𝘐 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘢𝘩 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺, 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 -- 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭.
On the first birthday Noah remembered, he'd been waiting by the door for his father to turn up with a present, to wish him a happy birthday and to wrap him in his arms for a hug. Noon came and went, then soon his eyes became heavy and he'd fallen asleep in front of the door. He'd woken up the next morning in his bed with no card and no present from his father, and he remembered bawling as his mother rocked him in her arms, reassuring him that his father was busy trying to find him the perfect present and he'd be ecstatic when he get to see it next year.
The years had been the same and he fell into the rhythm of not seeing his father on his birthday, and getting an underwhelming card through the post around eight months later. It stung some years more than others, especially when he was thirteen and they'd moved to a quaint town near the seaside. He hadn't expected any more cards, since his father most likely only sent them because they were in the same house that he'd known his mother in, but the familiar sound of something slipping through the letterbox rang through his ears in early December. That was when his heart sank; his father knew where he was, but didn't care to see him.
𝘔𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸… 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.
The first injection wasn't as painful as Noah had expected it to be; a pinch in the fattiest part of his thigh, then a warm ache as the serum was pushed in perhaps slightly too fast. The area had bloomed into a lump that lasted a couple of days, making it hard for him to move, but the smile on his face hadn't faltered for a second. Being five foot four, he was told there would be plenty of time for him to grow -- he was only seventeen after all, and there was a chance his growth plates hadn't closed just yet. He'd been given a list of what to expect; a deeper voice, some hair growth, his fat moving downwards, all normal. He supposed there were some things he couldn't be warned of, the abnormal things.
It was early autumn and the leaves were turning a vibrant shade of red. Noah's mother had sent him out into the garden to rake them up, he was the man of the house now and those were the chores he was going to have to suck up and do -- he'd have to since his deadbeat father wasn't around. Noah hadn't seen the point, but his mother insisted leaving them scattered gave an excuse for unsavoury friends to make home in their garden, and she didn't want to have to pay for pest control if she didn't need to. Noah had mocked her, repeating her words in a high-pitched voice as the leave crunched under his feet, but he did it begrudgingly anyway.
The pile wasn't big, their garden wasn't big, but he guessed it was big enough for something to house itself in. He hadn't been given instructions by his mother what to do with the leaves after he got them together, but Noah had common sense -- well, as much as any teenage boy had. He'd thought about going inside to get a rubbish bag, then shovelling it in, but his thoughts were hard to sort through with the neighbours Jack Russel yapping at him from over the fence. He'd tried to shush it, telling it to be quiet, but anything he said was met with a growl, then the mutt would go back to yapping.
"Will you shut up!" The words ripped through him, fists clenched at his sides, and the dog went silent as the pile of leaves burst into roaring flames. Noah had stumbled backwards, almost tripping up the rake he'd tossed behind him, mouth agape. He couldn't have done that, right?
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 -- 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 -- 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭. 𝘐𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦; 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰.
Fire danced between his fingers, slipping in and out and casting an orange glow on his hand. His eyes crinkled from the wide smile on his face, messy brown hair pulled back from his face with a couple of bobby pins his friend had passed him at his request. It wasn't until he heard the clicking of the headteachers heeled shoes on the tiled floor that he snatched the flame up into the palm of his hand, and he noticed his friends had put distance between them. They were at least two metres away from him, huddled together, eyes almost bulging out of their heads.
"That was cool, right?" Noah flashed them another smile, awkward and hesitant.
One of the girls shook her head, blonde curls sliding over her shoulder as she did. "No, Noah, it wasn't. What is wrong with you?" She tried to hide the disgust with concern, but Noah was able to pick up on it, his throat tightening. "We're studying for our GCSEs and you think playing with fire is /fun/? How are you doing that? You need help."
His cheeks had turned red at her words but he'd tried to brush it off by the time the headteacher had turned the corner. She'd ushered them from the corridors, telling them that they couldn't loiter inside the school during lunch, they'd have to go outside. His friends had parted ways with him, stumbling over excuses, and he'd been too embarrassed to challenge them on it.
𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘐'𝘥 𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘢𝘩 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘢𝘩 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳.
Noah's eighteenth birthday came and went and so did his GCSE results; he'd aced most of his exams, but barely passed others. He hadn't let that knock him down, but his depleting social circle had. The holidays had been spent in his room, playing with his newfound talent, and the joy it had brought him in the beginning was starting to wane. This was the reason he'd lost his friends in the first place and he was sure that it wouldn't be the last time. He'd been snapping at his mother more, breaking down on his own in his room before bed, trying his best to be as normal as he could be. The truth was, he couldn't be normal. There was no way he could, not when he had this fire building up inside him.
It had been midsummer when his mother called him down from his room during one of her appointments and he had been reluctant to go; she often called for his help when she had people 'round, asking him to help clean and tidy her area while she worked. He was pleased to do so, it took his mind of what was boiling his blood, what was running through his veins. After the last time he'd helped, where the client had asked if he was the boy everyone was talking about -- the one who they had to keep an eye on, the one who played with fire -- he hadn't felt like seeing anyone. His mother was persistent, though, and he couldn't say no to her.
"Noah Harvey, aren't you a sweetheart." He was met at the bottom of the stairs by a woman almost as tall as the doorframe, standing what he estimated to be over seven-foot tall. She held her hand out for him to shake, nails shaped into a sharp point and decorated in sparkling white pearls. Her beige skirt swept the floor, hugging her waist and held up with a pair of braces sewn into the fabric. Her powder blue blouse was crinkled around her chest and grasped her shoulders in short puff sleeves.
His mother attempted to place a hand on the woman's shoulder but found being on her tiptoes was too uncomfortable, and settled to placing it on her arm. "This is Leyla, I think she might be able to help with your problem."
"Gift," Leyla corrected, pulling her hand away sharply, as if she only just remembered exactly what that gift was. "There's no problem here."
𝘓𝘦𝘺𝘭𝘢 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦; 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘺, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝙢𝙚 -- 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝙢𝙚 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.
Noah jerked away from his mother as she tried to wipe away the black soot from his cheek, earning him a huff. She dropped the wet cloth into the bowl of water on the dressing table, pushing herself up from her place on the floor and turning towards the batons that lay in the tank against the wall. Gold glitter-dusted his cheekbones, sparkling highlighter accenting the undertone to his skin. The perfectly shaped eyeliner that had been applied before his show had smudged, face glistening with sweat.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and he flinched, spotting Leyla's corseted dress in the mirror. His mother was lost in her own thoughts, fingers against the glass of the tank, and he hoped she was thinking what he was -- wondering how he got there, wondering why this happened to him, and wondering why he was given this opportunity. Leyla brought herself down to his level, her chin resting on the top of his head, her brown skin contrasting the pink hearts that decorated her cheeks.
Looking into her dark eyes, he saw what he'd felt when he first set fire to those leaves a couple of years ago; excitement, a promise of a new adventure. "You were brilliant, so talented!" She squeezed a little too tight and Noah cringed. "Oops, sorry about that." She began praising him, but her words became nothing but noise as he drifted back into his own thoughts.
In that moment the nineteen-year-old hadn't realised that Noah Harvey was dead but, as with the phoenix, he had been reborn and had been given the opportunity to turn his curse into a talent he could harness for his own means.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘈𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰; 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦-𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯. 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘶𝘱 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳.
AS a teenager, Bryn found it hard to cope with school work due to excessive tiredness, and found himself falling asleep in class despite the full night of sleep he'd had before. He was eventually diagnosed with narcolepsy and, although this didn't change the difficulty of his schoolwork, he got the appropriate support from his family and friends.
Fashion (especially fairycore)
Loud Noises (especially heavy bass & drumming)
Tubthumping • Chumbawamba
Snarky