𐌙/𐌍 Ᏽ𐌵𐌀𐌋𐌄 & 𐌕𐋅𐌄 Ᏽ𐌐𐌄𐌀𐌕 𐌌𐌙𐌕𐋅𐌔 ¹

Chapter 1

1 | Magically exploding my geography teacher

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

If you're read-ing this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or your dad told you about your birth, and try to live a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

If you're a normal kid reading this because you think is fict-ion, great. Read on. I envy you to be able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages–if you feel something stirring inside–stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a mat-ter of time before they sense it, too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is (y/n) (l/n).

I'm twelve years old. Until few months ago, I was just a normal kid at Hive Insti-tute. The orphanage for “disturbed” young kids in the east of Brooklyn

Am I disturbed?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could say that at any given point in my small life I was really different from other kids around me, but last May, in sixth-grade, really bad things started to happen around. Thirty-three Neurodivergent and mentally ill students inside a cramped classroom.

I know–it sounds like torture. Most of our classes were.

Especially with Mrs. Denis, our geography teacher, guiding us for this bimester.

She was an old woman–probably past her 50's– with a bunch of needles pok-ing out of her hair every time we saw her. She's honestly the worse teacher I've ever had, she's been in the Hive for barely 4 months and I've already been in her office for more times than I could count.

I had told my best friend I didn't think she was human. He looked at me, real seri-ous and said. "You're absolutely right."

I hoped that it wouldn't be like the last years, I hoped for once I wouldn't go troubled for some-thing.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen when I'm around, like on fifth-grade, I got a little miscar-riage with a bunch of ink in the printer, I didn't mean for it to blow up on the director, but I got detention anyways. And the time before that, at fourth-grade, I had to run out of a random dog that was following me and kind of triped over some impor-tant file our teacher had. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.

This time, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I had to handle Harriet Slater, the blonde bord-erline personality disorder girl, hitting my best friend Zaak with flying pieces of balled up paper. 

Zaak was a rather easy target to the bullying around the orphanage. He was skinny and scrawny. He cried when he was sca-red someone would hurt him. He had his knees bent in a weird way, so he had to walk around with a crutch tied on his left forearm. But don't let his looks affect your mind-set, whenever there were cinnamon rolls on the dining room, he would race there like he was the fastest man alive and get a bunch as soon as poss-ible.

Anyway, Harriet Slater was throwing volleys of paper balls onto Zaak that stuck to his messy hairdo, she knew I couldn't do anything because I would get into a lot of trouble with the teachers. The principle had threatened me with another hour of lessons and scrubbing the gym floor if I did anything bad, interesting, or even mildy enter-taining on this semester.