moonlight cantata/chapter 1

CW: parental rejection/abandonment, racism, blackface reference, normalized genocidal ideology, police, biomedical surveillance, coerced medication, housing discrimination, bullying, antipsychotics, marijuana, dubiously consensual full-time power dynamic, possible grooming, child soldiers

Inside my room, above my desk is a poster of Maria Mithras. Outside my room, my parents are fighting.

Yesterday, my hair was dark blonde. Today, it is white. Yesterday, my eyes were a hazy shade of blue. Today, they’re a shade that could almost be mistaken for blue instead of purple.

No human body changes like that overnight.

Outside my room, my parents are screaming.

“Come on, that’s our daughter you’re talking about.”

My father.

“The child I carried to term is dead.”

My mother.

“You don’t-” my father begins, but he doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Let me at least come to terms with that before harassing me about adopting this thing,” she replies.

The intonations of her voice, the way she stresses her words. I’ve all heard it a million times before. She’s been my mother all my life.

Moontouched. Changeling. Above my desk the face of Maria Mithras, metal guitarist and singer-songwriter, stares at me with purple eyes. Her unkempt white hair reaches almost to her waist.

Did I know? Did I subconsciously know?

“Marieken?”

My dad. He knocks on my door.

“Yeah,” I mutter back. I try to sound calm. “Come in.”

“Your mom is really stressed right now. She’s going to stay at your grandparent’s place for the night. If there’s anything you need, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

He leaves, closing the door behind him.

Outside of my room, it is finally quiet, and I can go to sleep.

The next morning, breakfast is eaten in a terrifying, awkward silence. My father smiles as he puts the bowl of cereal in front of me, but it’s a pained smile. My mom is nowhere to be found.

“You don’t have to go to school today,” he says. “Might be good to take it easy for a while.”

“I’m not going to school today,” I reply. “I’m going to buy black paint for my hair. And I’m going to look for lenses of some kind.”

He’s taken aback by that. I don’t have the energy to wonder why. The sooner everything is back to normal, the better.

“Can you,” I ask my dad. “Can you not tell anyone? It’d be a hassle.”

“Hmhm,” he says while nodding ‘yes’.

I finish breakfast in silence, and head back to my room to look for a hoodie to put on.

The only one not currently in the laundry has a stylized, cartoon drawing of Maria Mithras on it.

Shaking my head to complain about this to no-one in particular, I put it on and attempt to hide my hair as best I can.

My English Literature teacher, to get me to stop describing characters by having them look in the mirror and mention their own eye colour, told me people in the real world do not pay attention to eye colour all that much. I pray she’s right, head back downstairs and leave for the city center on my bike.

The world is different. Colder. Distant from me. I never really paid attention to the people around me. Now I anxiously glance around to see if they’re looking at me. Half lost in thought, half glancing around like a paranoid asylum escapee, I wander through the cosmetics store.

“I might have mystical powers,” I mutter to the cashier as I hand her two bottles of black hair dye.

She looks at me, and then her eyes light up in recognition. “Oh!” she says while pointing at my hoodie. “You’re like Maria.”

So much for keeping a low profile.

Traveling back home with two sets of green lenses, two bottles of black dye and some mascara- it was discounted- I keep thinking about it. Changelings aren’t really human. They have mystical powers, like Maria Mithras.

I am not really human. I might have mystical powersLike Maria Mithras.

Again, I wonder. Did I know? I obsessively followed her life. I went to concerts. I read her book. I prowled magazines and internet fora for interviews. Was that borne from some innate understanding that she and I were the same, or was that pure happenstance?

And most importantly: Will my mother hold it against me? Will she accuse me of knowing I knew all along, of tricking her?

I’m not slow on the uptake. My mother has yelled at me before. She’s hit me before. Me no longer being human is not going to help. She’s not going to come back from her parents to forgive all.

When I think about forgiveness, I have to stifle a tear. Is this really something I ought to feel sorry about? Something I’ll eventually have to make up for?

When I’m back home, my dad hands me a present.

“Dad,” I try to say, but there’s no real feeling behind it.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You don’t have to pretend you’re doing alright. Just, if something is up, tell me, alright?”

“I will,” I say as I take the present. Even before ripping off the wrapping, I know it’s a book. I’ve held so many books in my life. As I walk up the stairs to my room, I trail paper wrappings.

‘Walking in Moonlight,’ the book reads. Downstairs, I hear my father laugh.

He’s relieved, I realize. Relieved I still responded the exact same way I always have.

‘Walking in Moonlight,’ a book by a fellow Changeling. A fellow Moontouched. Part fiction, coming of age. Part nonfiction- mastery of magical talents.

My breath catches in my throat.

I am special, I realize. Not terribly special- there’s two more moontouched on my high school

alone- but special nonetheless.

A warm feeling, the first in more than a day, spreads slowly from my heart. Special.

--------

My classroom is mostly normal. The only person I have classes with who is a ‘periphery demographic’ is Hiro, who currently sits three rows behind me and is not paying attention to the economy lesson, but is instead playing with a sheeted katana.

I figure that that requires some explaining.

‘Periphery Demographics’ is what the government calls the people who aren’t really people, who live on the edge of our society but aren’t really part of it. The people who didn’t exist before the late nineteen sixties.

I say our society, but it’s their society, really. I’m still coming to grips with the fact that I’m not human, not part of the whole I thought I was part of.

Oh, Hiro and his katana. Hiro isn’t his real name. He pretends he’s Japanese for some reason, even though he clearly is not. He’s got some superhero-esque business going on after school, and carries around all kinds of permits for deadly weapons and magical abilities.

You’re raised to not think of such things as secretly kind of cool. Under the Back to Normal policy, abnormality is ridiculed, relegated to the edges of society. Current scientific consensus is that such phenomena are fuelled by human belief, and by eroding faith in them can baseline reality eventually be restored.

I wonder what would happen to me if that was the case.

The teacher, Mr. Andreas, glares at me. I’m not paying a lot of attention to his lesson either.

There are more Periphery Demographics at my school. There’s two moontouched, which I discovered I am as well two days ago. They’re sorta goth, and frequently hang around a witch a year older than they are. A grade below me is a girl in a wheelchair, a vampire. She was maimed by a religious zealot, and doesn’t have a lot of friends.

There’s certain to be others. I don’t intend to seek them out, however. Nor do I intend to join the clique of the witch and her two moontouched friends, mystifying as they might be to me. With my hair dyed black I hope to continue my life as normal. Graduate, go to university. There’s a temptation to explore if I indeed have ‘powers’ the way some moontouched and other Periphery Demographics can have, but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself.

A Back to Normal policy for my own life, so to say.

After economics class is break. I head to my own friends in the cafeteria, Amy and Jan.

“Hey Marieken, new hair today?” Jan says in his flat, Amsterdam accent as I sit down next to Amy and across from him

“Yeah,” I say. “I thought I’d goth it up a little. Look, new mascara as well.” Amy laughs. “Well, if you wanna go goth you should paint your hair white. If you don’t mind having to explain you’re not actually a fairy freak to everyone, that is.”

“Yeah,” I mutter in reply.

“Hm,” Jan says. “Do you think Theresa and Maria would think that offensive? Like, in the same way that Black Pete around Christmas is offensive to some people?” The Dutch and their favorite subject of casual debate: racism. It didn’t really ever bother me before, but realizing that only one thin layer of black dye is preventing Amy from seeing me as a ‘fairy freak’ or Jan from dragging me into a debate about blackface rattles me.

Back to Normal might be harder than I thought. I grab my lunch, and eat it while pretending to listen to Amy and Jan.

“Oh, great,” Jan suddenly says. “The weeaboo is coming straight for us.” I turn around, and look into the pale, extremely Dutch face of Hiro.

“Marieken,” he says while grinning. “There’s something different about you today.”

“No,” I quickly say. “There isn’t.”

“I’m used to painting my hair black,” Hiro says. “And you know me-”

“I really don’t,” I interrupt him.

“Let me continue,” he says while forming an almost cruel smile on his face. “Your pretty black hair made me look at you, and then I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. Say, Marieken?” I look at Amy and Jan, who shrug and suppress a laugh.

“Yeah?” I stammer as I look back to Hiro.

“Since when do you have two shadows?” My heart races as I try to make sense of his statement. Before I can collect my thoughts, Amy yells at me.

“He’s right! What the fuck, you have two shadows. Marieken, move around a little. Is this a trick of the light?”

“It’s,” I say weakly, “It’s like, when there’s two lights. A trick of the light.” Hiro grins, and walks away.

“No way,” Jan says. “Look at that. That’s so unnatural.” The cafeteria has one glass wall letting in ample sunlight. I look to the sun, and then down to my feet. Where they touch the ground in front of my chair, two shadows sprout.

That’s not how shadows are supposed to work

I follow them with my eyes, and one of the two tilts its head at me.

Amy lets out a shrill scream.

“You’re haunted,” she says. “You should get that checked out! What if someone has cursed you or something? Hexed even?”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, as I bolt upright and head for the cafeteria door.

Has anyone else noticed? Are people looking at me? I don’t dare to turn my head to check. I lock myself into the bathroom and stop holding back tears.

This isn’t fair, I repeat in my mind. This isn’t fair.

To my horror, my unnatural, second shadow creeps up along the bathroom stall door, and makes a ‘shrug’ gesture.

“What are you?” I yell at it, before reflexively putting my hand in front of my mouth. I don’t want to cause a scene.

The shadow shrugs again.

I pull out my phone, and open an anonymous tab. Somehow, that makes me feel a little less anxious googling ‘Moontouched two shadows’.

A hundred results. All internet fora dedicated to the occult, to moontouched and to magic. I close the tab. I can’t deal with that right now.

I expect Jan or Amy to eventually show up at the bathroom door, to ask me if I’m alright. They don’t, and after a while I hear the bell announcing the continuation of lessons ring. I wait another fifteen minutes, and leave the building.

In the schoolyard, I wonder where to go and what to do. Home, probably. Take a shower and then take my time looking up whatever nonsense is befalling me, and how to make it go away.

“Hey, girl,” I hear Hiro yell.

I turn around, and look at the sharp tip of a katana being pointed at my face. Anxiously, I take a step backwards.

“Don’t-” I stammer, but I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. My brain is too slow to process this cascade of events in a reasonable manner.

“You haven’t strangled anyone lately, have you?” Hiro asks me. There’s an accusatory tone in his question, like he suspects me of having done something.

Of having strangled someone, I realize. Duh. He just asked me.

“I haven’t,” I say. “Is this about the shadow thing?”

“It might,” Hiro says. “I’m watching you. If you’re the killer, I have full permission to take you down.”

“You’re my age,” I whisper.

“And?” He asks. “I’m the only person with the schizophrenic affliction that allows people to wield cursed weapons this side of Amsterdam. If the cops need someone to kill a demon, they don’t give a rat's ass that I’m seventeen years old. And if you aren’t Marieken, and you are some inhuman thing wearing her skin, I won’t give a fuck either.”

I become light-headed. “I’m not,” I squeak. “I discovered I’m moontouched two days ago. I didn’t notice the shadow until you pointed it out. I just want to be normal, so I painted my hair.” Hiro shakes his head as he sheets his katana. “Pathetic,” he says as he turns around and strolls back to school.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I yell after him. He doesn’t reply.

With a pit in my stomach, I unlock my bike and head home.

--------

There aren’t a lot of neighborhoods with driveways in this part of Amsterdam. Back in the day, the government assumed most people wouldn’t get a car, and only put parking lots along the road. Paradoxically, we do have a driveway, but we don’t own a car. When I arrive home, I immediately notice the strange car in the driveway.

I’m not sure I can handle much more today, so I desperately pray that it doesn’t have anything to do with me

Inside, my dad is busy working through a pile of documents with a shady man wearing a black three-piece suit. He’s got a lapel card denoting some kind of official agency clipped to his chest.

“Ah, Marieken, you’re home early,” my dad says, looking up from whatever he was doing.

“Yeah,” I say.

“This is Sam, Sam Anderson, from the municipal government. He’s here to help me sort out some things regarding your identity.” And of course, I am wrong. It has everything to do with me. My heart crashes through the floor, and the last bits of energy maintaining my sanity recede to the far recesses of my mind.

“My identity?” I ask. “I asked you to not tell anyone.”

“Your father,” the stranger- Sam- says, with a stern tone in his voice, “Is legally obligated to file your situation to the government.”

“Oh,” I say.

“But don’t worry,” he continues. “It’s all confidential. Nobody except your parents and healthcare provider will have access to any information unless you allow it to be shared.”

“Ah.” In the moment, I can’t come up with anything better.

“It’s a good thing you’re early. I can administer your blood test right away and you can fill in the forms with your preferred last name.”

“What,” I say, my voice coming out much sharper than I intended. “Dad, what’s this?” I’m too shocked to feel anything but indignation and anger.

My father shakes his head. “The government wants to track the ways changelings spread through other demographics. Don’t be cross with me, I’m here filling out your adoption papers while your mother is god-knows-where.”

“You have to understand this is all procedure,” Sam says. “You’re not legally- or biologically- his daughter. It’s best to get this all sorted out right now so you can carry on with your life with as little disruption as possible.”

“I see,” I say as I hang up my coat and take a seat at the table. “And what’s this about a blood sample?”

“A test to see what Moontouched, hm, what was the name you all use? Ah, a test to see what Court you are from. What bloodline, so to speak. We’ll also know right away if you need to show up for paraphysical testing.” Sam is cold and detached as he explains it, as if he’s had to give this speech a hundred times before. Hell, he probably has.

I put my head to rest in my hands as I try not to cry, and Sam shoves some papers in my direction.

“Fill out your preferred surname here, and here,” he says while pointing at the form. “Your dad is already adopting you, so you can check this box to keep your original surname- that way this is no more than a formality.”

My preferred surname. I’m Marieken de Vries, and I have been all my life. How am I supposed to pick a new surname, even if ‘only as a formality’ right on the spot?

Sam points at my hoodie. “Just go with Mithras if you can’t think of anything. About half of your kind picks that name.”

Marieken Mithras, just like Maria Mithras. Now that I think about it, one of the other moontouched at my school is also called Maria. Was she named directly after Maria Mithras? Wouldn’t that be a little weird?

I want to go to my room, and I want to get this over with, so I fill out the form and check the required boxes

“Thank you very much, Ms. de Vries,” Sam says. There’s something kind about him using my original surname

“Now, if you give me your index finger,” he continues while grabbing a small plastic gizmo with a vacuum-sealed needle attached to it from a bag on the ground. He removes the needle cover, and motions for me to hurry up and give him my finger already

Anxiously, I stretch out my left hand and index finger.

“It only stings for a second, hold still,” he says as he grabs hold of my finger and then jabs it with the needle.

“The device only needs one drop of blood,” he says as I sigh in relief that it’s already over. From his bag, he grabs some disinfectant, a wipe and a bandage.

As he bandages my finger, he looks at the device and smiles. “You’re in luck, you’re shadow court.” The moment I hear the word shadow, I nervously glance behind me. The unnatural, second shadow is still there. Neither Sam nor my dad seem to notice.

“Shadow court,” I say. “What does that mean?”

“That you’ve probably got some kind of superpowers,” Sam explains with my dad making a troubled face. “It also means you really have to make an appointment for paraphysical testing. I have another form for that,” he chuckles as he pulls out another binder with documents.

I plan an appointment next thursday at the University of Amsterdam Department of Paraphysics to get tested for powers, and the ordeal is finally over.

Sam cleans up all his documents and neatly files them away, thanks my dad for the coffee and wishes me the best of luck.

Then he’s gone.

My dad asks if I want some coffee as well, and if school went well.

“It was okay, but I’m not feeling great. Do you mind if I just go to my room?”

“Of course not,” he says. “If you need anything, please ask. It’s- It’s not a great- I mean I can understand things aren’t going great right now, but things will return to normal sooner rather than later. I promise.” His voice breaks, and I understand he doesn’t believe what he’s saying either. Tired and depressed, I head to my room.

I turn on my laptop and spend an hour browsing through the top ten google results for ‘moontouched two shadows’ before giving up in frustration. Every single moontouched website is written in an almost incomprehensible and at times insane sounding lingo and I do not have the energy to turn this into homework.

Absent-mindedly putting on music I wonder if Amy is doing anything today, and if I should call when she’s done with school, but eventually decide against it. Instead, I lie down on my bed and start flipping through ‘Walking in Moonlight’.

To my surprise, the book enthralls me immediately. I feel a little odd reading about someone going through more or less exactly what I’m going through, but it creates an immediate bond.

Whenever the protagonist encounters new troubles, helpful paragraphs explain the real-world concepts used in the novel and the relevance of many terms and concepts.

Moontouched come in five ‘courts’ or bloodlines, I learn, and are seemingly genetically related to each other. That means that other moontouched from the same court as I are my biological brothers and sisters, which prompts my curiosity to where, exactly, I came from.

To my frustration, I can find no answer- neither in the book nor on the internet, only idle speculation.

Another thing I learn is that magic is apparently really difficult, and that not all moontouched can wield it. The strongest court on average is the mirror court, with the shadow court right behind them, but that doesn’t mean that every individual from said court is born equal.

Actually learning magic seems to involve a lot of confusing diary keeping and rigorous training, and I download a PDF called ‘Transcendental Meditation for Moon People’. To my frustration this text is equally obtuse- written in odd jargon, using phrases like ‘astral body’ and ‘sigils’ and mentioning ‘temperaments’ without explaining what those are.

I recall a lot of magic sounds like nonsense to outsiders, and that the mentally ill have an easier time learning it- which harkens back to Hiro’s strange comment about schizophrenia.

For now, I give up on magic- I couldn’t find anything about multiple shadows that so much as remotely made sense to me- and instead try to rest and relax a little. Tomorrow, I’ll spin a lie to my friends, and get plan ‘Back to Normal’ back on track.

As I lie down with my headphones on, I cannot bring myself to put on Maria Mithras. It feels too strange to listen to her familiar voice, her screaming lyrics about loneliness and rage. Lyrics that now feel like they’re about me instead of her.

For a second I consider googling what court Maria belongs to. I decide against it, feeling a strange shame at the excitement the possibility of her being my biological sister brings me.

--------

The faculty of Paraphysics is located at the University on what is called ‘Science Park’, a large neighborhood not far from the suburb I live in dedicated to the University of Amsterdam and several scientific companies.

Despite that, paraphysics is really closer related to philosophy than to actual physics.

The building is sparsely decorated and modern to a fault. Sterile, lit like a hospital. A young man- a student, I guess- mans the reception desk.

"Hello, how can I help you?" He asks, badly masking boredom with feigned politeness.

"I'm here for a test. Name is Marieken. A paraphysics test."

"Do you have any ID on you?" I lost my ID card once, a year ago. It took them almost a month to replace it. Yet now it only took Sam a day to bring me my new card. Hesitant, I hand him my brand-new ID.

Marieken Mithras Female NON HUMAN - CHANGELING - MOONTOUCHED, it reads "Hm," he says while barely glancing at it. "Up the stairs, third floor. There's a waiting room there, you'll be called in."

"Thank you," I mutter, but my heart isn't in it.

The waiting room is nice. There's two large sofas, a drink dispenser and several abstract paintings in bright, primary colours. On one of the sofas sits another girl, wearing blue jeans and a baggy hoodie with the hood pulled up all the way over her head. Gloves cover her hands, despite it being summer.

"Hey," I say.

"Huh," she replies as she looks up. "Oh. Hi." I sit down on the other sofa.

"What are you in here for?" I ask, a poor attempt at a joke.

She looks at me. "What are you in here for?" She throws right back at me. "You look normal enough." I can't help but glance at the floor, at my double shadow.

"Oh," she says. "Shadow court changeling. Did you paint your hair? Poor thing."

"Are you a changeling as well?" I ask.

"No," she says, throwing back her hood and removing her gloves.

Porcelain skin, glass eyes and ball joints. I haven't met any in real life, but I've read about them online. A doll.

"Oh," I say. "Do they make you take paraphysics tests as well?"

"You as in me, or you as in dolls?" She asks. There's a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

"Dolls," I say, a little ashamed of myself.

"Yeah"

"I thought dolls can't do magic."

"Dolls can grow, turn into doll-witches,” the girl explains.

"Oh." I nod yes to emphasize I understand. I think I understand, at least. "I'm Marieken, by the way," I quickly add.

"I'm Noor," the doll-girl replies.

“Nice to meet you.” It is then that the door swings open and an older man in a lab coat ever so slightly too small for him loudly yells “NOOR.”

“That’s-” Noor starts, but the man interrupts her by yelling “Great, come in.” He then looks at me and says “This won’t take long, you’ll be up next.” One hour and four cups of tea from the drink dispenser later I start to wonder what definition of ‘not long’ the man is using. I don’t feel like drinking any more tea, but I grab another cup regardless to try and alleviate my boredom.

I once read that in an experiment on boredom, test subjects would voluntarily electrocute themselves when presented with no other stimuli.

Another thirty minutes and two cups of tea later, Noor is finally done.

“Hey,” she says, a little hesitant. “I euh,” she mutters, then looks to the floor. “Nevermind,” she says.

“Huh?” I ask her.

“I wanted to ask for your number but that’s weird,” she says, and very slowly walks away.

“That’s okay,” I yell after her. “You can have my number.”

“Really?” she asks. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s fine, really,” I say, before taking out my phone.

“Do you have an iPhone? Then I can airdrop my contact info. Else you’ll have to add it manually.”

“I have a very old phone,” Noor says while looking at her feet. “Sorry.” What a strange girl. “That’s okay, you don’t have to apologize,” I tell reassure her.

“Okay,” she pouts.

I give her my phone number, which she adds to her contacts.

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” she says.

“Oh,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time today. I have no clue how to respond to something like that.

“Anyway,” she says, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. She turns around and walks away.

A few minutes after I’m called into the office.

“So,” the older man in the lab coat says. “My name is Dr. West. You discovered you’re a Moontouched a while back. That means we have to do. Some. Tests.” He oddly stresses ‘tests’, with a strange glee in his voice.

“The tests are simple,” he continues. “You have to answer a set of questions on the computer while we attach some. Electrodes. To. Your. Temples.” His cadence in talking is strange, off-putting.

“Okay,” I say as the man flips around a laptop with a simple questionnaire form on it’s screen.

He gets up, and plugs several wires into ports on a device wired to the laptop. He also grabs some kind of gel, and shows me the electrodes.

“I have to put some gel on your temples to attach the electrodes. It feels really cold so don’t get startled.” From behind me, he rubs the gel on the sides of my head- which is indeed really cold- and then sticks the electrodes on top of it with some tape. As he does so, he leans forward and loudly sniffs my hair.

Startled, I turn around. “What?” I ask, worried.

“L’Oreal Paris brand hair dye,” he says. “That’s bad for your hair. Moontouched hair is sensitive.”

“Don’t-” I say, but I don’t know exactly what to say.

Dr West returns to his desk, and shoves the laptop in front of me.

The questions are all strange. Bizarre. Pattern recognition test I vaguely remember from IQ tests but with an overload of information. Sequences of ‘Is this statement true when considering the last statement’ questions numbering in the hundreds.

It takes me almost two hours to work through the questions, which I answer more or less at random, or on intuition. There doesn’t seem to be any coherence to them, nor any system of logic.

When done, I click ‘save and submit’ and several devices plugged into the laptop start whirring and beeping.

“We’ll have your results in a minute,” Dr West says, who started playing something on an old Nintendo DS while I was filling out my questionnaire.

Indeed, after a minute my test results roll out of a printer. Dr West looks them over and starts laughing. A deep, maniacal laugh.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, slightly anxious that he might’ve caught on to me answering at random.

“Oh, far from it,” he laughs. “You’ve scored a ninety-five. That’d be the second highest score in Paraphysical Aptitude ever measured if I’m not mistaken. I wonder what’s in the water here in Amsterdam.” I feel a little strange hearing that. “Is that good?” I ask him.

“You’re basically Superman according to this test. Or euh, Harry Potter.” Deep down in my subconscious, a younger, nerdier Marieken demands I correct the doctor, and explain to him that Harry Potter wasn’t even very good at magic, but that he won the day through the power of friendship and love. I stifle the impulse, though, and instead ask more about my test score.

“What does that mean? What’s the highest score?”

“It means you’re extremely capable of detaching yourself from consensus reality, and have a strong aptitude for magic. And the highest score was one hundred, also measured at this University campus. Curiously enough though,” he says, before trailing off in thought.

“Curiously enough what?” I ask him.

“Egh,” he spits. “Forget it, that’s probably confidential. Oh, and euh, we’re going to have to plan another appointment. I’m going to have to report this to the military, who’ll want to run their own tests.”

“The Military!?” I yell.

“Hmhm,” he says. “Scores over seventy have to be reported. The average witch scores thirty, and it’s a logarithmic scale. Your potential power output equals that of a nuclear weapon.

They’re gonna want to confirm the results, then register you as a weapon of mass destruction under international law, then put you on power blockers.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. Nothing the man says connects to me in any way that feels real.

“I’m afraid not. Can you come back next week? That’ll be enough time to get an appointment with the boys from the AIVD.” He isn’t kidding. The AIVD, the Dutch intelligence agency.

“You can make an appointment at the reception on the ground floor,” he continues. “Oh, and Marieken? Try not to throw anyone through walls with your mind in the meantime.”

“I can’t do anything like that,” I say. “This is a bizarre misunderstanding. I answered the test at random.”

“Oh,” Doctor West says while smiling, and for a second I believe that my explanation solves everything. “The test is a repurposed schizophrenia test, but it’s just to get the neurons firing.

The actual measurements were done by the electrodes on your temples. It’s an almost foolproof test.” With that, he sinks my hopes. As he walks to the door of his office with me, he puts his hands through my hair.

“What a waste of such pretty white hair,” he says as I anxiously swat his hand away. “Please don’t do that,” I ask.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging his shoulders with a grin on his face. I get the feeling he doesn’t mean it.

I head downstairs, and plan another appointment next Thursday, same time. I don’t mention the AIVD or the atomic bomb thing to the receptionist, but from his amused looks I get the feeling he knows.

As I walk outside, I send Noor a message on whatsapp.

“Hiiii. Marieken from the paraphysics test here. I scored a 95. What did you score?” It takes Noor only three seconds to answer.

“A 3. Do you want to hang out?” Why not? A little bit out of a feeling of obligation, but mostly because I really am interested in what kind of person- or doll- she is, I message her my home address. She answers with a smiley.

With a vague sense of guilt in my stomach I bike home.

--------

Noor isn’t there yet when I get home, which gives me time to change into something a little cooler than track pants and a hoodie.

When I head back down from my room after changing, I run into my dad in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says. “How did your test go? ”

“Oh,” I say. “Very well,” I lie. “But I have to come back next week for another one. ”

“I see,” he replies. “Your mother will be coming by in a bit. To talk with me. I think it would be best if you stay in your room or head to the mall for a bit. ”

“Why?” I ask. “She doesn’t want to see me? She’s my mom. ”

“Your mother is going through some stuff right now,” he explains.

I wonder what that means. It still rattles me down to my bones that she got up and left me because my hair turned white.

Deep down I know that’s unfair. Changelings are children swapped out shortly after birth.

Mammalian Mimicry it’s called, not unlike the Cuckoo bird, that swaps out the eggs of another bird with its own and makes the other bird raise its children.

Changelings, no matter the species- there are several organisms that do this- work the same way. I am not my mother’s daughter, not the child she carried with her for nine months. As far as anyone knows, that child is gone. Dead.

But I am still the same me. I’m the child she’s raised for the past seventeen years.

Pained, I shake my head. “I invited a friend over,” I tell my dad.

“Marieken, please,” he says. His tone is demanding, annoyed. “I’d like my marriage to not fall apart. Just go hang out at the mall with your friend. ”

“Your marriage,” I say, confused. Defeated. My parents might get divorced because of me.

Shaking, I take out my phone to message Noor, somewhat anxious at ruining a burgeoning friendship right at the start. Right as I am about to hit ‘send’ on a question to ask if we can hang out at the mall or skatepark instead, the doorbell rings.

“That’ll be your friend,” my dad says. “Ask if she wants a drink then scram.” Somewhat hesitant, go to open the front door. It’s indeed Noor, who I am somewhat glad is still disguising herself. It makes me feel a little guilty again, but I think it wouldn’t be great for my dad to catch me hanging out with Periphery Demographics right now.

“Hey hey,” I say, pretending to be cheerful.

“Hello,” she says, rather flat.

“Wanna come in, wanna head to the mall?” I ask her, praying that she might rather hang out outside to begin with.

“Oh,” she says, brightening a little. “We can go sit at the construction site behind the mall! Sareth might be there, or Tom. ”

“I don’t know them,” I say. “But that sounds fun. Let me grab my bag.” A minute later I am walking towards the mall, side by side with Noor.

“You ever hang out at the construction site?” Noor asks me. “Sometimes people like us go there to chill, away from judgemental looks and harassment. ”

“No,” I say, feeling somewhat out of depth.

“Hmmmm,” Noor says. “Only recently discovered you’re Moontouched?”

“A week ago.”

“Hm, so that’s why you painted your hair. Still think there’s any chance of living a human life.” Her dismissive attitude annoys me a little. “I am going to take it slow revealing everything to my friends. My dad is doing a lot for me to be able to continue functioning as normal. ”

“I turned into a doll over a year ago now. Unlike you, I was at some point actually human. I also thought I could eventually go back to normal. ”

“Hey,” I say. “I was… Well, I guess I wasn’t technically human. I guess you’re right.” It still bothers me, that I never actually was a human. A cuckoo, a creature masquerading as something else to ‘trick’ people into taking care of it.

“How,” I then ask. “If that isn’t rude to ask, how did you turn into a doll? ”

“If people treat you as an object long enough, you turn into an object. Something for others to play with. ”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

“Hmm,” she says. “Being treated as an object isn’t all bad. Being loved, treasured, kept safe and secure like a prized gemstone.” Something bizarre comes over me. A sensation I’ve never felt before. I feel my shadow changing, my second shadow, my unnatural companion. Before I look at the floor to see, I already know. It’s turned into a facsimile of a dragon, a shadow puppet, a toy lizard with wings.

“Woah,” Noor says as she, too, sees it. “Shadow magic. That’s cool. Unsubtle way of saying you want to keep me as a treasure in your dragon hoard though, but kinda cute. ”

“No!” I yell. “I have no control over that thing. I don’t want to, euh, own you. That’s, no!” Noor laughs. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t have the stomach for it, either. You still live with your dad.” I wonder what that has to do with anything, but don’t prod.

We pass through the mall, and I can’t help but glance around if anyone is looking at us. They have no reason to, and my suspicious behavior makes me feel terrible. Maybe Noor thinks I’m judging her, or ashamed of her.

If anything, I’m ashamed of myself. But I suppose that makes me ashamed of Noor by proxy.

Ashamed of being something else.

The construction project behind the mall has been abandoned years ago, and they never cleaned up the mess. We round a corner, and to my surprise- and terror- I see Theresa and Maria, the two Moontouched from my school, passing a joint back and forth while sitting on a concrete block.

“I know those girls,” I tell Noor. “They’re from my school. ”

“Oh,” she says. “Let me guess, now you wanna run for it so your secret doesn’t leak?” Noor asks, a heavy tone of disappointment in her voice.

“Well,” I say. “Well, euh, well. They wouldn’t tell anyone right, they are, like me?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Noor says, while steadily marching on. “Hey,” she yells. “Theresa.” Theresa waves, and gestures for us to come over.

“Hello Noor,” Theresa says as we approach them. “Not with Sareth today?” Theresa mostly ignores me in favor of Noor, but Maria looks at me. Through me.

“Sareth and I aren’t going too well right now. I kinda hoped she would be here today so I could gauge how she’s feeling a little. ”

“I see,” Theresa says.

Theresa and Maria are wearing more or less identical clothes. Fishnets around their arms.

Fingerless gloves. Fishnet stockings, Doc Martens and crop tops with leather jackets over them.

Black lipstick, half a tin of eyeshadow. Their stark, white hair contrasts sharply with their black clothes and pale skin.

“Can I ask something?” Maria says in between two drags from her joint, before sticking out towards me.

“I euh, I don’t smoke, I’m underage,” I say.

Both Maria and Theresa laugh. Noor smiles at me.

“Why did you drag Marieken from fifth grade here, Noor?” Maria asks in an accusatory tone.

“Oh, your underclassman turns out to be a changeling,” Noor says before I can protest. “She’s been painting her hair to try and fit in better.”

The smile she shows me now is sadistic. I start to wonder if Noor actually wants to be my friend.

“How cute,” Maria says. “A little assimilationist. Let me guess, Shadow Court? ”

“Well,” I say.

“We’re Mirror Court,” Maria says.

“We’re sisters,” Theresa says. “Twins. ”

“You know the difference between Mirror Court and Shadow Court, little shadow-stalker?” Maria asks me.

“Euh, you guys are better at magic?” I stammer.

Now all three laugh at me.

“No,” Maria says. “We Mirror Court live out in the open. Proud of who we are. We don’t skulk around in the shadows. If you’re gonna be painting your hair like that, don’t even dare to look at us at school.” She jumps up from the concrete slab she was sitting on, and blows smoke into my face as I stumble backwards.

“You and I aren’t even the same species, cretin. ”

“Euh, Maria?” Noor asks.

“Yes? ”

“I did plan on being friends with Marieken here. Or shouldn’t I?” She asks with her usual flat intonation.

“For starters,” Maria says. “You can apologize for taking this trash to our usual hangout spot.

You’ve completely ruined the vibe. I guess I understand why Sareth kicked you out of the group home.”

“Oh,” Noor says, disappointed. “If I tell Marieken to go home, can I sit here and smoke with you two?” Maria looks over her shoulder, and my heart breaks as Theresa nods ‘yes’.

“I’m sorry Marieken,” Noor says. “I think it’s better if you go home.” As I walk, almost run, home, I can’t stifle the tears. By the time I reach my neighborhood, my eyes are red and my cheeks raw from the saline fluid.

--------

When I reach home, my mom’s bike is parked next to the door. For a minute, I wonder if I should leave or go inside.

Exhausted and equal parts angry and sad, I decide that it’s my house too, and go in.

“Great,” I hear my dad complain as I enter. He’s in the living room, drinking coffee with my mom.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m back.”

“That was quick-” My dad starts, but he’s interrupted by my mom.

“Eric and I have things to discuss, can you leave?” She asks.

“Mom,” I say. “I live here.”

“Don’t ‘mom’ me,” she says. It stings.

There’s nothing I can do. I can read it on her face. I’m not her daughter. I’m some Thing that snuck into this household and tricked her into raising me.

“I’ll go to my room,” I say, and without any reply I head to my room.

The way Theresa and Maria, who I secretly admired from a distance the past year, had treated me had left me rattled and confused. I am like them, but they’re not like me. I wonder if it’s normal for moontouched courts to treat each other this way, so I flip open ‘Walking in Moonlight’ and go to the chapter on the courts.

It all sounds like astrology to me. Mirrors are haughty and obsessed with their ideal selves.

Shadows are sneaky and deceptive. Stars are distant but wise. Crystals are emphatic. Ice court are cold but strong.

Shadows are sneaky and deceptive? Aren’t we all deceptive? Pretending to be human for food and shelter. The more I think about it, the worse I feel. My anger at my mom slowly makes way for a deep, dark feeling of guilt.

On my wall, my second shadow is pretending to read a book as well.

“I still don’t understand the shadow thing,” I say out loud. My shadow shrugs reluctantly, as if to imply she’s sorry she doesn’t get it either.

That’s a part of me now, I realize. I’m a girl with two shadows. Secretly, it’s kind of cool. If nobody would judge me for it I think I could learn to enjoy it. A mental image of Jan and Amy giving me a high five, and then pretending to give my shadow one as well. Despite the pain, the image in my head makes me laugh.

To my astonishment, my shadow splits into three people, each of which high-fives the other before turning back into one vaguely girl-shaped shadow.

“That’s so cool,” I whisper to my shadow. “What else can you do?” Again she shrugs. I notice I’ve started calling her a her, instead of an it. Again I laugh. How ironic, then, that I’ve started to think of myself more as an ‘it’ at the same time.

Maybe my shadow’s the real me, and I’m just a body required to cast it on the wall. I play with the thought, myself as an object that exists for the sun to cast the real me onto the ground or the wall.

Well, we’re Moontouched, not suntouched. I still don’t quite know the relevance of the moon, but I decide it looks better to imagine the moon casting my shadow anyway.

I scream as I melt into a pool of dark liquid. I yell for help as my eyes disappear, and a dozen new ones manifest in every shadow in the room. The sensory input is overwhelming and I don’t understand what is happening. I attempt to cry out but I have no mouth, for I am a roiling black mass with eyes pooling together on my floor, extending tendrils to all the shadows in my room.

Not a shadow, I cry out in my head. I don’t wanna be a shadow. I’m a girl, a human girl, a changeling girl, something casting a shadow, something attached to a shadow.

I find myself on my bed again, my heart racing in my chest. Was that real? It felt like a dream.

The stress might be getting to me, I try to lie to myself. But the lie isn’t loud enough to drown out the ninety-five test score on paraphysical affinity. Not loud enough to drown out the lingering sensation of ceasing to be matter, and becoming nothing but shadow.

My dad knocks on my door, rapidly, in a panic. “Marieken?” He asks, fear in his voice. “What happened? Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” I yell back, but my voice breaks. “No dad, nothing happened.” He can’t see me like this. Nobody can ever see me like that. I would cease to be a human being in their mind. Even more than I already am.

When I realize what I’m doing, it’s too late. Vividly imagining me fleeing down the staircase, and out of the house, I feel my body change. I try to stop it, but I am already no longer in my room. I am a shadow cast along the wall, and I leak back into humanoid shape on the ground floor.

My mother screams, and throws a cup at me.

“Monster,” she screams. “Out. Out, now! Out, before I call the police.” She doesn’t so much as hurt me now as turn me angry. In abject horror I stifle the emotion as my second shadow splits into a dozen tentacles. Tentacles with teeth. Not shadow teeth. Real teeth.

My mom screams the loudest I have ever heard her scream, and she faints.

His face a pale white, my dad comes running down the stairs. “Marieken, was that-” he says, then sees my mom passed out behind the couch.

“Marieken, what did you do?” He screams at me.

“I didn’t do anything,” I cry, but that isn’t true. I turned into a roiling mass of shadow, something that could’ve come out of the fevered imagination of Edgar Allen Poe or Oscar Wilde. “I swear,” I say. “I didn’t hurt her. She got scared. She threw a cup at me. She fainted dad she was so scared I am so sorry.” Tears run down my cheeks as my run on sentence turns into mumbling.

“I’ll call a doctor for her,” my dad says. “Marieken, I think it’s best if you leave for now. I don’t think she wants to see you when she comes by.” He rushes to my mom’s side, and tries to stabilize her on his lap while fidgeting with his mobile phone. “Marieken,” he says, angry. He looks me straight in the eyes. “Can you leave me with my wife?” Not with my mother. With his wife.

Defeated, I leave the house.

When I wander out of the suburbs, and along the canal that runs all the way to central station, I’m fifty percent guilt by volume. It feels so incredible to be someone special, someone unique.

Someone like Maria Mithras.

All of her songs are about abandonment or loneliness. I never really noticed, I think. I thought I understood them, but I didn’t. I fiddle in my pockets until I find my earbuds. For the first time in a week, I can bring myself to listen to her music.

Suddenly, I understand lyrics. Lyrics about courts. Lyrics about the moon and about bottomless rage against a world that has rejected her, that has rejected me, that has rejected us.

My shadow expands, moving along to the cadence of my juvenile, edgy grief. I imagine myself being a shadow, and casting myself along the road.

To my dumbfounded awe, I find myself in the shadow of central station- five miles from where I was.

Very slowly it starts to dawn on me. I can’t just turn into a living shadow.

Manic glee fills my mind, drowning out even the guilt I felt for secretly enjoying my new powers. I realize that I have never felt true freedom in my life.

I can teleport.

--------

I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out the extent of my powers.

To my surprise, turning into shadows and back as well as traveling around are surprisinglyintuitive, directly tied to my imagination.

All I have to do is imagine my body as an object, a focus, not the real me. The real me is myshadow, cast by moonlight. This makes me ‘melt’ into my shadow somehow.

Wherever my shadow touches ordinary shadows, I can reappear. It can stretch and crawl fromshadow to shadow with no real speed limit. It isn’t really ‘teleportation’, but more moving aroundat near instantaneous speed.

There are some problems and limits, though. First of all the amount of information pouring intomy mind in shadow-form is too much to comprehend. I have too many eyes, see too much.

Second is that my shadow-form can only stretch up to a certain limit, about fifteen meters. Ifthere’s a gap with no natural shadows more than fifteen meters across, I can’t traverse it.

Last is that I move so fast I have no real sense of direction. If I can see where I want to go, it iseasy to imagine my shadow carrying me there. If I move any further, it’s almost random where Iend up. Twice I appear in people’s houses, if only for a fraction of a moment. Luckily nobodyseems to see me.

In this manner, I crawl around the city at astonishing speed. It’s exhilarating. I can go wherever Iwant. I start to think I might never have to walk anywhere again.

It doesn’t last. While teleporting from shadow to shadow around Amsterdam central, I amsuddenly overcome with an extreme sense of fatigue. I appear in the shadow of an alley nearthe Old Church, a famous landmark on the western side of the Amsterdam City Center.

My brain hurts in a way it has never before. Like a painful muscle ache for the brain, amigraine-inducing and nauseating sensation. As I stumble into the light, out of the alley, I seethat my second shadow is weak, and frayed. It shies away from the light, and I recoil in pain- itfeels like someone is pouring hot frying oil into my eyes.

I crawl back into the alley and sit down in the shadows. It feels slightly better. The shadows ofthe building are like a cold, wet blanket in a desert. As I try to come to my senses, focussing onslowly breathing in, then out again, it’s like I’m breathing more than air. I’m breathing or perhapsdrinking shadows as well.

I really am more of a shadow than a person.

Everything I read online or in ‘Walking in Moonlight’ about magic made it out to be incrediblydifficult. Months or years of training to be able to manifest the mental images required to do‘magic’. Meditation routines, journals, grimoires, complex rituals to trick the mind into specificshapes.

I scored a ninety five on the paraphysics aptitude tests. The second highest recorded. Maybethat’s why this comes so easily to me.

I pull out my cell phone and google ‘Highest paraphysics aptitude test score’Ten million results. I pick a top ten result at random and find an article that raises morequestions than answers. Apparently the only person to score one-hundred on the aptitude testwas a human girl who never exhibited any supernatural powers whatsoever. Philosophers andparaphysicists are divided on why, it’s all a big mystery.

She lives in Amsterdam and attends the university in the science park, studying astronomy, Iread.

The large telescope on the science park is impossible to miss, and I passed that faculty whilegoing to my paraphysics test. Who knows, I might’ve passed by her.

Bizarre that she never displayed any powers. Or perhaps, I fantasize, her powers are so grandwe don’t really parse them as powers.

I feel myself drawn to this person I’ve made up in my head, and shake the thoughts, feeling alittle guilty for having such strange thoughts about someone I’ve never met.

Feeling a little better, a little less worn, I instinctively try to teleport to the alley across the street.

It’s terrifying how quickly I got used to moving like this.

It is not enough. As I try to cast my shadow across the gap, it unravels into thin, wiry threadsand a tearing sensation shoots through my heart. I stumble backwards, and after gagging a fewtimes, throw up.

Someone has noticed me, and comes running up to me. A pale boy or young man in women’spants, wearing a black t-shirt with a metal band I don’t recognize. His nails are painted black.

“Jesus,” He says. “Be careful with that. Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” I reflexively say as I back away from my pile of vomit. “I’m okay, don’t worry.”He looks at me. “You’re not moontouched, are you?” He asks. “Did you just try to shadow-stepacross the street?”I can’t hide my surprise. “Shadow step? Is that what that’s called?”

“I am a moontouched!” I quickly add. “I’ve painted my hair to be more inconspicuous.”He laughs. “If you want to be inconspicuous, you shouldn’t practice advanced shadow magic inthe middle of a busy street. And with a teacher, because that could’ve killed you. Promise meyou won’t do that again.”

“Do what again? Teleporting?”

“The shadow-step, yes. It’s terribly draining on your penumbra. If you had unraveled italtogether, you would have died.”

“Penumbra?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Your second shadow. The part of your shadow-soul that overlaps with the real world. Inphysics, the penumbra is the part of an object’s shadow where the light source is only partiallyblocked. In your case, it’s the part of your soul where it mingles with the light of the metaphoricalsun.”

“What?” I’m not understanding a word that comes out of the boy's mouth.

He laughs again, this time a little worried. “You really shouldn’t be trying shadow magic like thatif you don’t even understand the basics. You could end up dead.”

“How should I know these things!” I yell, frustrated. “I didn’t exactly get a manual.”

“God,” the boy says. “Do you have any other moontouched in your life who you could depend onfor help?”

“No,” I say, and then I realize something. The boy’s hair is black, and his eyes are brown. “Areyou moontouched?”

“Nope. Just a well-read witch.”A witch. I had no idea boys could be witches. I can’t help but smile a little.

“What if I tell you I spend all day shadow-stepping all over town? That it just failed just nowbecause I’m tired?”

“Then I wouldn’t believe you,” he answers. “What other things can you do?”

I think for a while. “Turn into a mass of shadowy eyes and teeth.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a first as far as I know. Say, I know some people that would bereally interested in meeting you. A group home for Periphery Demographics not far from here.

Wanna come over? Doesn’t have to be long, but I think you can stand to meet some like-mindedspirits.”

“I guess.” I’m a little hesitant.

The boy reaches out towards me for a handshake. “The name’s Robin.”I shake his hand and almost forget to introduce myself. “Marieken,” I quickly say.

He gestures for me to follow him, and I somewhat hesitantly step into the sun. It burns my eyesand my skin, so I have to squint as I stumble after him.

“Holy shit,” he says as he sees me struggle. “You have burnout. We should get you back intothe shadows.”

“Burnout?” I say, hoarse and with some trouble speaking as Robin drags me to a bench in theshadow of the church.

“Burnout,” he says once we sit down. “You’ve used way too much magic. Your shadow iscoming apart. You can’t be in the sun like this, you’ll get sick.”

“Why?”

“Your soul is like a shadow. Normally it’s strong enough to exist in the light, but if you’veexpended all of energy that becomes a lot harder. It’s at risk of dissolving in sunlight, then.”

“My soul can dissolve?” I ask in a blind panic. “What happens to me if that happens?”

“You die,” Robin says. “But I’ve seen worse cases of burnout, at least you didn’t immediatelycatch fire.”I gasp for air. “That can happen?”

“Yeah,” Robin explains. “This girl in London one day stepped out of the subway and exploded.

Woosh, gone.”

“That’s horrifying,” I say.

“Yeah. Which is why you should take it easy with the shadow magic. You sit right here, and I’llgo buy you a smoothie. That’ll help.”Aha. I mentally note down that smoothies help. Robin hurries off, and is back with anoverpriced, aimed-at-tourists drink within a few minutes.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.

Robin stares off into space. “Heh,” he says after a while. “Vulnerable young girl with creepyshadow powers in need of help. What witch could resist?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hmm? You’ve probably heard the official government line that magic is linked to personalitydisorders.”

“Yeah, people who aren’t really rooted down in reality have an easier time using magic.”

“While that isn’t entirely true,” Robin explains, “There’s a little nugget of truth in there. To usemagic- the kind of magic witches use- you have to be an incredibly self-centered person.

Genuinely believe the rest of the world should change according to your whims. It turns the usera little narcissistic. Encourages god complexes.”

“What’s that have to do with helping me?”

“Heh.” Robin shrugs. “Everything.”

--------

I arrive at the group home with Robin, and am astonished. It is the most ramshackle building I have ever seen. The brickwork is coming loose at the seams, and the door seems to be made from two different, broken doors glued together. The windows are covered in tape or missing altogether and boarded up with wooden planks.

Still, it’s right at the lake, next to the harbor. A very charming location, especially now, near the end of summer.

“The place looks like a dump but it’s really neat inside,” Robin says as he opens the door with an oddly large silver key. “We’ve got two doll sisters living here who like to clean. Or, well,” he says, without finishing his sentence.

He’s right. It’s neat inside, with rows of boots neatly stacked in little wooden cubicles, and a coat rack containing only one or two too many coats. Right after the entry hall is a stairs up, and then a door to what I presume is the living room.

I turn out correct, and we enter a homely-looking room smelling of incense. There’s half a dozen bookcases along the walls, each filled to the brim. There’s a dilapidated couch with a coffee table, which is a sharp contrast to the rest of the well-kept room. The strangest detail is the amount of wooden chairs arranged seemingly at random through the room.

An older-looking doll woman- wearing a crop top and a short skirt that reveal mostly white porcelain and ball-jointed limbs comes running towards us.

“Robin,” she yells. “Robin, Robin, Robin,” she says in a tone I can’t tell is playful or upset.

“What is it, Mercy?” He replies, in a tone that is definitely playful.

“Lily stole some of my chores,” she replies, pouting. “Now she says she’ll get my sticker for good work.”

“Mercy,” Robin chastises the woman. “Please don’t creep out my guest.”

“Woah,” the woman, apparently named Mercy, replies. “Hi, my name is Marissa.” Or Marissa. Odd.

“I’m Marieken,” I introduce myself.

“I’ve made a reward system for good dolls who clean a lot,” Robin explains, which does absolutely nothing to make me less weirded out. “Before that, nothing got done in here. The dishes piled up in the kitchen and trash was strewn all around the house.”

“Hmhm,” Marissa- or Mercy- replies. “But today Lily stole all my work.”

“Stealing,” Robin says ominously. “Isn’t very good doll behaviour, is it?”

“No!” Marissa replies, eagerly nodding ‘yes’.

She seems a lot friendlier than Noor had been, but also like there’s something wrong with her.

Or perhaps there’s something wrong with Robin. Maybe it’s some kind of consensual fetish thing going on here, but it feels a little odd to treat an adult human being like this.

Well, human… I feel a little guilty, as if I’m being judgemental.

“I’ll have a good talking to Lily, and rest assured, she won’t get a sticker today.” He then ruffles the woman through her hair.

“Hurray,” she replies before scurrying off and through the door behind us, then loudly up the stairs.

“Take a seat somewhere. I’ll make you some tea, and I’ll introduce you to Ruby-Lynn. You might take a liking to her.” Very slowly, the feeling that I’ve made some horrible mistake is starting to creep through my extremely tired brain. This place feels more like a cult than a group home so far.

“Who is Ruby-Lynn?” I ask, a little hesitant. Robin seems nice enough, but dangerous people are often good at playing nice and I am an underage girl who just wandered into the group home of a self professed narcissist witch.

As if I had never read any fairy tales as kids. Then again, most fairy tales were written before the Americans had felt the morbid urge to land on the moon, so the authors probably had never met a real witch anyway.

“A Moontouched Witch who often crashes here. She’ll be here in a hot minute, we were going to make dinner together for the rest of the house. She made Mercy, actually.”

“Made,” I say as slowly as possible. “Made Mercy?”

“Yeah.” Robin does not explain any further. “Pick a chair, I’ll get you tea. What kind do you like?”

“I like most teas,” I say as I sit down on one of the wooden chairs, one next to the largest bookcase. Being a gigantic bookworm, I can’t help but quickly scan the covers for titles I recognize.

Most of it is vampire romance. Which I admittedly have read quite a lot of, but only until I figured out vampires were real and started to feel incredibly weird about fantasizing about them. As I go over all the books, my shadow- or Penumbra, apparently- makes a vampiric smile and then blows shadow-hearts. I cannot help but laugh at her adorable antics.

Again I feel overwhelmingly happy that I have something like this going on. I thought I was plain and ordinary for most of my life, and now I have mystical powers and a whimsical second shadow. I can’t believe I felt ashamed at first, or guilty. Being me has never been better.

Then I think of my parents, and how much I dread going home, how much I dread going to school again and how much I dread having to deal with the government after that paraphysics test, and my newfound happiness fades as shadows before the sun.

Having completely lost track of Robin or anyone else who might be in the room the moment I saw books, I get startled when he suddenly walks back into the room carrying a tray with two cups of tea. “Tea!” He loudly exclaims.

He puts the tray on the floor before me- there’s no table near the chair I picked- and as I am about to apologize and get up to relocate to a better spot, Robin sits down on the floor.

“Say,” he says. “How long have you known you’re Moontouched now?”

“A week at most.”

“I hope you like sugar in your tea, I forgot I wasn’t making it for Mercy so I put in like six scoops of sugar.”

“Oh,” I reply. “That’s okay.” Drinking tea with that much sugar has always been a guilty pleasure of mine.

“Anyway,” Robin continues. “A week. That’s harsh. The Shadow Court curse huh, only discovering you’re a changeling when you’re almost an adult. Mirror and Star courts usually ‘turn’ when they’re around twelve, they have it the easiest.” Maybe if I’d had revealed myself Moontouched at age twelve my parents would’ve had an easier time adapting as well.

“Robin?” I ask.

“Yeah, Marieken?”

“Is it possible that you know you’re Moontouched before you, as you called it, ‘turn’?”

“With very good genetics tests,” Robin replies.

“No, I mean, in your heart? My entire life I’ve been enthralled by white hair, enthralled by Moontouched music, had a feeling I was different.”

“That’s possible,” Robin says. “But then you know the answer already, don’t you?” I don’t know what he means by that. Before I can interrogate him any further, the doorbell rings.

“That’d be Ruby-Lynn,” Robin says, jumping up and running to the front door.

He comes back arm-in-arm with an astonishingly pretty girl. She’s modestly dressed, in a long black dress. It gives a bit of an ‘old lady’ feel, but it can barely hide her beauty. Her hair is stark white, and I start to feel incredibly self conscious that I painted mine black. If I keep getting so excited about being a special magic girl, it almost feels like a shame I hide my hair.

To top off her entrance, the Moontouched girl does a curtsy while introducing herself. “I’m Ruby-Lynn,” she says. Her voice is charming. Enthralling.

“I’m Marieken, I, euh, I- I’m sorry, I painted my hair.” Robin laughs.

“Are you here to join Robin’s group?” I shake my head. “No, I only met Robin today after he helped me out. I got injured practicing magic.”

“Oh my,” Ruby-Lynn says. “Robin, you’re so incredibly see-through in your motivations.”

“Guilty as charged,” Robin says.

“What?”

“Robin swooping in to help a pretty girl, then hitching her onto me as an apprentice so he gets to see her more often. Classic,” Ruby-Lynn says, grinning.

“Oh,” I say, somewhat worried.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I can help you with magic, and Robin will have an excuse to hang out with every now and then.”

“I’m underage,” I protest, getting the feeling I’m being circled by two predators. Neither bothers to respond.

“I’ll give you my number.” These two could never be worse than my parents, I realize. From a place of rebellious arrogance, I muster up the courage to bury my worries, and swap numbers with Ruby-Lynn and Robin.

“Robin,” Ruby-Lynn says. “Go get some tea for me while I look for some books to lend to Marieken over here.” She smiles at me. “I hope you’re doing well at school, because I’m about to triple your homework.”

--------

I reach home with six books in a plastic shopping bag. All books on magic and philosophy about consensus reality, which I’m supposed to read in the coming few months. My sour mood has almost completely disappeared when I see the driveway, and it comes crashing back.

In the driveway stands a large black van, and along the street two police cars are parked. For a moment I consider turning around and walking away, but I realize that might make my problems worse. With breath held, I enter my house.

“Marieken,” someone says as I enter the living room. It’s Sam, the municipal worker. He’s sitting at the dining table with two cops and two more men in black from the government agency.

“Euh,” is all I can manage.

“Please sit down,” one of the police officers says. “We’re gonna ask you some questions.”

“About?” I anxiously ask.

“Your mother has filed a police report about you attacking her,” the police officer says. “She’s not pressing charges but we do want to ask some questions.”

“What?” I yell. “I didn’t attack her! I didn’t!”

“We’ll go over that,” the cop says. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s not what I asked,” the cop says.

Sam makes a vague gesture. “What happened that caused your mom to pass out? No charges are being pushed. You can tell us.”

“I discovered I can teleport,” I explain. “I teleported down from my room. It startled my mom.”

“What,” one of the cops asks, frowning, “is teleport? What is that?” Hasn’t this man ever seen a movie or read a comic? “It’s when you can move instantaneously. Go somewhere. Like, one moment I was in my room, the other moment I was in the living room.” Sam nods and the two men in black start writing things down.

“Your mother said you attacked her. That you grew teeth and eyes and threatened her,” the cop interviewing me says while the other takes notes.

“I didn’t,” I say. “My mom threw a cup at me, and I did the eyes and teeth thing by accident.”

“Ah,” the cop says. “So you did do it, but it was an accident?”

“No!” I say. “I didn’t attack her.”

“She was hurt pretty badly though,” the cop says. “Head injury, severe mental trauma.”

“Because she passed out!” I scream. “She got startled and passed out. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”

“I see,” the officer writes some things down, and Sam glances at the men in black doing the same.

“That’s all we need to hear,” the police officer says. “I’ll bring the reports to the car.” He gets up and leaves.

The other cop asks me if I want something to drink. I shake no.

“We have something to prevent accidents like this,” says one of the men in black, the one on the right. He’s indistinguishable from the other, and his voice is monotonous, almost unearthly so.

He reaches under the table, and hands me a sheet of paper, as well as two little plastic cans.

They rattle as I shake them.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Antipsychotics and Suppressors. Antipsychotics stabilize your mood and thoughts, and Suppressors make it harder to do magic. If you run out, you can get more from the local pharmacy with this slip of paper. We track your usage through your pharmacy requests too, so we know if you stop taking them.” I gasp. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You’ll be imprisoned. You attacked a civilian with shadow magic. You’re looking at a life sentence if you’re uncooperative.”

“No! No! I didn’t attack anyone!”

“Marieken,” Sam says, trying to calm me down. “The pills are good for you. Magic is dangerous, it can consume you. You scored unfathomably high on your aptitude test. You’re in danger. You could accidentally kill yourself, and others.”

“No,” I whisper. But I think back to my conversation with Robin. If I hadn’t met him, I might have tried teleporting again and died.

“It’s for the best. You can continue going to school. You can sign up for training, too, to learn to master your powers. You can learn to use them for good, then.” My head, no, my entire world, spins.

“Okay then,” I say. “I’ll take the pills.”

“Take two antipsychotics before bed and two with your breakfast,” the man in black explains with his soulless, monotonous voice. “You take one Suppressor every day, around the same time.

Doesn’t matter one, but don’t take more than one. You’re Moontouched, not a witch. You’re basically made of magic, if you take too much you discorporate.”

“Diswhat?” I ask.

“You vanish. Poof. Gone.” I look at the can of pills, suspicious of them.

“That’ll be all then,” the man in black says, then gets up as well. “I’ll leave you two here.” The remaining cop and the two men in black both leave, leaving me alone with Sam.

“I didn’t know,” I say. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“It’s for your safety and those of others,” Sam says.

“Where’s my father?” I ask.

“The intelligence agency has booked a hotel for him and his wife. They’re a little frightened, but that can’t be helped. You can stay here on your own until we find a permanent residence for you.”

“A permanent residence?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes, a group home for Periphery Demographics where you’ll fit in,” Sam says.

“Why?” I ask, tears filling my eyes. “Why do I have to go live somewhere else?”

“Your dad decided it was for the best if you lived apart for a while, until things calm down. So he can make amends with his wife as well. You can still visit him, of course.”

“What? That’s unfair. I don’t wanna go to a group home.”

“It’s for the best,” Sam says. “Here, I’ll give you my phone number. If you need help, let me know.” He hands me another slip of paper, then gets up.

“Anything at all, alright?” He asks. Then he leaves. I am alone with my thoughts in an empty house.

Completely mad with grief I order takeout, and worry what I’ll do if I run out of money. After I’ve finished dinner, I go to my room. I listen to Maria Mithras for a bit, but I cry so much I can’t bring myself to continue. I can’t manage to read anything either, neither in Walking in Moonlight nor in the books Robin gave me.

After brushing my teeth, I put two of the antipsychotics in my hand, and swallow them with a glass of water. They haven’t given me any additional instructions, and I’m worried that they might mix weird with each other so I wait an hour and then take the Suppressor as well.

I lay down in bed, and sleep comes suddenly and without warning, like switching off the TV.

When I wake up, things are different. The world is a little muted, a little less sharp. My thoughts feel a little odd, but not in an unpleasant way. Like pleasant little clouds are hugging my brain from all sides.

The light falling through the living room window is also muted, a little gray. I never noticed how much light bothered me before. I finish my cereal, and take my next dose of antipsychotics.

I stare at the floor.

I have only one shadow.

It hurts a little, but the clouds in my mind do a lot to dampen the pain. I just might be able to go to school like this, I realize.

The bus trip to school is a blur. Before I know it I’m at the entrance to my high school. A little overstimulated with everyone rushing in around me, I stumble forward.

“Hey.” It’s Hiro. “Your aura is different.”

“Hmhm, what’s that mean?”

“Last time I saw you, you were a roiling ball of rage. I really suspected you of being the killer, you know.”

“The killer?” I’m confused.

“Who is strangling girls at this school. Do you not pay attention to rumors, urban legends?” He says, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

“No,” I say. “Rumors and urban legends are dangerous, you can manifest them into reality by engaging with them too much.”

“Tsk,” Hiro spits. “Are you really moontouched?”

“No.” I ruffle through my black hair with my left hand.

“I see. Pathetic.” He walks off, and I hear Amy laugh behind me.

“Is that creep bothering you?”

“He thinks I’m a witch or demon or something.”

“Hey,” she says, full of cheer. “Your shadow is back to normal.”

“Yeah! Back to Normal,” I say, forcing a smile.

My heart aches, but the clouds pressing against my soul do a lot to take the pain away. I might just be able to live like this.

I’ll be back with my parents in no time as well if I can keep it up, I realize. Now with a genuine smile, I follow Amy to our first class of the day.

--------

“In later years, the amount of paranatural manifestations has been decreasing. Overall test scores for Paraphysical Affinity have been decreasing as well,” the teacher explains. “This is good news, because it means global policies are working and that baseline reality can eventually be restored. Your children might not have to be scared of demons or magical terrorism anymore.” In the back of class, I hear Hiro sigh. The teacher also notices, and glares at him.

“Yes, Hiro? Anything you want to add?” The entire class turns to look at Hiro, who is seated on the back row.

“You don’t have to be scared of demons right now, and that is because the state deploys child soldiers to fight them,” Hiro says, shrugging.

“Child soldiers, is it now?” The teacher asks, annoyed. Several of my classmates have to suppress laughter.

“Broski, the cops have me run around with a katana to murder people in the name of public safety. I’m seventeen. I’m a child soldier.” Our classmates are now laughing.

“Broski?” The teacher seems taken aback by Hiro’s choice of words for a second, then regains composure. “Why are you even here then, if you’re so important? You’re dismissed, go report to detention.”

“One of these days,” Hiro says as he gets up and heads out of class. “I’m gonna stop taking my pills and then you’re all in for it.” The laughter subsides, and worried murmuring takes its place. It’s something we’ve all heard about before, Periphery Demographics committing magical terrorism.

The rest of the Social Sciences class passes by without further incident. We talk about things individuals can do to help prevent reality erosion, and things NGOs and governments undertake to help the world recover.

It pains me a little. If the world returns to normal, will I stop existing? Why is it a bad thing that I exist? I remember the pain I caused my parents, and shiver. Perhaps it really is for the best if no more Moontouched are born.

After Social Sciences is Math, which is nice. Mathematics have nothing to do with changelings or schizophrenia or medication. The clouds in my mind make it difficult to focus, but I finish all my work on time nonetheless.

Then is the first break of the day, and I head down to the cafeteria to eat with Amy and Jan.

Before I can reach the cafeteria, however, I run into Maria, Theresa and their witch friend. To my horror, they force me into a corner.

“Why are you here?” Maria asks, then looks over her shoulder for approval from Theresa.

“I don’t understand.”

“Why are you here? Strutting around as if anyone wants you to actually be here?” Her voice is filled with a sadistic glee.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I won’t bother you, I swear.”

“Maybe,” Maria says. “We should tell your normie friends you’re Moontouched. See how long you can manage to keep up the arrogant act when they immediately throw you out with the trash.” I want to say ‘they wouldn’t’, but I’m not sure of that. I also don’t want to provoke Maria into actually doing it, so I keep my mouth shut.

The older girl- the witch- that I frequently see them hang out with shoves Maria to the side and grabs me by the chin.

“What’s with the glassy look in her eyes?” She says. Her voice is harsh and raspy.

“No way,” Maria replies. “You think she’s on meds?” I visibly cringe, betraying myself.

“Aren’t you a good girl,” Theresa chimes in. “First painting your hair, now taking your Suppressors. You almost pass for human.”

“She must hate us so much,” Maria says.

“Do you?” The witch says, still holding me by my chin. “Do you hate your fellow Moontouched? Are you ashamed of discovering you’re a filthy aberration like them? Can’t wait for all those smart assholes to figure out a way to fix reality so we all die?”

“No,” I whisper. “It’s not like that at all.” Down the stairs, the cafetaria erupts in screaming.

Maria says something along the lines of “heeeeeeeeh,” which sounds closer to screeching than language.

“Let’s go see what’s up, Sareth,” Theresa says, and the three goths leave me alone.

I have to stifle tears as I stumble down the stairs. The last few years I’ve looked up to Maria and Theresa, secretly fantasizing about being a cool and magical girl as well. And now that I’ve discovered I am, I paint my hair in shame.

They’re right, I’m trash.

When I read the ground floor, Amy and Jan come running up to me. “Marieken, did you hear?” They yell.

“No,” I say, putting in my all to hide that I’ve been crying.

“Someone died,” Amy says. “There’s an ambulance on the schoolyard and everything. Police, too. People are saying it was murder.”

“Oh,” I say. “Strangled?”

“Yeah,” Jan says. “How’d you know?”

“Apparently that happened before,” I explain.

“In our school? Don’t you think we’d have heard about that?” Amy asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope they catch whoever did it.”

“Yeah,” Amy says. “Doesn’t exactly make you feel safe.” We continue to the cafeteria, where people are huddled into groups, whispering to each other.

The mood is grim.

I glance around to see if I can spot Maria, Theresa and Sareth anywhere. I don’t, and feel a little more at ease. I eat my brunch in silence, only vaguely paying attention to Amy and Jan.

The class after break is a double session Economics. It’s boring, but not offensively so. Supply and demand, the effects of government regulation on the housing market. They make it all sound so simple, so easy. I wonder if I’ll ever buy a house. Maybe I’ll find a Moontouched boy to marry, and we can raise our Moontouched children with lots of love so that they won’t have to go through the stuff I’m going through.

Or perhaps the scientists will manage to fix whatever is wrong with the world, and I and everyone like me will vanish, after which the humans can finally go back to whatever they were doing before we showed up.

After economics it’s time for the second break, which is a lot longer. Dissociating and tired, I avoid the cafeteria and go sit on one of the benches in the schoolyard instead. The medics and cops have gone, but a part of the schoolyard is still marked as off-limits with tape. It’s tragic, getting killed while still in high school. I wonder why someone would do such a thing.

As I am eating my lunch, Hiro walks up to me and sits down next to me. As always, he’s carrying his katana with him. I can’t help but laugh a little.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Do you know Sareth?” He asks me in return.

“No,” I say, somewhat truthfully. “I’ve met her, though. She doesn’t like me.”

“Three people have died on school grounds in the past few months. All strangled. All periphery demographics.” So that’s why nobody bothered to make a big deal out of it. Who cares if a changeling or vampire dies, right? “What does Sareth have to do with that?”

“I can see auras,” Hiro says. “Sareth’s has been growing stronger. As of today she’s got twice as much energy as she had last week.” I look at him, confused. “You think she’s killing people?”

“Initially, I thought it was you,” Hiro says. “Can you sense auras?”

“No,” I reply.

“You’re on Suppressors now, right?” Hiro asks.

“Yeah, and antipsychotics.”

“Before that, it was like standing next to a jet engine to be in the same building as you. For someone to grow so strong overnight, something unnatural has to happen.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like draining,” Hiro says. “Stealing the lifeforce of others. Taking what’s fuelling them and adding it to your own power.” Shivers go down my spine. Is that why they were harassing me today? Am I to be their next victim? “Can you do anything about it?” I ask. It feels strange to talk with Hiro like this.

“Not without evidence. I’m not going to act without definitive proof. I’m no cop.” A wry smile forms on my face. Of course.

“I saw them talking to you today,” Hiro adds. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” I say. “They were just bullying me. It’s no big deal.”

“I see,” Hiro says. “You should be careful. Even if Sareth turns out to not actually be the killer, she’s an unpleasant person. As bad as they come.”

“Witches?” I ask.

Hiro laughs. “Yeah. A real specimen.” I make a mental note to ask Robin if he knows Sareth if I ever talk to him again. Now that I’m on medication, it feels unnecessary to become some kind of witch apprentice. I’m aiming to put my life back to normal after all.

“I’ll be careful,” I say.

“Okay then,” Hiro says, and he gets up from the bench. He grabs his katana, and walks off towards the main school faculty building.

Alone, I finish my lunch. Slightly too late I make it to the last classes of the day, where nothing eventful happens.

Alone and depressed, I make my way home from school. The house is empty, my dad still away.

There’s no letters from the Municipal Government, which is somewhat of a relief. For a bit I try to read in Walking in Moonlight, but my mind is too clouded, too distracted. The book feels odd to me, too. A little cringe. Schizophrenic. I don’t have time to read about roads one can only see during a full moon, about the hidden places in the city where moontouched dance to summon alien gods.

Instead, I sit down on my bed and wait until it’s time to make dinner. Occasionally I try and look for my second shadow, but it’s really gone. I really am just a normal girl on these pills. My evening is a drab, monotonous gray, but at least it is quiet. I’m not unhappy, I realize. Just a little tired.

--------

School days go by in a blur. Like trapped in a hazy fog with only moments of real lucidity. Still, I realize that I am not unhappy.

The next Thursday I find myself at the university faculty for Paraphysics again. This time, several people from some government agency want to observe my tests. They’re all armed, and they all seem to be scared of me. A man and a woman with guns at the door, two more men flanking Dr. West.

“What a waste,” Dr. West says as he hands one of the men in suits my test results. “She dropped down to a safe twenty-five on those pills.”

“A waste? It’s a relief,” one of the agents replies. “I really hope I don’t have to explain that to you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dr. West says, visibly annoyed. “Everything beautiful has to be muzzled, chained and put behind glass.”

“Dr. West!” the same agent- seemingly the one in charge- shouts. “You’re out of line.”

“At least,” the doctor says as he again puts his hand on my head, “wash that crap out of your hair.”

“Dr. West!” The agent yells again.

I don’t mind. The clouds in my mind insulate me from the feeling of harassment.

“Anyway,” the doctor says. “Twenty five is still more than enough for you to qualify for government employment. Ever felt like becoming a superhero?” I haven’t really felt much of anything the last week or so.

“Hm?” Is all I manage to reply.

“If you do, here’s a place for you to live near your school,” the agent in charge says. “You’ll be roommates with two others. A vampire and an autistic guy. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you’re expected to check in at the Academy For Gifted Paraphysicals, which also isn’t far from the apartment. If you do well there, you might get assignments. It’s a good way for you to earn some money and contribute to public safety at the same time.” I barely parse what the man is rambling about. Are autistic people Periphery Demographics? I resolve to google it when I get home.

“And if I don’t?” I ask.

“Then it will be very hard to find housing for you.” Aha. Just like the medication, it really isn’t a choice. I don’t mind. It might actually be good to explore my powers in a safe environment, and having a place to stay so my parents can calm down in their own house will be good too.

“I was going to accept anyway,” I say. “It’ll be good for me to move out.”

“Glad to hear it,” the agent says.

“Tsk,” Dr. West spits.

One of the other agents hands me a folder with documents. “You can find everything you need to move in here. Don’t forget to copy page sixteen and file it with the Municipal Government. We don’t have to explain that we’ll get a little paranoid if we lose track of you, I hope.” I nod. I take the papers, and head back outside. It all feels like a dream, like I’m barely there.

On the square before the faculty building, I run into Noor. A vague sense of dislike forms in my mind, but like most of my feelings it is quelled by the clouds pressing on my brain. I’m glad, really. No reason to feel hate, or pain.

“Hey Noor,” I say, startling the doll. She hadn’t noticed me, or at least pretended to.

“Oh, hi Marieken,” she says. Her rigid, porcelain face and glass eyes betray no emotions. “Sorry for last time.”

“Last time?” I ask. I think I know what she means, but it’s all so long ago.

“With Maria and Theresa.” I give it my all to sound like I know what I’m talking about.

“Yeah,” I say. “They’re jerks.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Noor says. “I shouldn’t have done that. I thought that if Theresa liked me, maybe Sareth would take me back.”

“Take you back?” I ask her. “What do you mean?”

“I used to be hers, you know,” Noor says. “Her doll.” It slowly dawns on me that I’ve seen this behavior before.

“Are all dolls other people’s property?” I ask her.

“It’s not really like that,” she says. “I have weed on me. Do you wanna go sit somewhere and smoke?” I want to complain that I’m underage, but I’m already on two different, powerful drugs. I doubt that some marijuana is going to affect my brain any worse than the antipsychotics and suppressors already do.

“Sure,” I say.

We sit down on one of the benches strewn around campus, and Noor fishes a joint and a lighter out of her pockets. She lights it, and takes two puffs, then passes it to me.

“I’ve never smoked before,” I say.

She giggles. “It’s easy. Suck in a little smoke, but don’t like, fully inhale. Then take the joint out of your mouth and breathe in the smoke that built up in your mouth with plenty of extra oxygen.” I try to do as she says, but seemingly do it wrong. I have to cough so badly that I start crying.

Noor laughs. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.” She takes back the joint, and seemingly unbothered by the smoke takes several more drags of it.

“What’s Sareth like?” I ask her. “I mean, when she isn’t bullying Moontouched girls at school or strangling people to death.” To my surprise, Noor doesn’t even flinch when I mention the potential murders.

“She’s harsh, but she can be kind, too. She made me call her mistress and occasionally let me sleep in bed with her, Maria and Theresa instead of on the floor.” Even insulated from the world as I currently am, this almost knocks me off my feet. That doesn’t sound nice at all, that sounds like sociopathic abuse. And she, Maria and Theresa are all in some kind of relationship together? “Euh,” is all I manage to reply.

“I’m not a very good doll though,” Noor says. “I have a lot of wants and needs. I’m so selfish, I’m almost a human being.” With every sentence, Noor strikes me as more and more unstable and in dire need of help. Or perhaps that’s a doll thing? The doll at Robin’s place- Mercy or Merri or Merrisa or somethingalso seemed oddly servile.

Noor passes me back the joint, and I try smoking again. This time it goes a little better, but not by much.

“Do you think Sareth could kill someone?” I ask Noor.

“Why are you asking?” Noor replies. “I kind of still want her back. I’m not throwing her under the bus.” It is astounding how she manages to come up with the single most troubling possible answer to that question.

“Someone is killing people at my school. Periphery Demographics. Sareth is already bullying me, and if she’s the killer, I’m scared she might actually hurt me someday.” Noor shrugs. “She’s a cultist. But she completely adores Moontouched, so I think you’re safe.

Maybe wash that black paint out of your hair to be extra safe.” That doesn’t make me feel better at all.

“Where do you live?” I ask Noor.

“A homeless shelter,” she replies casually.

“That’s awful,” I say.

“It’s okay,” Noor replies. “It’s better than sleeping under a bridge. Though this artificial body of mine can sleep just fine while slumped against a concrete pylon, it’s nice to have at least something resembling a mattress and a blanket.”

“I’m moving into a group home for Periphery Demographics,” I say, immediately feeling a little guilty. I’m scared it’s insensitive, that it’ll come across as bragging to Noor.

“Good luck with that,” Noor says. “Most of the government ran ones are shitholes and the privately run ones are fronts for paraphysical cults.” I think back to Robin and Ruby-Lynn.

“Do you know a Robin? Lives in a group home near the harbor.”

“Never heard of her,” Noor says.

“Him. Robin is a him.”

“Faggy name,” Noor says, and I can’t help but laugh a little. She’s so incredibly blunt.

“I will probably collect my stuff tonight and go to that group home,” I say. “My parents are in a hotel right now because they’re scared of me, so the sooner they can go back into their own house the better.” Noor stares at me. Her unmoving face almost betrays an expression of astonishment.

“Marieken, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“I thought you lived with your parents. You paint your hair and all that. I thought you were a little assimilationist living with her human parents roleplaying as a human girl.”

“What’s that mean, assimilationist?” I ask.

“Like, trying to be absorbed by human society. Trying to pass as human. Why are your parents scared of you?”

“I accidentally did shadow magic and it frightened my mom so badly she passed out.” I sigh deeply. “If only they had given me these suppressors earlier.”

Noor shrugs. “You seem completely out of it. Like you’re not all there. I don’t think these pills are good for you.”

“At least I’m not hurting anyone,” I say.

“If you say so,” she replies.

We spend some more time smoking, and eventually I get the hang of it, though I keep getting teary-eyed from the stinging smoke in my lungs. The effect of the weed is nice though. Calming.

Almost sleep-inducing.

“I have to go, I’m going to pack my bags and such,” I tell Noor when the joint is through.

“Alright. Hope we run into each other again. It was nice hanging out.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Oh, and Marieken?”

“Hmhm,” I reply.

“Sorry for that thing with Theresa the other day. I’ll try to make it up for you. If I see her or Sareth again I’ll ask them to leave you alone, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

With that I leave for what feels less and less like my home, to pack my bags.