The Trapped Soul

Adolescent psychics are very rare in The Glades, Tennessee…especially deep in the woods. Freya Lyric Bleu is one of those rare gems – she just doesn’t know it, yet. Freya is a seven year old girl, who has hardly any family or friends; just her father, Sargent Armin Bleu, to help guide her in the right direction. Sargent Bleu was a veteran in the war for ten years, and came home just a half year before Freya was born. Freya is home schooled by Sargent Bleu. She is taught her reading, writing, math, history, and science, but those are just minor subjects to this child. The main subject her father teaches her: survival.

One night after a long day of hard work, little Freya rests her head on her pillow, closes her eyes, and drifts to sleep…but she’s soon awoken by the sound of a window opening. She’s startled when she finds that it wasn’t her father who opened her window, but a little boy around her age. He and Freya soon become close...the thing is, she's the only one that can see him.


1. A Work of Art


Things are hard. Money is tight. The woods are dangerous.


But that’s my life.


Allow me to introduce myself…my name is Freya Lyric Bleu, but you may call me Freya…Frey or FiFi for short. I am a seven year old girl, and very, very mature for my age. I have brown hair and green eyes. My skin is fair. I am an average height for my age…possibly a bit taller. I’m pretty slim, as well. I live with my father. I call him dad, his name is Armin, but you may call him Sargent Bleu. We move around and travel a lot; mainly in the woods or forests…we’ve never really found one exact place to call home. I hope that that is about to change. Recently, dad came to me, telling me he found a nice, small house deep in the woods…we’re moving there, today actually. He said it was very homely, with a cozy, yet somewhat eerie environment. It was quiet and surrounded by a lot of trees. There was a stream across from it, and it surprisingly ran with clean, fresh water.


At least, that’s what my father says.


Honestly, I did not know what this new place would be like. I did not know if I would like it or not. But it was a shelter, and that’s all that really mattered.


I sat on a tree stump by the small shed dad created for us months ago. It was becoming much worn, and that’s why we had to move again.


While I sat there, I was drawing on a piece of paper I had placed on a flat board. It was supposed to be a sketch of what I thought the new house would look like. Dad had assigned it as my art project for today. I used the handmade charcoal pencil, scratching thin, smooth grey lines on the white surface. I let my mind run free while I drew, finding that, the more I spaced out, the more creative I became with my hands.


After a bit of time, I soon realized that I was done with my picture, and was now only re-creating the lines, running over them again and again. So, I stopped whipping my right hand, which held the pencil, and gently blew off the extra small crumbs of charcoal. I held the paper back away from me and smiled proudly at it, my pink lips parting and revealing my teeth. It actually looked quite good, if I do say so myself…perhaps even a work of art. My dad was a good artist, and he passed that trait on to me, apparently. The sketch I just made almost looked like an old black and white photo. I couldn’t wait to show dad…I was sure he’d give me an A – and that’s something hard to be sure of…you can practically never be sure of anything with my father. I wouldn’t say he’s bipolar, but he does tend to change his mind a lot.


I rose to my bare feet and stepped away from the stump, peering up through the limbs of the trees to see where the sun was. Judging from where it shone brightly in the sky, it was about half of five. Dad would be here soon.


I ran inside the small shelter, setting my paper and pencil down on a table made of oak, before I strode over to my little corner. Dad had already moved most of our items to the new house. All that was left was my shoes (which I was lacing on to my feet now) and my small bag of clothes. After I double knotted the thin white shoe strings, I took my black bag and slung it over my shoulder. My hands reached for my drawing, and I quickly grabbed it, folding it neatly – so small that it fit in my pocket, where it was soon tucked into.


I kept my head down as I walked back out into the woods. To me, however, it wasn’t considered the woods…it was considered my back and front yards. It always had been. The Glades woods have always been my “home”, somewhere or another. The woods are very, very large though. There’s a lot of ground my father and I haven’t discovered yet.


When I was a few yards away from the house, I heard a muffled snap behind me. It could have been either A. someone loading a gun, or B. someone stepping on a twig.


Survival is the main class for my father and I. He’s taught me as much as he can for my age. That includes the sounds of different weapons, what to do when someone is fighting me with a weapon and I don’t have one, what to do when I do have a weapon, how to do numerous fights, how to kick, how to punch, how to hit, and many more things…but the thing he taught me to do that I’m putting into use right now…


What to do when someone’s following you.


I ignored the sound that I had previously heard, pretending that I didn’t hear it. My shoulders were completely relaxed and my muscles un-tense as I skipped over to the tree with the wind chimes. The thing was: the wind chimes were reflective. I watched the reflection from the corner of my eye, making sure that whoever (or possibly whatever) was following me, couldn’t see that I was watching. I couldn’t see the face of my predator, but I could see from the man’s neck down – anyway, it looked like a man. He had no weapons that I could tell. Just his hands, arms, feet, legs, and teeth (I would think)…the best weapons a human could have, as my dad taught me.


I watched him while he crept closer and closer, thinking that I had just stopped to stare at the pretty sunset as I tilted my head up. He was just a foot away from me when he slowly reached out.


Then, I dropped my bag and swung around so fast he stumbled back before I kicked him right below his stomach. He dropped down to the leaf covered ground and gasped in shock. I knew he was in pain, but he scrambled to get back up again. I could now see his head, but it was covered by a ski-mask.


“Dang it.” I mumbled under my breath. I raised my fists, one by my stomach and the other by my face, in case he decided to try to hit or punch me. He was almost to his feet when I pounced forward and yanked him back down. He growled before he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to his level. I twisted out of his grasp, cracking his own hand, and then I sprung back up. After I was up, he was trying to get up again, himself. I quickly round kicked him against the skull, making him hiss and mutter profanities.


Let me tell you something…fear gives you an adrenaline rush.


“What do you want?” I questioned, sounding not only annoyed and angry, but a bit intimidating – for a seven year old, that is. While he was still down on his knees, I went behind him and shoved him onto his stomach, leaping down on his back side. I took his hands and held them together at the middle of his back with one of my hands before I took the rope I used in my hair out and tied it around his boney wrists. He was struggling, thrashing and yanking, but I then silently kneed his spine, and he stopped.


It was then that I noticed a small black design on the corner of his wrist. It was a small skull and crossbones tattoo. My father has one exactly like that – he got it in the army. I froze and just stared. After a few seconds, my eyes narrowed and I ripped off the ski mask, seeing a head of dark brown hair, almost the same color as mine. I stood up, him lying down in between my legs, before I flipped him around. When I saw the innocent, yet proud smile of my dad, my glare became even harsher. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, staring down at him. He chuckled.


“What? Did you think we weren’t doing anything for survival today?” he asked in his deep voice, which had the slightest Tennessee accent. I sighed.


“I knew we would be doing something, sir, but I didn’t think you’d be faking an attack on me.” I grumbled, flipping him back over to untie him. However, then I saw; he was already untied. I raised a brow and my eyes widened before he reversed the position (how so quickly and precisely, I don’t know). I was pinned to the ground, him hovering above me. Now, I was glaring up at him. He smirked.


Never doubt your enemy.” He informed me. I cocked my head to the side.


“Well, I didn’t know my own father was my enemy…but, in that case…” I sighed before I bent my left leg so the knee was up towards his stomach, and then I took my right leg and wrapped it around his middle, yanking him down straight on to the point of the bend. My knee collided with his stomach, and even a bit below that, and he gasped again, but not in shock…in pain. For a moment, I felt bad, but he taught me something else: never pity the enemy. He wanted to be my enemy? An enemy he’ll be.


He lost his hold on me, so I tugged my wrists out of his hands. I took ahold of his shoulders, shoving him back onto the ground. Dad looked surprised now, but was back to smiling. I went to kick him, but he grabbed my foot. I narrowed my eyes again before I transferred all of my weight onto the foot he grabbed, making it so that I was now stepping on his hands. He winced, but kept smiling.


We continued this for a while. It was definitely a fair fight. He was kind enough to only use the strategies that I knew. If it was a real attack, however, my true enemy wouldn’t be so considerate. That’s the only thing that ever worried me…dad always played nice. Unless he was teaching me something new, he wouldn’t dare come at me with something I was unfamiliar with.


The sun, which was setting when we began, was almost completely vanished now. Dad froze mid-punch, and I froze mid-block. He stared at where the sun was and nodded.


“That’s enough for one day, Freya.” He told me, relaxing. I returned the nod while he gestured for me to get my bag. I knew what that meant…


It was time to go to the new shelter.


So, I walked over to my bag and swung it over my shoulder once more. My feet carried me over next to my father, and he wrapped his arms gently around my shoulders. We gazed at our old shelter solemnly, like we did every time we moved. It wasn’t long before we were walking through leafs and past the many old trees. At one point, I jumped up and grabbed on to a low limb, throwing myself from tree to tree like a monkey might do. It was really quite fun and apparently amusing for my dad.


“Welcome to our new home, FiFi.” Dad smiled after a while, pointing to a small little cabin ahead of us. My head tilted to the side and my eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t notice…he was already walking towards it while I stood there. This cabin looked all too familiar to me.


I soon realized where I saw this cabin before…I took out my drawing from my pocket and unfolded it. My arms held it out in front of me, lining it up precisely with the actual background of my surroundings.


It was exactly what I drew, down to the every last tree limb.

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