BRONWEN DEIRDRE'S FEET THUMPED AGAINST THE STAIRCASE. Her hand ran along the railing as she rushed down the stairs, she shouldered her backpack as she hopped off the last stair.
She peered into the the lounge, and as usual, her father was passed out on the brown, lumpy couched they found along the side of a road. There was a red-haired woman stepping over the items littering the floor, picking up her belongings.
It wasn't the first time since they moved to America that a stranger was in Bronwen's home. It was a nightly activity her father participated in. He dressed himself up, drove the car to the casino down the road, and took home whatever chick sat in his lap.
She frowned, remembering her grandmother calling her one evening, and told her about how respectable her father was. And how she was so lucky to have him.
But, if she was honest, she didn't remember anything beyond her fourteenth year of life. So she didn't remember her mother, or her friends, only the darkness and fragments of the day her mother was killed.
She dropped the last remnants of cereal into the cleanest bowl in the sink, rinsing it out before she used it. The red-haired woman waved to the girl as she exited their apartment, leaving nothing but a stray hair clip and shredded clothing on the floor.

Bronwen glared at her father's unconscious form as she ate her soggy cereal. It was part of her daily routine, whether she was eating cereal or over cooked toast, it didn't matter.
Her eyes glanced over to the cracked clock on the wall, the patterned wallpaper surrounding it was in poor condition, with strips falling off every so often, leaving the bare plaster to peek through from behind. Everything about their apartment was falling apart, and it looked like it came straight out of the seventies. Once, it would have been in prime condition. The aqua coloured fridge would work properly, the counter would sport less cuts and irremovibile stains, the stove top and matching oven would actually work. The hastily bought microwave would have a proper place, instead of it's grotty spot beside the fridge, the stains on the glass impossible to clean off, no matter how much Bronwen tried.
She sighed, running a hand through her blonde locks. It was the only thing left from her mother, they did not share eyes, or personalities, or even the way they carried themselves. Everything about her mother was locked in lost memories, fading photos, and relatives with their endless stories.

Bronwen was always told how unfortunate the accident was. And how lucky she was to be alive. They would weep and share their own story about her mother, and sure, she could care. Sure, it is her mother they're talking about. But deep down, Bronwen couldn't care less. She didn't know the woman, she didn't remember much about the accident. She didn't know anything about her past.
Even months after that fateful day, Bronwen still had a tingling sensation that the accident wasn't, well, an accident at all.

Her father stirred on the couch as she dumped her spoon and now empty bowl into the sink. The previous owners never bothered to install a dishwasher, and the landlord wouldn't pay for one no matter how many times Bronwen would beg. They were stuck with this dingy little place until she scraped up enough money when it was her time to move out. She would leave her father behind, and never look back.
Her hand slid to the half-full jug of water beside her. Carefully stepping over long discarded items, Bronwen crossed the room. She stood beside the couch, a dark look on her face, and dumped the contents onto her father's face.
She stepped back as he sprang up, "What the fuck, Bronwen!" He swore, rubbing the water out of his eyes.

She took in his disheveled features, the rings under his eyes, the stubble coating his jaw and upper neck, the lines that creased as he took in his daughters image.
She crossed her arms over her chest, jug carefully set onto the coffee table, "You're gonna be late if you sleep in."

He grumbled something incoherent as he fumbled around for his shirt, he lifted it up, smelt it, and tossed it at his daughter, "Clean it."

She caught it, and refrained from glaring, "If you forgot, I've got school today. You can do it yourself or get another shirt."

He growled as he stood. Her father wasn't able to tower over her as much anymore, in the past few months after the accident, she had grown. The pair were almost eye to eye, and it tore his heart to see how much of her mother had left her when she died. "Fine. Get your arse off to school before I drive you myself."

Bronwen sprang into action, being driven by your biological father didn't sound that bad to others, but for Bronwen, it was a death trap. He always blamed the death of his wife on her, and if she stepped into his car, she was sure she'd never return.
She picked up her father's wallet from the discarded pants, slipping out a ten dollar note before dropping it back down. She shouldered her backpack, sliding the money into her jean pocket.
She'd never been to a school where they wore anything but uniform. Choosing her outfit for her first day of school was daunting, as most teens would judge her based on her choice. In the end, after spending countless days mulling it over, she donned her usual attire. Jeans, a shirt with a logo for a band or some other pop culture, and a hoodie over the top.
She shouted a 'bye!' before locking the apartment behind her, sliding her key into the same pocket with the note. Bronwen had lost countless ten dollar bills to the washing machine, forgetting they were made from paper, not plastic like those in Australia. Sure, she was only living in Australia for a few weeks, but there was where she absorbed the most information, here, it was like learning a new language.
Her sneakers slid against the stairs as she passed the elevator. It never worked, and the elderlies that lived on her floor and the floors above were condemned to walking up the many flights of stairs to reach their apartments. Most of the time, they'd never make it halfway. Many times Bronwen would escape her father's clutches by going into her neighbours, an older woman from the outskirts of Sydney. It was nice to have a familiar accent in a new world.

∆∆∆

Her heart was thumping loudly against her rib cage as she stood before the looming building. The building sat somewhere between old and new, the concrete sporting cracks, but the windows, grounds, and everything surrounding looked pristine.
She steeled her nerves and snaked her way through the crowd, pushing to the office by following the signs. She kept her head down, and had the temptation to full the dark hood over her hair — which to her, stood out like a beacon in the crowd.
Bronwen took a deep breath as she pushed through the doors into the office, there were one or two students lurking around, sitting in the seats, and beside those manning the office, it was practically empty.
Her hands were shaking as she strode to the raised desk, peering over the shelf to see the large, plump woman at the desk. Her curled hair tickling her neck as she shifted.
Bronwen adjusted her right arms sleeve, clearing her throat to drag the woman's attention.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I was just— oh, it doesn't matter to you, does it? Anyway, what was your name, honey?"

Bronwen was speechless, "I, uh..." she swallowed, licking her chapped lips, "I'm Bronwen."

"Righty-o! Of course, you're the new kid from Australia!" She her painted lips curved upwards, "Must be so different for you here. So you're Bronwen Deirdre, correct?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Right. So, here's your schedule." The woman stood, unfolding a file and slipping out a sheet of paper, "And on the other side is a small map of the school. Makes it an easier transition for newbies." She winked, pulling out another piece, "The principle should be seeing your parent or guardian in a moment, which means you'll miss homegroup but who cares about that, right? All you'll be doing is playing namegames. Anyway. Just take a seat and he'll call you right in, okie dokie?"

Bronwen nodded, folding her schedule and slipping it into her other pocket. She gave the woman a small smile before turning her back and sliding into a chair.
The woman sat down, hair bouncing, before she sprang back up again, "Oh! Sorry, I forgot, if you need anything, ask for Patsy. That's my name."

The wait for the principle was tedious. She tapped her foot on the carpeted flooring as voices drifted out from the door labelled with the principle's name.
When the bell rang, and a man in a suit left the office. She tracked his path with her eyes, watching as he disappeared around the corner and out of the building.
Patsy stood and announced that the principle would see her now. Bronwen gave her a thankful smile as she slipped into the office, bag and all.
As she closed the door behind her, the person spoke, "I apologise for my tardiness, Miss Deirdre. Desperate times call for long, tedious conversations."

The man turned around, setting himself in his high backed seat. He was more relaxed than the man before, a little weared down. He donned a suit, but it was less formal, and more principle-like.
"You remember the attack on New York?"

Bronwen raised an eyebrow, no, she had not heard of an attack on New York.
"Sorry, sir. I ... don't know of any attack on New York."

"Ah, apologies for that too. Well, when you get time to, google it. As I was saying, part of our building collapsed during the attack, and all the way out in Queens..." he began muttering, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sir?"

"Right!" The man looked back up at her, "I wanted to talk with your father, where might he be?"

A shadow crossed her features, she looked down, "He couldn't make it. Work and all."

"Yes, of course. For such a successful scientist such as himself. Well, I'll just call him later."

"No!"

The principle made a face, eyebrows raised, "No?"

Bronwen shifted in her seat, composing herself, "I mean, he doesn't like to be disturbed during work hours, and I'm sure the moment he gets home he'll pass out from a long day of work. It'll be impossible to contact him. Why not just tell me and I'll relay the information when I can?"

He paused, hands steepled before him, "Quite right. So, Bronwen, you must know about the services we offer here."

"Services?"

"Yes, psychological services. To help the kids with breakups or fights with their parents. Doesn't matter what it is, the ladies there are prepared for anything and will talk to you if needed." He stressed his words, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, "We also have out of school activities and clubs available. Sign up sheets normally go out within the next few days. The students here are very welcoming, Miss Deirdre, and you'll find your place quite quickly.

"We have a zero percent tolerance towards bullying. The kids here have come to this specific school for its extensive history in the science and technology areas, just like you have come here for also. So there should be no bullying as you and them are one and the same, and are here to learn.

"We have a homecoming for those in your year and above every year — as well as prom along the way. You know what a homecoming is, right?"

Bronwen refrained from sighing. She put on a smile and answered, "I've watched enough American movies to understand the concept, sir."

He returned her smile, "Of course. So, now that's all over, I'll escort you to your class—"

She cut him off, standing before he could, "Actually, sir, I'd rather like to find the room on my own. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Yes, right. I'll just let you out." He opened the door for her, and she left the office, entering the silent room.

"Thank you, sir." She said, but he did not hear her, as the door was closed before she could get the words out.

Bronwen took a deep breath and spun on her heel, reading her schedule for the room number. Funnily enough, they still had not finished homeroom, even though it felt like eternity and a half in the office.
She pushed through the glass door into the hall, turning the corner and following the printed map to her first class. She had not been given a locker, and hopefully her homeroom teacher would provide her with one.
Hopefully.
She paused as she held her hand up to the wood, the frosted glass obscuring her view of the students inside. Sucking in another breath, and wishing her heart would slow down for a moment, she rapped her knuckles on the wood.
The teacher inside swung the door open, and she stepped inside.
"You must be Bronwen Deirdre, right?" The teacher was dressed in floral clothing, and her blonde hair curled around her head in a braid, "I'm Miss Ouyen. But you can call me Miss O."

Bronwen nodded, all thoughts she had of being confident had flown out the window and back to Australia. The atmosphere of the room was different to anywhere she'd been. It felt hostile, and purple tendrils snaked around her hidden hand, tucked in her hoodie's pocket.
"Come in, come in." Bronwen stepped into the room and felt like she'd be thrown to the lions. Every pair of eyes stared at hers, well, beside one. A boy sitting in the middle of the class, pouring over a book sitting on his table, flipping the pages mindlessly. It was only until someone sitting behind him tapped his shoulder that he looked up, eyes locking. "There's a spare seat over there for you." Miss O pointed to the empty seat beside his.

She tore her gaze away, ducking her head down as she sat beside him. Miss O went on, explaining that Bronwen was from Australia and moved with her father here because of his job, and that he was a scientist.
Bronwen refrained from scoffing. Her father was no less a scientist than she was. The moment the news met his ears of her mother's death, he became a drunk, an addict, an emotionless sack. He claimed that there was no purpose for him anymore, even though his daughter sat beside him.
She allowed the teacher to speak. Miss O droned on about the school rules and policies and other endless topics. Bronwen snuck a glance around the room, head still down, as Miss O spoke. Her classmates had slack faces, they were itching to get out, and it was their first day of school for the term. Few were fanning themselves as the heat of the classroom raised degree by degree. The summers here weren't hot, and some days Bronwen was able to wear pants — though they weren't thick. The weather here was as wild as Melbourne's, the winter's being freezing and the summers hot. She'd never get used to the temperature, and she hadn't' seen snow just yet. That was what she was looking forward to, a white Christmas to lift her spirits. That maybe everything wasn't bad, and wasn't falling apart around her.
"Hey." A whisper to her left caught her attention. She turned her head slightly, hand rested upon on her desk, "Could I borrow a pencil?"

She nodded, sliding a hand into her bag, retrieving a pencil for the boy beside her. The book was still open in front of him, and as she handed the pencil over he made quick movements, scratching into it, underlining words she could not read from her angle.
Bronwen turned her head when the boys eyes flicked to hers, they caught her in the act of her staring as he scribbled inside the book. As her eyes flicked up to the clock, she read that there was not too long left. Only a minute or—
The bell rung before she could finish her thought. She allowed her fellow students to exit before positioning herself in front of Miss O's desk, "Miss O, I wasn't given a locker is there something I can talk to or?"

"Yes, I was told. Take a seat, Bronwen." Miss O. gestured for Bronwen to sit on the edge of a desk. Miss O perched on the front of her own. "We weren't able to find you one before school began. If it's okay with you, you could store your books in the cabinet over there. We could lock it and you'll have the key, and you can just come and get your stuff when you need to." She pointed to the green filing cabinet in the corner of the classroom.

"Thank you for your kindness." Bronwen replied, shifting on the desk, "I don't have a lot of stuff, though. We haven't been able to purchase anything when it comes to books. So I'll just be carrying my bag around with me."

"Oh, right. Well, I'll let you get to your next class. Then."

Bronwen smiled as she left the classroom, entering the dimly lit hallway once more. She pulled out her slip of paper with the map on it and followed the directions to her next class. The bell rang, and simultaneously sirens rang out in the distance.
Bronwen froze, hands suddenly shaking as she stared at the paper. Her mind told her she was lost, yet her previous memory said that she was on track.
She shuddered as the fragments of memory floated to the forefront of her mind. The smile, the gun, the lifeless body of her mother. The endless screaming and the sirens, the sirens blaring all around her as she was carried out of the wreck, tears streaming down her face.
She blinked, putting one foot before the other. She forced herself to move, forced herself to get to her classroom. She had to calm down, she couldn't let them see her. Couldn't let them see her, see her, see—

"Bronwen, are you alright?" A face crouched down to see hers, they reached out to touch her hand.

Bronwen jerked back, stumbling over her feet, muttering an endless stream of words in a language none could understand. She couldn't know, she couldn't see, she couldn't—

"Bronwen, can you hear me?" The boy stepped toward her, worry striking his features like a blow. He had heard her, oh, he had heard her. Who else?

She pushed herself against the wall, her head thumping against the plaster as she slid down to the tiled floor. Shakily, she pulled her hood over her hair and curled into the corner, as if to hide herself from the world, to hide herself from the pain that laced her mind as the few memories struck fear into her heart.
Their apartment was in a good neighbourhood, where criminals wouldn't dare go because of the police station across the road. She rarely heard the sirens when police were dispatched, but here, now, she could hear everything.
She pulled her hand out of her hoodie's pocket, and the purple scar that mangled her skin throbbed. Pulses of light were sent to and from the centre of the scar, and tendrils of the same colour would leak out into the world.
She gasped, shoving her hand back into her pocket. It was too late, he'd have seen, it was so noticeable. She'd have to move schools, and explain to her drunken father why she needed to move, why they needed to get out of the neighbourhood. She'd be all over the news.
"Miss Deirdre, can you come with me?" A soft voice whispered, the woman in her eyesight had the same features as her mother when she looked at her pictures, the golden glow that she seemed to have.

Bronwen sniffed, and allowed the woman to pull her to her feet. She could not meet the boys eyes as she was lead into another hall. She was taken into a warm room, the smell of freshly baked biscuits wafted into her nose, and the calmness of the room almost made her feel better.
She took in the bright colours, the beanbags, the armchair that looked like it would swallow you whole as you sat in it. There was a dog in the corner, and it sniffed the air as she entered.
"Take a seat." The woman said, "Would you like a hot cocoa?"

Bronwen nodded and sat on the armchair. Immediately, the warmth encased her and she sunk a good two centimetres.
The kettle boiled quickly, and the woman handed her a mug with the silhouettes of birds on them. The woman sat across from her, holding her own mug.
"My name's Emily." The woman said, her brown hair sitting neatly above her shoulders, "What would you like to do, Bronwen?"

The young girl took a sip of her hot cocoa, and a pleasant smile appeared on her lips. She felt indebted to the woman who saved her from that scene, that she owes something, "I wanted to go to class."

Emily's soft gaze shifted as she spoke, "Can I ask you why you couldn't?"

Bronwen shuddered, the contents of the mug came dangerously close to the edge, "I..." she choked up, placing the mug down as she clutched her hand inside her pocket. It never like her to speak about why to others, only to acknowledge that it did happen.

"You don't have to say anything you don't want to."

"No, no, I do. I want to. I just..." she grit her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. Should she show the woman her hand? Would it freak her out? Would they send her to a hospital, where she'd be tested and treated like an animal? "The sirens." She gasped out, "They remind me of that day."

"The day when the accident happened?"

"Yes."

"Bronwen." The woman whispered, "Would you like to return to class today?"

"Yes."

"Okay. If you want, just relax. Drink more hot cocoa, and I'll get you some chocolate to nibble. You can join them after lunch, alright?"

Bronwen nodded, agreeing to Emily's plan.
Once Emily left the room, taking the dog with her, Bronwen took her hand out from her pocket. The throbbing scar had died down to a less violent colour, and she let out a breath of relief. Less tendrils escaped, and she clamped down on them before Emily returned, shoving her hand back into her pocket. She'll have to invest in gloves.
"I found this from the cafeteria, I hope you're fond of Hershey's."

The comment brought a smile to Bronwen's face, a genuine smile, "They're not as good as the chocolate back home."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Lindt is expensive but for a treat it's the best, and Cadbury is most's go-to chocolate when you have a few spare coins."

Emily laughed, setting herself down across from Bronwen. The dog padded circled around her once before laying down on the carpet beside the chair.
Bronwen talked to Emily about life in Australia, those few weeks that she knew. As time passed by, the heavy feeling on Bronwen's chest eased. And when the bell rang for lunch, she had a faint glowing look on her face.
"If you ever need me again, just follow the signs to the storage room. They haven't fixed it yet, but I'm sure it'll change." Emily said as she escorted Bronwen to the cafeteria, "You sure you'll be alright?"

Bronwen steeled her gaze, "I need to do this at some point, right?"

Emily shot her a smile and trundled back down the hall and around the corner.
This wasn't the only cafeteria, according to her map. It was one of two, and students chose to go to either. In Australia, she was told that they brought their own lunches and ate them outside. The canteen was only for those who worked and wanted to treat themselves. Here, the cafeteria was where everyone bought their food, but there was still a few who brought them from home.
Bronwen took a deep breath and shouldered the doors open, taking in the vast space filled with students.