Numb

	The story surrounding the birth of Lyra was almost as bizarre as Lyra herself. It was an ominous day, not so much in the date, even though it was on a Friday the 13th, in October no less. No, it was ominous in its weather. It looked overcast and gray all day, and by the time the poor woman had started her labored breathing and sharp jabs of intense pain, it was well past the evening. The birth itself was long and painful, even more so than a usual birth. The woman screamed in agony, sweat dripping cascading down her face in strained rivulets. Forty-five hours later, it was over. The mother, an average blonde in both size and looks, was a woman named Elizabeth Pointer. It was a scene right from the song “Lightning Crashes”, as it were. She cried, the baby was born, and everything was confusing was a while. The doctors were silent for a bit, as she was damn near exhaustion.
    “Is my baby okay?”, she asked, after the maddening silence was too much. “I don’t hear any crying.” The doctor took a deep breath, sighed, and told her the truth. “Ms. Pointer”, he said”, she unharmed, and relatively healthy. But there appears to be something wrong with her nerves. We’ll need to do further testing.” He gave her the baby, then, and she gladly, yet worriedly took her. “My little Lyra”, she said. “I wish your father could see this.  Then she shuddered, remembering what her father had done. Lyra’s eyes were closed, and she was sleeping, without a care in the world, it would seem. Already she could tell she would have beautiful blonde hair, and she wondered if she’d have the same beautiful piercing green eyes that her father possessed. But thinking about Larry about too painful right now, and presently, the doctors took Lyra, and both mother and baby got some well needed sleep.
    She could not feel pain, they said. It was an extremely rare condition. It had a name; Congenital Analgesia. It almost made her insensitive to hot and cold. For the rest of her life, she would have to be careful around things like hot coffee, hot chocolate, tea, and especially cooking. It was a hard time, both for Elizabeth and Lyra, and there were several close calls, but they became over the years. She indeed had the piercing green eyes of her father, as well as Elizabeth’s own ash blonde hair. It approaching her sixteenth birthday, and she was gorgeous. Of course, normally a gorgeous teen girl is popular, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. Lyra had always been different.
    She walked to school, skull and crossbones covered backpack slung over her shoulder, nails painted black, a goth in an area where there were none. Well, almost none. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to stick out any more than she already did, but Lyra Maria Pointer had finally found someone who understood her. It was her new English teacher, Mr. Jefferson. The school she went to was one of those artsy type schools, and both teachers and students were encouraged to express themselves. Imagine her surprise at first period when another goth came in, and it was her teacher, no less! She hadn’t told anyone about Mr. Jefferson, not because there was anything scandalous going on, but because this was her first friend. It had happened after the first week. She had been at her locker, doing nothing, keeping to herself, when somebody slammed her books down. Of course, she was angry, but she was a pacifist, her mother’s influence, one might think, but Lyra was her own person. “Freak”, the generic bully archetype sneered. Then she stomped on Lyra’s feet. Lyra, of course, didn’t feel a thing. This went on for about five seconds, when Mr. Jefferson got involved. “Detention”, now, Ms. Jones”, he said in a toneless voice,  but Lyra thought he sounded pissed. After the girl had gone off to detention, he turned to her, a look of genuine concern on his face. “Are you okay?”, he said. He was clean shaven, with multiple piercings dark, thick, wavy hair, and even a few visible tattoos. It was a very liberal and progressive school. One tattoo in particular, one that caught her eye that day, was a knuckle tattoo. There was one on each hand, and together they read “love life”. Many people wouldn’t expect it, but Lyra was a very positive girl, despite having no friends, not even a dog or a cat to love. She smiled. “Lyra”, he said again. I want to see you after class. She didn’t argue. She knew she wasn’t in trouble. Instead she looked forward to seeing him again. She went about her business that day. The icy stares, the whispers, the avoidance from teachers and students alike From everyone but Mr. Jefferson, it seemed. She thought about him again. Was it odd, she wondered, that she thought about this man, this man, about ten years her senior, and she did not even like him romantically? She suspected he felt the same. No, what she felt was adoration, respect, a certain type of love, perhaps, but nothing approaching romantic love. She was physically numb, when it came to pain, but very emotionally away. This was the first time since her mother that she felt wanted.
    He greeted her as soon as she came into his classroom, then quickly dispensed with any pleasantries. “There’s nothing wrong with you”, he said reassuringly. “Claire is a cruel person. She’s a bad student, and a worse human being. I like to think all people can change, and as a teacher I’m not supposed to speak ill of students, some people, pardon the expression, are shitheads. Lyra giggled at this, and smiled. “Mr. Jefferson”, she said inquisitively. “Are we friends?” Mr. Jefferson went into his desk for a minute, then came out with something large. He slammed it on the desk she was sitting at. She looked at it, a huge smile forming on her face. It was Edgar Allan Poe’s collected poems and stories! “Keep it”, he said. “Hope that answers your question. She got up quickly from her chair, and hugged Mr. Jefferson tight, He hugged her back. She let go, and went back to the book. “Are you sure, Mr. Jefferson?”, she said. He waved dismissively. “Poe is one of my favorites, along with Stephen King”, he answered. “Anytime you want a book, well, I have tons. Plus”, he added, it’s your birthday soon. She beamed. “Thank you so much!” They spend the next two hours discussing literature, Poe and Stephen King, mainly, but also they Shelleys and Lord Byron, as well as Bram Stoker, and even more modern authors, like Garth Nix. She always loved talking to him. If she were being honest with herself, she pretty much looked up to him with a sort of blind hero worship that young people are known for. It was okay though, she assured herself. Mr. Jefferson would not betray that trust.
    As soon as she got home, Lyra ignored her homework, in favor of reading Poe. She spent the next two hours reading. Her favorite story so far was Masque Of The Red Death, although The Tell-Tale Heart and The Cask Of Amontillado were classics, as well. She was also quite fond of The Purloined Letter, recognizing it’s important to the detective genre. Eventually, she stopped reading, and turned on her laptop. It was password protected, as most things were these days. The password was simple enough, if not a little emo. She typed in numb, and hit enter. On the screen was a picture of her and her mother as a baby. Her mother also told her that that was the happiest day of her life. Lyra had always wondered about her father, however. Where was he? Her mother said he was dead, but she didn’t believe that. Her mother was kind, but more stubborn than herself, if that were possible. A thought just occurred to her. Her father had piercing green eyes. That was her mother’s favorite thing to say. Mr. Jefferson had the most piercing green eyes. But, the two couldn’t be related. Mr. Jefferson was not even thirty yet. Still, the thought was hard to shake. He tried to forget about it, and instead turned to her own writing.
    She wrote for three hours, becoming immeasurably focused on her poems, her stories, her musings. Other than Mr. Jefferson,  they were her own friends. She heard her mother slam the door, as she often did when came home from a long day at Real Estate office, but it did not register. “Lyra!”, she shouted. “Are you home? Did you do your homework?” Lyra did not answer. Elizabeth Pointer sighed, as she did every night, and walked up the stairs to her daughter’s room. She knew Lyra would be writing, yet she still knocked. Privacy was important, a lesson she had taught Lyra at an early age. “Lyra”? Nothing, as she had expected. She opened the door, and found Lyra, as always, in her Friday The 13th pajamas and writing intently. She walked up to her daughter, her odd, yet wonderful daughter, and shook her lightly. “Lyra”, she yelled. Lyra looked at her at if struck. “Oh, hi mom. How was work?” Elizabeth smiled, never ceasing to be amazed at Lyra’s eccentric behavior. “Lyra”, one day you will be a famous writer, and I can retire”, she always said. What she didn’t tell Lyra, however, was that she really believed it could happen. She had read Lyra’s writing, and it wasn’t just good. It was brilliant. If only her father could see it.
    “Mom, my new teacher has the same eyes as me”, she said matter of factly, getting up now to hug her mother. “Oh really?”, she responded. “Green, all pretty like yours?” Lyra smiled, broken fully out of her trance now. “Yep”, she said, and in that moment, she had never looked more beautiful. “How old is your teacher?”, she asked her conversationally. Lyra shrugged. “About twenty-eight”, she answered. Outwardly, her mother looked fine, but on the inside, she breathed an internal sigh of relief. “Too old for you, Lyra!”, she joked. Lyra blushed. “Mom, it’s not like that!”, she said, and, looking into her eyes, Elizabeth could see she was telling the truth. “Mr. Jefferson is just my friend.” Her mother, just about to start dinner then, paused, and turned around. “Friend?”, she repeated. “You have a friend?” Lyra broke into a grin, then her mother did the same, and they met a happy glance, and briefly, all was right in their lives.
    It was the weekend, and so Lyra couldn’t see Mr. Jefferson. Instead, she grudgingly did her homework (she actually got straight A’s), wrote, and read some more. She did get to talk to Mr. Jefferson, however, in an online group assignment. He sent her an inbox message after it was over. Great work as always, Lyra. Help me set up the creative writing displays after school? She agreed, of course, and looked forward to it all weekend, which passed without incident.
    The school day came and went. Claire Jones flipped her off during gym, but nothing else happened. Even the other students respected Mr. Jefferson. Finally, it was time to help her favorite person out with the displays. She found him, as always, in his classroom. “Hello, Lyra”, he said, as always, with a note of mystery. She thought to herself how much he looked like her, for the millionth time. “Hi”, she said, and tried to smile, looking troubled, instead. Mr. Jefferson closed the door, as he always did when he knew there was something she had to say to him. “What’s wrong, Lyra?”, he said, and it was quite obvious that he cared beyond what a normal teacher would. He was, as he told her, her friend. She took in a breath. “Why do you look so much like me, Mr. Jefferson? My eyes. You have the same eyes, for one. Almost nobody has that same shade of green eyes. And the facial features. The jaw. The skin tone. The full lips. You could be my...my father.”, she said. “If you weren’t so young. Why is that, Mr. Jefferson?” Mr. Jefferson smiled, a smile that was both happy and sad at the same time. “I do have the answers you seek, Lyra”, he said. “But I need time to think on how to best deliver that knowledge to you. I came here for a reason, and that reason was to see you again. That much I can say. Will you wait for me, Lyra? One week is all I ask.” He extended his hand, then. She hesitated, then took it. Like she thought before, she could trust Mr. Jefferson. Or whoever he really was.
	 Lyra was away, volunteering at an animal shelter. Mr. Jefferson had suggested she do something to help the community. Elizabeth Pointer was preparing lunch on a pleasant October afternoon, just a day until Lyra and Mr. Jefferson’s meeting, when she had the doorbell ring. She went to answer it, and dropped the knife she was using, nearly cutting herself in the process.
“It can’t be you!”, she said, pointing, as if seeing a ghost. Mr. Jefferson smiled, and walked into the house. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth”, he said. “I was in a bad place when we met. I didn’t care about anything then, those seventeen years ago, and you paid the price. “And”, he added, “so did Lyra.” She picked up the knife, set it down on the table, and smiled. Like his smile earlier, it was bittersweet. “Why am I not surprised you haven’t aged?”, she said, not unkindly. “Lyra’s half demon, isn’t she? And you’ve come back to take her.” It wasn’t a question. Mr. Jefferson, or whoever he really was, shook his head. “That’s her choice, Elizabeth”, he said, “And she would be free to see you anytime. I can help her, though. She needn’t be in pain. She needn’t be numb.” Elizabeth put her arms around him, and held him tight. “I never stopped thinking about you”, she whispered. “I’m glad you’re alive. You have my blessing.” He held her, as well, for a while, at least, then left, waiting for Lyra.
Lyra entered the classroom, feeling like a giant weight was about to be lifted. Within seconds, her suspicions were confirmed. “Lyra, I know the answers to everything you asked”, he said. And I also know why you feel incomplete, at odds with yourself. First of all, my name isn’t Mr. Jefferson. It’s Darsis. Let me show you something.” He stood up, extended his right hand, and, almost instantly, black energy (darker than midnight, but oddly enough, quite soothing) seemed to collect there. It was something straight of an anime. She already had so many questions, but better to let him finish. He pointed his hand towards the surrounding desks, and the black energy exploded in a dark, destructive wave, completely obliterating the desks. Lyra cringed and held her arms against her face, shielding her eyes. The desks were vaporized, as if by a nuclear bomb. The man she had known as Mr. Jefferson put his hand in his pocket. his hand smoldering.
	“You see, Lyra, I am not precisely normal myself. I am, in fact, a demon” he said. “And”, he added, “your father.” He let that sink in for a moment, as Lyra looked at him. Her gaze quickly turned to one of jubilance. “Daddy” she shouted, throwing her arms around him. He threw his arms right back around her. “Lyra”, he said. “ I want you to come with me. The reason you are suffering is because your human self is rejecting your demon self. I can help  you come to term. And also”, he added, “I need you. My friends and I need you. The people of New York City need you. He looked so grave. Lyra had to know what was going on. “How bad is it going to be?” he asked, but deep down, she had a fairly good idea. Her father smiled. “I can tell you’re going to join me, but suffice it to say, at least hundreds of thousands could die. And that’s if we succeed. But that’s a while away. Let me introduce you to the rest of the group, for starters.” And they left, newly united father and daughter, demon blood running through their veins, and Lyra found herself the happiest she had ever been.