the curtains, she realized sluggishly, sitting up on her elbows. Her eyes felt swollen and dry, and her stomach ached dully. It let out a deep growl, and Hannah was suddenly and shockingly aware of the fact that she hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday (that sent a pang of melancholy through her; she’d been in the cafeteria, goofing around with her friends, eating the high school slop that she had bemoaned having to live through for the next four years). Not anymore.
Casting a glance at the clock seated on her beside table, Hannah slid reluctantly out from under the covers. A chill ran through her as her feet brushed the cool floor –the temperature was dropping, the rapid approach of winter becoming an undeniable fact. She crossed her arms, hugging them tightly to her chest as she made her way to her bedroom door.
Making her hesitant way down the stairs, Hannah was greeted by the various noises of clattering pans and dishes, presumably emanating from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled again in response, taking part in an unintelligible conversation with the food being prepared. She halted a step from the bottom, casting her gaze in the direction of the kitchen, where her father’s back was just visible. Hunger and exhaustion warred for supremacy within her, and she moved forward, toes recoiling inward against the icy tiles as hunger was crowned victor.
“D’you want pancakes, or would you rather have eggs?” her father asked as she stepped through the doorway, still facing the stove. Hannah felt a tiny, quavering smile quirk the corners of her lips quite against her will; when she was younger, she had solemnly sworn her father had eyes in the back of his head. His knack for guessing who was standing behind him was uncanny, to say the least.
“Pancakes,” Hannah slipped into her seat at the table, giving her father a reflexive smile as he set the dish in front of her. He returned the expression.
“Bet you’re hungry, eh? Shouldn’t have skipped dinner yesterday –we had pizza.”
Yesterday. Such a casual word, spoken with such flippancy, yet the gravitas of it was not lost in her father’s eyes. Hannah felt her fists clench by her sides. For a moment there, just a moment, she had entertained the buoying, impossible hope that it had all been a dream. A terrible nightmare. She focused on the pancake in front of her, cutting it into bite-sized pieces and inserting them into her mouth one by one to sate the ravenous beast in her stomach (and now lurking, not so metaphorically, just beneath her skin).
Silence reigned in the kitchen then; the only sounds those of clattering cutlery and rapid chewing. Hannah didn’t look up to see where her father had disappeared to, not wanting to risk meeting his eyes, for fear of what she might see there. He had never spoken ill of Changelings, when they were brought up in the news, and books, and such, but, at the same time, he had never expressed a positive opinion either. Hannah didn’t know where he stood on the subject, and that scared her more than she was willing to admit. What if he secretly despised them? Would he despise her, too, then, and ship her off to some school without so much as a backward glance? Hysteria began to rise in Hannah again at this idea, and she tried futilely to stifle it. She was being ridiculous -she knew that. Her father would never abandon her, and nothing he had done since yesterday had suggested any sort of hostility or fear. Hannah licked the knife clean, and then set it down on her plate with a clatter, before getting up to deposit it on the kitchen counter. Her father was nowhere in the room. She fought down a tendril of fear that dared sneak through the barrier she was trying so hard to maintain.
Back in the solitude of her room, Hannah cast another glance at the clock on her bedside table. 10:04, it read. Right now, she should be in class –in Math, struggling to decipher the lines of numbers and equations set in front of her, whilst Katie shot her piteous glances from by her side. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed clean clothes from her dresser, and headed to the bathroom for a shower, hoping to cleanse the invisible stains she saw all too clearly.
Hair wound tightly up in a towel, but still managing to send rivulets of water coursing down the back of her neck to soak the back of her shirt, Hannah grabbed a book from the shelf on the wall opposite her bed, and settled down on it to read. It fell open with no effort from her whatsoever, already bent out of shape, pages dog-eared and slightly loose. She scanned the pages more than read them, so familiar with the tale already that she hardly needed the words on the page to recall it. Weak sunlight shone in through the window, offering light but no heat. She felt the chill, goose bumps rising on her exposed flesh, still slightly damp from the shower. Fleetingly, Hannah contemplated getting up to fetch a sweater, or at least a long-sleeved shirt, but the dresser was all the way on the other side of the room.
About twenty pages in, Hannah became aware of the fact that she wasn’t paying any attention at all to the book –she should’ve picked something new, so that she was forced to concentrate. Her mind was wandering, venturing down dangerous paths, and her ears were straining for any sounds from her parents, confused as to why they hadn’t confronted her properly yet. She’d been dreading it ever since the nurse had left her yesterday, with the words ‘that’ll be your parents’. Hannah had been waiting for her father to give her the look, or her mother to take her hand and give it a single squeeze. Her parents should’ve sat her down ages ago, solemn and hesitant. Why hadn’t they? Were they afraid? Angry? Hannah felt her stomach clench, and she closed the book. She couldn’t concentrate on anything right now.
There was no way she could have anticipated this –no way anyone could have. Her biological mother had been human –or at least she’d written that on the form. And her biological father, well, she didn’t know. Given the events of yesterday, Hannah would place a very firm bet that he’d been a Changeling as well (that sounded strange in her mind, off-key and discordant). Hannah remembered lying awake some nights when she was much younger, thinking the exact same thoughts as now –except those thoughts had been threaded through with a sort of buzzing dread, fear that she, too, was a Changeling. Then came her fourteenth birthday, and Hannah finally felt secure. Safe, and certain in the knowledge that, no, she was not a Changeling –she was human, completely and undeniably. Closing her eyes, Hannah slid down the wall until she was lying horizontally on the bed. She wondered if, when her parents had contacted the adoption agency, they’d inquired after the child with the highest probability of being human. Had they-
A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called, sitting up straight and reaching for the abandoned book to make it look as if the last thing she had been doing was dwelling on the events of the past day.
The door creaked open, and her mother stepped into the room. “It’s cold in here, Hannah! And your hair is wet –you’re going to catch a cold or something! D’you want a sweater?” The spiel began, and, for once, Hannah was grateful for her mother’s notorious motor mouth. It was a welcome distraction from her thoughts (and, unless her mother was a brilliant actor, it meant that she wasn’t openly hostile toward her, or afraid).
“No, mom. I’m fine.”
Her mother sat down at the end of her bed, making it dip slightly. “How are you feeling, honey?” She reached out her hand, wrapping it around Hannah’s and giving a gentle squeeze. Hannah’s insides turned to lead. It was time for the confrontation.
“Fine-I’m okay,” Not, she added silently afterward.
“Do you want to come down for lunch now? Dad made grilled cheese.”
Hannah smiled weakly, and nodded. “’Kay,”
Dipping the edge of the sandwich in the veritable ocean of ketchup that threatened to take over the rest of her plate, Hannah watched her parents on the other side of the table with guarded eyes. Her father reached for a napkin, and wiped the ketchup off of his greying stubble.
“The school was quick to send in the brochures,” he ventured, gesturing to a small pile of paper pamphlets that Hannah had paid no notice to until that moment. She stiffened involuntarily. “I don’t think we’ll exactly be able to send you abroad, but it looks like there’re a lot of good options here in Canada.”
Hannah took another bite of her grilled cheese, as an excuse not to make a reply.
“We should probably take a look at them after lunch. Is that alright, honey?” Hannah’s mother smiled in her direction.
She shrugged half-heartedly, “Sure,” she answered, though what she was thinking ran more along the lines of no way, I don’t want to be shipped off to some stupid school full of… people like me.
“Great!” Her parents beamed.
After another, much slower bite (Hannah was resigned to drag out her meal as long as possible now), she nodded faintly, feeling slightly nauseous at the prospect.
The sandwich disappeared far too quickly, and Hannah was left staring despairingly at her plate. Exhaustion rose in her like a wave –the last thing she wanted to be doing right now was finding a new school to attend. But, it had to be done –Hannah recognized that she had to get back into school soon, or she’d be completely lost. There was no moping about for weeks (however much that option appealed to her), or breaking down and clinging to her parents and begging them to let her stay (which she would probably end up doing anyways). She had to keep her chin up, and learn to adapt. It would all turn out okay, in the end -she knew it would. She also had to stop lying to herself.
“Okay, so there are five schools based in Canada. There’s one out in Alberta-“ her father paused, handing her the brochure. Cambury College, it proclaimed, in fancy navy-blue lettering. Underneath, there was an inscription in Latin –presumably the school’s motto, and a sentence reading ‘Second oldest school in Canada!’. Hannah wondered which was the first. She flicked through it absently, catching glimpses of old brick buildings and blue uniforms. With a grimace, she set it down. “-there’s one in New Brunswick –Almertin Academy, one in Quebec; Collège D’Orean-“ he handed her the brochures for those two schools. Hannah spared them only passing glances; there was no way she was going to school in New Brunswick, and she didn’t know nearly enough French to attend a school in that language. “Then there’s one out in BC –St. Michael’s College, and one here in Ontario –Petrichor Academy.”
Hannah took the two brochures, flicking through the one for St. Michael’s first, taking note of the pretentious red lettering on the front, and the rather decrepit state of the buildings, before picking up the final one with greater care. Before even looking through it, Hannah accepted the fact that this was the school she’d most likely be attending; all of the others were inconveniently far away. They could’ve been based in Germany, for all their accessibility to Hannah’s family. Her parents couldn’t spare a road trip to any of those places, and they certainly didn’t have the money for a flight to even be an option.
The brochure for Petrichor Academy was made of a thinner paper than any of the others, so much so that it was slightly transparent. The lettering on the front was maroon in colour, and underneath it was a simple crest; two diagonal lines splitting a shield into half, the top half home to a silhouette of a maple leaf, and the bottom home to three raindrops aligned in a triangle. Below it was the school motto, another string of what she presumed was Latin gibberish, and then an image of a stone building, with uniformed students of a whole range of ages and ethnicities walking around in the courtyard in front of it (it looked staged). Underneath it was printed, ‘Oldest school in Canada | established 1887’. That almost elicited an eyebrow-raise –that sounded old. Her high school had been built in 2001 –Petrichor was 114 years older than it, if her math was sound (which it rarely was). She flicked through the rest of the brochure, not feeling all too compelled to study it in any greater depth. Chances were, she’d have the next four years of her life to examine the actual school up close and personal. The thought made her stomach plummet uncomfortably.
Hannah set it down on the table gingerly. “Okay,”
Her father leaned forward. “Okay, what? Do any of them appeal to you particularly…?”
She leaned backward in her chair to counter her father’s movement, lips pursing into a thin line, trying to restrain herself from shooting back something biting. “Like I really have a choice,” She tried to keep most of the bitterness out of her voice, but failed miserably. Her mother’s brow furrowed down towards her eyebrows, and her father’s lips pursed into a thin line.
“Granted, but-“
“But, what? But, what?” Hannah felt her resolve dissolving; she made no move to fight it. “I don’t have a choice, so don’t make it seem like I do!”
“Fine,” her father answered calmly, anger at her outburst visible only through the tenseness of his shoulders, and the slightly cold inflection of his voice. “Okay, fine. We don’t have a choice, Hannah. You’re right. You’re going to Petrichor Academy, and you’re going to be boarding there, because that’s a worldwide policy. Apparently the parents of Changelings don’t have the capacity to care for their own children. So, I suppose you should just get used to not having a choice, if you like it so bloody much.” The anger in his tone became more visible as he continued speaking, the suppressed rage in his voice pinning Hannah to her seat.
She was so stupid. Ignorant, self-centred, spoilt, egotistical –all of the things her parents had spat at her through the years when she riled them came flooding back, forcing their way to the front of her mind and making her want to curl inwards and disappear. This whole time, she hadn’t stopped to consider how her parents were feeling beyond what would directly affect her. And in that moment, Hannah hated herself, with a violent, burning passion. Hated herself and the entirety of the Changeling race, hated the beast living within her, threatening to crawl out of her skin and claim her body for its own. Hannah raised her head to meet her father’s eyes for the first time since she’d woken that morning.

[videlicet]

Bump! Could I possibly ask for some critique? c: Honestly, I will be forever indebted to you if you offer it, and will likely try my very hardest to repay you through any means available to me. xD

[Absent from CS]

I have a mean red pen. Let me alone with this and it will come back better! Ehehehehe

[videlicet]

She hefted the suitcase onto her stripped bed, arms straining against its weight. Hannah glanced around the room with a clenched jaw, willing the tears to stop welling in her eyes. It wasn’t like she was leaving here forever –she was coming back for Christmas break in a month! A whole month away from home. Hannah swallowed, throat dry, like all of the moisture there had been transferred to the heavy pricking behind her eyes. It had been four days since her first Change, and since then she had slipshifted once, and shifted purposely once more. Her limbs were feeling strained again; taut and in need of stretching, the feeling one gets after sitting in one position for too long. Hannah felt the animal brushing up against her skin, straining from the inside out, and she took a deep breath, unwilling to succumb to it. She had to finish packing –her parents were driving her to Petrichor Academy tomorrow morning (she felt a stab of fear at the fleeting thought), and they were leaving at six. It was a four hour drive, and they were hoping to be there before noon, so they could help Hannah unpack and then settle down for one last meal together before they went on their way, leaving her all alone.
The bedframe creaked as Hannah sat abruptly down. It was a lot to process, and, after four days to stew, Hannah’s mind and body were still reeling. The discovery of her being a Changeling had rampaged through her carefully constructed world, leaving it in shambles. She had progressed from shock to disbelief, then denial, and had settled on a low, simmering anger, with a decent heaping of the other three tossed in for good measure. Hannah ran a hand through her hair, biting her lip until the pain overlaid and focused her other thoughts. Packing. Right, that was what she had been doing. Not moping, nor brooding. Productivity –that was the best way to go about coming to terms with anything, or so her father claimed (it had been repeated very often over the past few days). He’d taken the days off under claim of a “family emergency”, and had spent most of his time parked on the armchair in the living room with a book or his laptop, looking up when Hannah shuffled forlornly in, wandering emptily through the house. He’d made a few attempts to socialize, to get Hannah to watch a movie with him, or play a game, or even just talk, but they were all shot down. Brutally and gratuitously murdered, to be more correct, because the morose and self-piteous glares Hannah shot at her father every time he made his presence known were enough to freeze the blood of a hardened serial killer solid.
A sharp rap on the door startled her out of her thoughts –she’d slipped back into brooding again, Hannah noted with a flicker of self-annoyance.
“Come in,”
The door creaked open. “D’you need any help, sweetie? I brought the second suitcase up –afraid it’s missing a buckle, it’s a bit ancient.” Scraping and scuffling, and then Hannah’s mother made it into the room with a battered grey suitcase, heaving it over to Hannah’s bed. Her dark hair was done up in a messy bun, and there were visible bags under her eyes. She looked nearly as tired as Hannah felt.
“No –no, I’m fine. When’s dinner?”
“Half an hour or so; Dad’s gonna start up the barbeque soon. We’re having burgers –your favourite! I’ll call you down when they’re done. Are you sure you don’t want any help?”
Hannah shook her head. The disassembling of her life was her task, and her task alone. “No, I’m fine, Mom. Really.” She put an added stress on the last word, trying to broadcast the hint a little more loudly.
“Okay, okay, I’m going!” she said, lifting her hands up and heading for the door. Hannah watched her go with a mixture of melancholy and triumph. It wasn’t usually half as easy to get rid of her mother once she dug her heels in, but it seemed she hadn’t had the energy anymore. They were all just going through the motions.
She opened the sole clasp of the second suitcase, and moved to start chucking her belonging into it as well. Pyjamas were tossed in haphazardly, providing a fleecy lining for the books she began to pile in next. Hannah moved over to her bookcase, running a fingertip along the spines of the books. Which should she bring?
Eventually, the second suitcase was just as full as the first, sitting on the bed side by side. Her room, which looked rather empty on a good day, was positively blank at the moment, dresser drawers all hanging out, more or less vacant. The bookshelf had a large dent in the number of books sitting on it (had she really needed to bring that many? Of course –Hannah brushed the thought away), and the bed was merely composed of the light wooden frame and worn flower-patterned mattress. It hurt her eyes to look at, the same sort of pain one derived from staring at the sun for too long, or stepping out into a world of blindingly white snow. It made no sense, Hannah knew that, emotional pain manifesting physically, but she shut her eyes against it anyways. The burning didn’t go away.
“Hannah! Dinner’s ready!” Her mother’s shout drew her back from the fringe of the brooding session she had been about to plunge down into. With a shake of her head to clear her thoughts, Hannah tucked her light brown hair behind her ears and made her way downstairs.
The scent of grilled meat hit her nose, making her mouth water in anticipation, and a growl resound through her stomach. Even before the Change, Hannah had always been rather carnivorous (perhaps that was an attribute of her shift present from birth? It was disconcerting to think that there had been an indicator right there her entire life). She skipped the last two steps, landing on the floor with a loud thump.
“One day, you’re going to go right through that floor,” her father said as she entered the kitchen, an eyebrow raised in amusement. He gestured to the food on the table.
Hannah sidled into her seat, not feeling in the mood for idle banter. She busied herself with decorating her hamburger, and an uncomfortable silence fell at the table. She became suddenly aware of the fact that this was her last dinner at this table with her family for a month, her last dinner as the person she was now, before Petrichor Academy changed her, as it was bound to do. Though it was only the slightest bit overcooked, the hamburger tasted like ash in her mouth. Hannah placed it back on her plate.
“Is it okay? I thought burgers were your favourite?” Her mother’s eyes followed Hannah’s movements, concern written in the lines between her eyes.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just –I’m just not hungry. That’s all.”
Wiping a stray bit of ketchup from his chin, Hannah’s father leaned forward on the table, pinning Hannah with hazel eyes. “Moping isn’t going to get you anywhere, just so you know.” His voice was light, but his expression serious. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Changeling –in fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s opened doors. You have the wonderful opportunity to attend an incredibly high-class school that we would never’ve been able to afford otherwise, and you have this amazing ability. So, chin-up.”
Anger bubbled up from the pit of Hannah’s stomach as her father’s words rang home. He was right -she knew that. And it infuriated her. He didn’t see the other side, did he? Easy for him to say, sitting there on the other side of the table, assured in his humanity and place in the world. Jaw clenching to keep from spilling words she would later regret, Hannah pushed her chair out and left the table, storming up to the safety of her room.
She closed the door with a slam, wincing at the noise exactly as she’d done four days previous. Hannah closed her eyes and sank against it, sliding down to sit on her wooden floor. She was being melodramatic, she understood that. It must’ve been grating on her parents’ nerves that entire time, as she trudged sullenly about, black raincloud hanging over her head almost visible. But, dangit, she couldn’t help it! The prickling under her skin that had been plaguing her since she’d woken up that morning grew in intensity, pressing up in a bid to escape its confines. It was a burning pins-and-needles feeling, spreading out over every centimetre of her skin, trying to consume her. Hannah let it.
Eyes opened, blinking rapidly to adjust; paws flexed below her, claws unsheathing and retracting, scratching the floorboards lightly. Hannah got to her feet (paws, she corrected mentally), stretching, feeling out her limbs, accustoming herself to her shifted anatomy. She could smell the hamburgers from downstairs, stomach rumbling sadly at the thought of the meal it had so unnecessarily been denied. Her ears pricked, searching for the sounds of her parents’ conversing voices –nothing. They picked up on the mournful trill of a bird outside, feeling the chill of oncoming winter as it sat alone on a bare branch. The light of the setting sun filtered in through her blinds, painting the room with bars of burnt orange. Hannah cast an apologetic glance back at the slightly mangled remains of her clothes by the door; it hadn’t been smart to shift in her clothes, but she’d been caught up in the moment. At least her shift wasn’t large enough to tear her clothes to shreds –she’d only have a few rips at the most, frayed stitches, easily fixable. The initial shock of shifting had worn off by now –it was her fourth time, after all, but it was still extremely disconcerting. Probably always would be. It hurt still, a lingering white-hot pain trickling through her veins, but Hannah hoped that that too, would lessen with time. She leapt up on her stripped bed, curling up in the corner, back against the cool wall. Her eyes closed slowly, room blurring then fading to blackness, as her diaphragm expanded and contracted with increasing regularity. The bird outside the window ceased its melancholy song, and the sounds of clattering dishes and the running tap drifted up to wreathe their way about Hannah’s ears. Relinquishing her last vestiges of consciousness, Hannah vowed to see the world brighter come morning. She slipped into a heavy and dreamless sleep.
Dawn came far too soon.

[jx.nie]

wow.... I'm... I'm at a loss for words, You my fair Whovian have inspired me! (le- runs to the story boards to star meh ideas) *Thank you!*(le- whispers and I shove cookies at you)