I quickly stepped inside, my mind other places. I was rushing to think of an excuse for the way I looked. What could I say? I had a deep gash along my one arm and many, many scars all over my skin. I couldn’t cover them up now. He had seen it all. I pulled on my torn sleeves and made sure I did not make eye contact. Strangely, my attempts were unsuccessful. I found myself looking straight into his light brown eyes. I got dizzy and lightheaded, and leaned on the wall for support. Good thing he is not a wild animal, I thought suddenly. He would thing I was about to eat him. I paused in my mind. Why did I have to think of that fact at a time like this?
He came over to me, just a foot or two away, and reached out to grab my hand. I hissed quietly and pulled back my hand. Hissed? I just hissed at him? What in god’s name was I thinking? He ignored me anyways and continued to reach for my hand, more gently this time. Despite my instincts to lash out and run away from here and him, I could not move. I just stood there, pinned to the wall, staring into his eyes as he gently and slowly pulled my arm up to look at it. As he was inspecting it, I watched his face. First he looked at the gash. He turned my arm this way and that, checking for infection and debris. He sighed softly, and with one finger wiped away a drop of blood that had trickled down to my wrist. Then, taking my arm in both of his hands, he used his thumb to trace around my scars.
By then my heart was pounding and my breathing was slightly ragged. Why was my body reacting like this? He was just a boy. But there was something more about the boy. He was gentle with his actions, subtle in his emotions. He was special, and I knew it. But how special was special?
He looked up at me again, and when he spoke, it was in an accusing whisper.
“Where did you get these?”
“What? Those scars? I... got hurt a lot. As a kid…”
HE stared at me suspiciously. For a second, I worried he knew. But how could he? He was just some guy who offered a place to dry off. We had never known each other before in our entire lives.
“You must have gotten hurt a lot.” I held my breath. “Why don’t we get this cleaned up,” he said, indicating the wound. “Before it gets infected.” I nodded silently and followed him to the bathroom. Several times, when he wasn’t looking, I shook my head vigorously. I had to get this blankness out of my head. I had to think.
He found a first aid kit and started the usual procedure of cleaning the wound, applying medical ointment, and bandaging it with gauze. Each time he went near it, I flinched, but never felt a thing. He was so gentle about it, and that surprised me. I was not used to gentle people. Not since my mama had died…
When he was done, he smiled and gently patted my hand. He walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out a beige towel. That was obviously meant for me. I reached out for it, and he tossed it over to me. “Thanks.” I muttered as I rubbed down ever part of me that I could rub down without revealing too many of the scars.
“Okay, now that we have that all taken care of, let’s go meet the group.” We headed up a steep set of stairs and through steel double doors, which he left open. The balcony was large, but tightly packed with seats. Right at the edge was a big contraption made to hold a modern keyboard and sound equipment. He left me by the door and walked over to the keyboard. I hesitated, but eventually followed him.
“Hey everyone!” he shouted. “I brought a friend. Her name is….” He looked over at me expectantly. I was lost for a second, but soon I understood what he wanted. “Noemi.” I replied quietly. “Noemi!” he called out. Someone from below shouted, “So, where is she? I wanna see what this chic looks like.” I glowered slightly and stepped forward, leaning over the edge of the balcony. My jet black hair swung out, swaying with the sudden movement. I smirked as the boy who had presumably shouted before dropped his mouth into a perfect O. obviously I was quite a “chick” to see.
The guy was holding a trumpet. Quite a nice one too. He looked to be about seventeen or sixteen. My eyes wandered from him and his sandy blonde hair to the rest of the group. There were five other people there, other than the “director” and I.
Standing there on the stage was a very tall girl with shoulder length, wavy, vibrant red hair. In her hands was the neck of a cello. She looked as if she were about to jump all the way up to the balcony just to tear me to pieces. Her stance was possessive, as if there was something here she wanted and I was threatening to take it away.
There was also a black haired boy there. He was lean, but not tall. His raven’s hair hung over his eyes, almost exactly as mine did. His features were subtle, but striking at the same time. They made him look older than what he was, which was about eighteen years old. The violin in his hands seemed to be more interesting to him than I was, which suited me fine. The less people wanted to do with me, the easier it was so stay away. The more I stayed away, the safer everyone was.
Another boy was looking up at me curiously. He was a small boy with dull orange hair sticking out all over his head. Ironically, his weapon of choice was a tuba. Such a small boy next to such a massive instrument was an interesting sight to see.
There was a young dark skinned girl there, too. She was rather bulky, but she looked to be only about fourteen. I remembered when I was fourteen. That was the first time I fought a demon. I smiled warmly at her, glad she was not bound to such a life as the one I grudgingly lived each and every single day. The flute she was holding glinted from the lights, and I stared at it. Papa played the flute. A silver one, just like that.
The last person there was n extremely pale girl, paler than me. Her hair was starch white, and when she looked up at me, I noticed that from back here her eyes seemed nearly white. I could distinguish a pale green from back where I was. I guessed she was an albino. I admired her. Strange as she looked, she was beautiful. A unique, majestic beautiful. Almost like an angel. She seemed like yin, and I was yang. Opposites were we.
I turned back to the supposed leader of this group, whose name I still did not know. I grinned and, leaning away from the balcony’s edge, I said “You’ve got quite a group here. Congratulations.” He laughed and motioned me over to the corner of the balcony. There, a thick rope was tied to the support beams for the spotlights. He climbed up to stand on them, and turned to me. I reached up and grasped his arm, meaning only to catch his attention. He misread my reasoning and said, “We could always take the long way, by the stairs.” So that was why he had the rope there, purely for convenience. I said, “Oh, no, this is perfectly fine. I was just wondering if you could finally tell me your name.”
His expression changed from slight smugness to a dumbfounded blank stare. “Oh, of course! I’m sorry. My name is Nico.”
“Mmm, Nico? Interesting name. Ours both start with an N. Nico and Noemi.”
“I like the sound of that.” He smiled and hopped over the side, bracing his feet off of the side of the balcony, slipping noisily down the rope and landing with a thud. Not to be outdone, I silently and gracefully bent to grasp the rope, slid over the edge, spun in midair on the rope, and sped down, descending like a black nightmare I was. My landing as equally silent and graceful, but the impact forced me to one knee, my head down, my hand out to support me. I looked up to see Nico and some of the others staring at me from the stage in awe. I smiled to myself and stood up, brushing the dust from my pants. I walked over to the stage, and Nico reached out his hand to help me up. I didn’t need it, and he now knew that, but he was a gentleman anyways. I took his hand and hopped up to join them.
Now that I was closer, I could see everyone more easily, and they could see me better too. Most of them stood, wide eyed in shock from my scars, bandaged arm, and my weapons belt. Nico looked to me, then to everyone’s expressions, back to me again. He sighed, cleared his throat, and said, “Everyone, say hello to our guest.”
The red haired girl stepped forward and announced “Hello, I am Ziahn. Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was heavy with Italian accent, and I could tell she was not pleased to see me.
I looked over at the small boy with the tuba, and he smiled timidly and squeaked, “Hi, I’m Ben.”
I heard a cough behind me, and turned to find the dark skinned girl waving slightly. “Hey, my name’s Tamisha.”
The girl next to her, the albino angel, spoke up. Her voice was soft, but firm and knowing. “Welcome, my friend. I am Luneyah.”
I turned to the violin guy. His head was still down and he was still messing with the violin. I looked questioningly to Nico, and he said awkwardly, “Uh, that is Victor. He is a quiet person. Been through a lot, you know?” I nodded understanding, and looked to the group.
“Hey guys, my name is Noemi. I live not too far from here. This is quite a nice thing you have going on here. I am glad to see that someone is putting this beautiful old theatre to u-“ I stopped abruptly. Victor was staring directly at me.
Not only was his hair color the same, but his eyes were exactly the same icy blue as mine. All of his clothes were dark like mine. I looked closer, and saw scars barely concealed by the long clothes he wore. Spiral scars. Demon scars. And… there, on his clothing! The mark. The soul protector’s design. I gasped.
Nico looked at the two of us, startled. Apparently he had gone to check some of the idle instruments, and had not witnessed the previous exchange.
“Noemi? Your name is Noemi? Noemi… Allesandra… Arturi.”
“How do you know my name? Where did you get those clothes? Who ARE you?”
His voice was urgent now, low and urgent. “I know your name because I have known you since you were born. I got these clothes from the same exact place you did, mama and papa. They got these clothes from their parents, who got them from the saints. Noemi. I am Victor Enzey Arturi.”
“Victor, Enzey, Arturi? Our parents?” By then my voice was a shrill chime. “No. No way. There is no way in hell you are my brother.”
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