As thunder roared outside, fear swelled within my stomach. Normally I could typically push through and ignore it. Today however, my anxiety was getting the better of me. Thunderstorms like this one always reminded me of my father. He disappeared on an expedition when I was younger and hasn't been seen since.
I reached my hand into my pocket, fingering the last memento of my father. I constantly suffered from night terrors and would need my father to comfort me. Mom died when I was born and it was just me and Dad until he disappeared. He gave me his favorite pen before he left on his last expedition. "This pen contains limitless power, Rebelle." My father instructed. It didn't look like anything other than a regular black pen with a gold clip.
"What is it?" I asked, looking over it like it was a christmas present I couldn't wait to open up.
"This is a very powerful weapon, my child." My father patted my head. "It is known as the God-Killing Spear, Gungnir. It was originally owned by the Norse God Odin, and legend says it can pierce any foe. If you ever get scared, just think about the powerful weapon you have, twist the pen, and it will protect you."
"I don't see how a pen could protect me." I joked with him.
"Perhaps not, but it will protect you when you need it most." He laughed.
I used to think that my dad was just telling me a story to get me to go to bed, so I never paid much mind to the whole "legend" thing. Regardless, I kept the pen with me everyday. Carrying it with me provided a bit of comfort. Like my father was here with me. Sometimes I needed his support to get through even the most trivial matters. First days of school, for example.
"Come on, Belle!" I said, splashing my face with water from the bathroom sink. It's just another boring introduction. Give it a few months and you'll be out of here. I said, giving myself a mental pep-talk. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I never saw myself as "pretty," but that could be due to my body dysmorphia. I was five-five, and evenly proportionate, even if I thought I was on the chubby side. I was told that my blue eyes "shined like sapphires," but the thought of that made me want to puke. I wish I looked more like my dad. Black hair and brown eyes. Unfortunately, I was "blessed" with my mom's looks including, my least favorite trait, long blonde hair. I tied my hair back with two small black ribbons, securing them with bobby pins. I really hate trying to be cute. I rolled my eyes. Stupid foster family.
When my father disappeared, it was a shock. I was told he died during one of his archaeological digs. They claimed it was an accidental cave-in, but I never believed it. I couldn't believe it. I knew my dad was out there, trying to find his way back to me. Still, since he was nowhere to be found and I was still underage, I was pushed through the foster system. People only want me for the benefits they get, and when they don't need me anymore, they throw me away. It's an endless cycle. I'm too old at this point, so I doubt I'll be adopted. This time, however, has been different. I was in the care of the Harp family. Karina, John, and their two kids, Stella and Austin. They seemed like nice people, but so did everyone else at first. Karina was a nurse at a local clinic and John was a historian at the Virginia state museum. Stella was nineteen and attended a local community college. She was the definition of beauty. A real catch to anyone she laid her emerald green eyes on. She was perfect at sports and made excellent grades. Austin was sixteen, a year younger than me, and was just like his older sister. He was quite popular at the highschool, involved in multiple clubs, a member of the honor's society, and a talented violinist. Compared to them, I stook out like a sore thumb. The only thing I was good at was art, and not many people enjoyed the manga style I loved to work with. Some people would tease me for it and it reminded me that I would much rather be at home.
What's worse, this new family forced me to dress up for my first day of class. I've done my fair share of first days, but let me be clear when I say that I hate dressing up. I don't do dresses. I don't do heels, unless they are on a pair of platform boots. I preferred black lipstick but Stella wouldn't let that slide, and I most certainly don't like ribbons. "What the hell?" I said, giving myself another glance. A ruffled red blouse, black ripped skinny jeans, and black boots with a buckle on the front and a four inch heel. All of this was Stella's, but she insisted that I wore it. I did have to say, she did try her best to compliment her choice in clothes with my taste in style. I looked myself over before a feeling of disgust washed over me. I am so stupid. I thought, realizing that I was blushing. "Alright Belle," I splashed myself once more, "you can do this."
