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 reading this with the intention of it being relatable, I'm going to be blunt, get the hell out. You shouldn't-not at all-be wishing to be like me. Just... Keep on living, forget you ever picked up this book, and never think about it again. Embrace your parents, if they're good, and keep your thoughts occupied with anything but being a Half-blood.

Being a half-blood is, to put it simply, a crazy experience. It's traumatizing, and it flips your life upside down.

If you're a normal kid reading this because you think it is fiction, then amazing. Keep on reading. I'm honestly jealous of your cluelessness.

However, if you feel a weird nostalgia reading this-like a bubbling feeling deep inside your gut-drop the book and find shelter. You just might be one of us. If you are, it won't be long until they sense that. And they'll come for you.

And they won't stop. Not ever. Not until you're dead.

That's a warning, from me to you. Keep that in mind if you decide to not run away screaming.

My name is (y/n) Guale.

I'm twelve years old, and until just a few months ago, I was just a normal kid at Hive Institute. An orphanage for "disturbed" young minds in the east of Brooklyn, New York City.

Am I disturbed?

Yeah. I suppose one could put it like that.

I could say, at any given point in my short life, that I was extremely different from other kids around me. But last May, in sixth grade, really bad things started to happen around. My class especially-33 kids with diverse mental health issues, and no parents.

I know-it seems like torture. Most of our residents also felt like it was, me included.

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

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

I had told my best friend I didn't think she was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "Y'ain't wrong about that."

I hoped that it wouldn't be like the last years, I hoped for once I wouldn't get in trouble for something.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen when I'm around, like in fifth grade, I got a little miscarriage with a bunch of ink in the printer, I didn't mean for it to blow up on the director, but I got detention anyway. And the time before that, in fourth grade, I had to run out of a random dog that was following me and kind of tripped over some weapon, sent a kid straight into the infirmary. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.

This time, I was determined to be exemplary.

All week, I had to handle Harriet Slater, the blonde, borderline 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 scared someone would hurt him. He had his knees bent in a weird way, so he had to walk around with a crutch tied to his left forearm. But don't let his looks affect your mindset, whenever there were cinnamon rolls in the dining room, he would race there like he was the fastest man alive and get a bunch as soon as possible.