Sometimes, the power in my hands scares me. I'm afraid I might someday set myself on fire as I sleep. Or that I'll accidentally freeze someone I care about and they'll die. It scares me but I don't show it. I can't show it. My father has trained me so that I am always in control - whether it be of emotions or actions. My father, Azazel, doesn't know my darkest secret either. And I can't tell him. From the day I was born, he assumed, and still thinks, that I possess only the powers of ice. I haven't ever bothered to correct him - I fear his reaction too much. He didn't exactly win the 'Best Dad of The Year' award. I live in constant fear of being caught everyday, which is I try not to use my powers of fire.
All sixteen years of my life, my father has trained me in every aspect of life - he taught me how to fight, how to defend myself, how to be immune to pain, how to overcome and control my fears. Immunity to pain can only be achieved when one is used to it. My father hit me the first time when I was three, after my mother's death. He still hasn't stopped. Sometimes, I hate him for having scarred my body. But then, it made me stronger, didn't it?
I sigh and get up from my bed. My bedroom is dark and the curtains are pulled shut. But I know it's six in the morning. It's eerie how my body automatically wakes up at six in the morning. It's built-in now and I'm used to it. Breakfast is served from six to seven. After that, the kitchens are locked shut. I'm friendly with the cook, though. So it isn't like I have to go without a meal. Not anymore.
I shower quickly -baths are for people who have a lot of time on their hands- pull on a grey t-shirt and black jeans, and tie my hair in a ponytail. My father gave me two options: either I cut my hair short or I keep it tied up so that it's away from my face and doesn't distract me while fighting. Of course, I chose the latter. Short hair would be more convenient but my mother had long hair. Hers were red, though. Mine are black. Even so, I know she would never have allowed me to cut my hair, so I only trim it when it gets too wild.
I open the door and walk out into the vast hallway, heading towards the kitchens. I am surprised by the amount of activity going on this morning. Usually, the servants go unnoticed, heads bent, feet shuffling. I've befriended most of them even though my father disapproves. He used the cane on me once when he saw me laughing at something a servant girl said. In front of her. She's my best friend now. I shrug off the memories, looking around again. The guards usually stand in their positions, greeting me with nods and smiles. Today, everyone rushes around. I see a guard walk past me, mouth pressed to a radio in his hand, speaking urgently into it. I quicken my pace. Something is wrong.
When I reach the kitchen, I see that the doors haven't even been opened yet. I spot my maid, Harriet, talking to a guard, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her expression nervous and harried. She sees me and beckons me over.
"Ana, your father is waiting for you in his study," she says before I can even open my mouth. I stare at her, shock and fear coursing through me. My father is waiting for me. He's waiting for me. That can't be good. Numbly, I nod and follow the guard silently. I don't see where I go, I keep my head down, eyes focused on the guard's shoes. Even after all these years, I haven't stopped fearing him. The fear is the same every time - strong, crushing and overwhelming. I try to tell myself I'm brave and strong, but I'm not. My hands shake and I clench them. Something's terribly wrong and I'm afraid he'll take it out on me. He always does.
I don't want him to hit me again, is what I think as the guard stops outside a door. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I might not be strong or brave, but I'm at least ready. Ready for whatever is to come. Or am I?
