Fight or Flight

by Vivian Karavasili

The misty air battled with my mother’s warm floral essence, while she was running agitated, with me in her arms. I felt the ground beneath me shaking. I opened my crying eyes and checked behind. My father was looking at me with despair in his eyes, yet he smiled as if to reassure me. There was a piercing scream from far away and my parents suddenly stopped. They faced each other and stared, tears forming in their eyes. My father was shaking his head in denial. My mother set me down. She caressed my face and kissed my cheek. Then she ran away into the bloody battlefield. Minutes later, stuck in the same position she left me, I heard the gunshot. My father grabbed my hand and hastened to find her. But then we did. My father fell down to his knees and cried in agony--we were too late. Silently, he stood up, kissed me on the forehead and vanished.

I woke up in the night. Feverish and disoriented, I got up hastily to find the photo album. I opened it to the page where my parents’ photos were. We looked alike. She was skinny and pale with long, blond hair. He was tall with greenish eyes and freckles. And we were alike, as well. She was an open-minded, adventurous, avid reader. He was a kind, inquisitive, nature-lover. I was, too. But we did have one difference. They were dead and I was stuck in a life without them.

My life was endurable for someone whose parents had died in the war. I had my grandmother, my mother’s books and my sanity. I had a home. That’s all I needed, I suppose. But I wanted an explanation. Why had my father left me there? What had happened to him? Who was the enemy? And why did my mother have to face the enemy alone? It had been nine years and my grandmother was still holding back information. Even when I asked someone else in Cochem, either the waiter in the coffee shop or the handyman or the local gossip, the reaction would always be the same. They would listen. Their eyes would widen. Their mouth would subtly open, as if it was waiting a thousand and one days to finally speak the truth. But then it would rapidly close, holding prisoner that breath of relief. They would lower their eyes and say “Ilsa dear, a young lady like yourself should not be thinking about horrendous wars, ” or “Oh you know, ghastly times these are. ” They would typically put on a stiff, forced smile, as well.

The enlightening phase did begin, at last. It was just dawn when my grandmother called me to her bedchamber. It seemed to me she had a troubled look on her face, though it might well have been the malady. She held my hand gently as she told me that I needed to leave

immediately. She added that I should find shelter in the Meiers’s home, 47 miles west of town. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask, to deny, but she stopped me before I formed a word. “Ilsa, you know I am sick. I cannot come with you. ” She gave me a map with the path marked. Then she continued, “But do not worry dear, I will be fine. It is you they will be searching for: young, naive and untrained. That is why you need to be cautious. You had better go, before it’s too late, ” she said.

I packed a few pieces of clothing, my books, my photo album and some food-whatever I thought was necessary. I kissed my grandmother goodbye and left, still wondering what was happening and what she meant. I stepped outside, fearful of what was ahead of me. Just when I had convinced myself nothing was going on, I heard the gunshot. That same gruesome sound the bullet made before going through my mother’s body. And I kept hearing it again, and again, and again. I ran toward the echoing sound, till I saw it. The pile of faceless bodies. An aggregation of lurid red. In a rapid paranoia, I stumbled away from the scene and made my way through the woods, Ι headed west in the direction of the Meiers’s house. I walked for days, circling the villages marked on the map, eating out of cans, sleeping on the cold moist ground, until I felt I was nothing but a figure with no identity.

Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a stone house on the hillside. I made my way up the hill and faced the dark, wooden door. It was splintered and had a bronze knocker in the shape of the letter D. I knocked, hoping someone with a warm smile would welcome me in. On the contrary, before me stood a brunette boy with a callous look in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked in an aggressive tone, his eyes scoping every detail of me–perhaps in an effort to answer his own question.

“I’m Ilsa, I was promised you’d offer me hospitality.

” He stared blankly as I spoke. I rushed to explain as simply as I could. “My grandmother could not follow because she is ill, nor could I stay with her. As far as I could gather, we are in the genesis of a civil war and she said I am in danger. She said that I am who they want and that they’ll be searching for me, although I did not understand why. Something about me being naive and untrained, which is clearly untrue.

However, he did not seem to understand. His response was an unambiguous, apathetic “You cannot stay here. ” As he started to close the door, I blocked it with my hand. “Please, you don’t understand. I have nowhere else to go. I came all this way because I

was told that you’d help me. ” While I was trying to convince the boy, a woman came to the door and asked him what the matter was. He whispered something in her ear, and as she prepared to kindly send me away, her eyes fell on my necklace. It was an heirloom my mother had given me, a gold-plated half locket. My mother wore one half, and I wore the other. I glanced at it and only then realized that it had something carved on it-the letter D.

“She’s a “Disparate, ” she whispered.

“Let her in and make sure she has whatever she needs. We will speak at dinner, sweetie, ” she said to me, and then left the room. The boy clenched his jaw and fists, as if to show off his wounded knuckles. I asked if I could take a shower and he guided me to the bathroom.

“Dinner is at seven, do not be late. We’re not going to wait for you, loudmouth. ” I scoffed at him and closed the door. After showering, I put on the cleanest clothes I had in my backpack and went downstairs for dinner.

In addition to the mother and the irritating son, two more people sat at the table, the father and the younger son, I figured. I approached the father to introduce myself–I thought it was only appropriate.

“I’m Ilsa Kramer, it’s nice to meet you, sir. I’m grateful that you let me stay.

“Kramer, as in Ryker and Fiona Kramer?”

“Um, yes sir, they are my parents. Were. ” I corrected myself almost immediately.

“Well, that is all the explanation we needed, isn’t it?” He looked at his family for reassurance. “Ilsa, I am Axel Meier and this is my wife Eden, and my two sons Fynn and Milo. ” The older boy rolled his eyes at me, and his father noticed. “I see you have met Fynn, ” he laughed softly. “You two will have to get used to each other, because you, Fynn, will have to train Ilsa. ” Fynn seemed even more annoyed than before.

“Training for what? My grandma mentioned I was untrained-that was the reason I had to leave-but she never explained.

The couple looked at each other, confused.

“Sweetie, do you know who your parents were, or, I guess, what they were?” Eden asked.

mythological stories about a special breed of humans, ” I used air quotes to highlight the fiction of it.

“Ilsa, oftentimes, myths are not really myths, but are actually facts that people cannot fit into their reality, ” Axel explained. “That breed you referred to-which includes your mother and all of us-is one of these cases. We are called “Disparates, ” and we are not a myth, as you can see. ” He waved his hand around to convince me.

I lowered my eyes and stayed silent, trying to both digest what I had just been told, and to decide if I believed it or not. I must have stayed that way for much longer than I realized, because when I finally looked up, Fynn was staring at me with something that appeared like pity. The rest of the family were waiting for me to say something-to make sure they didn’t have to repeat.

“So, you’re telling me that my mother, Fiona Kramer, and all of you are a special (using the air quotes again) breed of humans? That do what exactly? Release fire from your palms?” I said, trying to test if it was a joke.

Milo, who now looked a lot older than before-probably nine or tenanswered, “When he said ‘your mother and all of us, ’ he meant all of us, meaning you, as well.

“What? Look, you can make up whatever little bed-time story you want for yourselves, but you cannot convince me that If I did hypothetically have some sort of powers, I wouldn’t know. ” Fynn looked at his father, who nodded assuringly, in response. Then, Fynn stood up and left the room. It seemed weird, but I ignored it and continued talking about how ridiculous this sounded. As I was sarcastically asking if the family had a history of mental disorders, an arrow brushed past my ear from behind, and before I knew, it was caught tight in my palm. I was frozen in that position for a second, stunned that I had heard the arrow being shot, but even more so, that I caught it.

“You see?” Fynn came out of nowhere.

“Come on, loudmouth. ” It seriously enraged me that he called me that, considering that he had only known me for a day and that it was certainly false. I followed him anyway, determined to figure out the truth.

In the next couple days, Fynn demonstrated fighting techniques, from knives, javelins and guns, to actual physical fighting. The process only made me hate him more, though. He was arrogant, self-centered and

cold-hearted. The only positive thing about Fynn Meier was that he really liked to talk about himself, and by asking only a few questions I learnt more and more. He told me all about the abilities of the “Disparates. ” The known ones included enhanced senses, strength, immune system, stamina, agility and empathy-and they were shared amongst all “Disparates” around the world. He explained that each “Disparate” was stronger in a specific field. Fynn’s strongest powers were enhanced senses, strength and stamina, though he claimed he was adequately strong in all of them.

If one of your parents had the “D” gene, as it was called, you were sure to have it, too; however, if both of your parents did, you were likely to be more powerful. Fynn said that his parents recognized my last name, because my mother was a “badass” and a “ridiculously great fighter. ” My father was, in his words, “just a regular guy” who loved his wife so much that he willingly gave up everything to follow her to all kinds of battles. He said that they were an impeccable duo. Aside from the supernatural aspects, that did sound pretty much like my parents. I also found out that people called the enemy of the first war “Nameless” because no one knew his identity, and many suspected he was starting this war, as well.

Aside from the early mornings of training and the unspoken hatred between me and Fynn, all was well. That is until one dim Tuesday. “I think it’s time you try it out, '' he said.

“What? No.

“You are telling me you’re scared, loudmouth? Is that it?”

“No, I am not scared, you idiot. In fact, I am completely ready, ” I responded, trying to seem mighty. By then, I had decided my favorite weapons were the chain flail, a steel, spiked head attached to a chain, and the shuriken, a star-shaped blade. I thought one of these would be my best shot. I picked up the chain flail, only to realize how heavy it was. I started swinging it back and forth aimlessly, contemplating what to do with it.

“Come on, let me help you. ” he opened his palm, as though to take it from me.

“No thank you, I'm perfectly capable.

“Please let me, loudmouth. You’re going to hurt yourself otherwise.

“Huh?” he looked surprised. “How dare you call me a loudmouth! Ironically, you’re the one who has been talking about themselves non-stop. I have been nothing but nice to you since I came here, and you curse me every chance you get. You are pathetic!” I was screaming.

“Wow, relax loudmouth, it’s not like I called you anything horrible. ”

I felt my body flaming up, the steel of the chain getting warm inside my tight fist. That is when I struck. I lifted my hand and started swinging the chain as high and as far from my body as I could. He did not even flinch. I felt my blood boiling inside my veins and a foreign energy supplying me with power. I erupted in wrath and released the energy. Now, midair, I felt more potent than ever, while manipulating the blue energy to my advantage-my only goal- attacking Fynn Meier. I raised my hand, forcing him to my level, and then threw him to the ground.

“Jesus, how did you just do that?” Fynn said in awe.

“Oh my god. Did you see that?” I was too confused to care about a curse. I giggled in excitement and hugged him.

A few seconds later, I realized how awkward that was.

“Um, sorry” I said and stepped away. We rushed to the house and narrated the incident to everyone.

I spent the next few weeks trying to fully control the energy, along with training with Fynn. I seemed to have been prejudiced--he was quite bearable. I had grown to like his sarcasm and his excessive talking. I’d sit and listen to him, as though I was listening to a melody. As a result, training had become more fun and I could see great progress. I could now fully manipulate the energy, yet I did not have stamina or agility. That is where Fynn helped the most.

“Come on, plant your feet and focus on your intent. Find the balance, ” he said calmly. “All you need to do now is hold it for ten seconds. If you do that, then your stamina will gradually improve. ”

I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes. I focused on my intent: an image of my parents staring at each other with tears in their eyes, right before parting forever. Seeing my mother’s body lying on the ground and then the remains of all the innocent people of Cochem. I saw war. I saw revenge. That was my intent. That was what I wanted. I opened my eyes and extended my arms. Orbs of energy formed in both palms,

and I felt the power. I started counting. Reaching number nine, my body began to tremble, yet I resisted. I got up to eleven seconds and then fell to my knees. Fynn rushed to help me up. “Ilsa, you did it! Well done.

Still exhausted, I lifted my head to make sure I had heard correctly. “You called me by my name. ” We were centimeters apart.

“What?” he paused. “No, I didn’t. ”

“Yes, you certainly did.

“No, I certainly did not, Loudmouth. ”

“Don’t even try,

” I laughed. It was only then that I noticed the color of his eyes: hazel. A ring of marble gray encircling the irises. Then forest green, with amber flecks near the pupils.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou