The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Seven

"As soon as there is life there is danger." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

[ C H A P T E R  S E V E N ]

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“Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring! Banana-”

“Shut up!” I yell, mashing the “ignore” button on my phone. Whoever is intent on calling me at seven o’ clock every morning will just have to talk to voicemail.

It is a typical Monday morning. Aside from the… incident on Saturday, the weekend had passed uneventfully. I had eaten every scrap of food in the house, and any spare moments were spent sleeping. I simply hadn’t had any steam left after exerting myself to such lengths.

“Are you sure you have everything?” my mother asks, emerging from the bathroom. She is visibly worried, and I don’t blame her. I don't usually slouch around the house like a bum, and I have never gone a day without venturing outdoors.

“Mm-hm,” I mumble, hoisting my bag over my shoulder.

She stares at me for a moment, debating whether or not she should say anything else. “Do you… need a ride?”

I open my mouth to decline, but then I think better of it. “Sure.”

Mom has already puffed herself up, preparing to fight with me over the matter, but she appears to be genuinely bewildered at my compliance. “Oh, uh… okay. I’ll start the car.” She hurries to the kitchen and retrieves her keys before exiting through the front door. I sigh and trudge after her.

I usually detest riding in cars. Think about it: You have no control over road conditions, other drivers, etcetera. One mistake and you could end up exploding like a box of firecrackers in a bonfire. You might think I’m paranoid, but I do have valid reasons for feeling this way.

I would much prefer to fly. I mean, at least there’s no chance of me spontaneously combusting up there. But I still feel like crap, and I might as well make my mother happy.

I lean my head against the window and watch other cars zoom by. Sometimes I focus on the drivers, trying to guess where they’re going and what their circumstances are. When we stop at a red light, I see an older man next to us with weight problems and a receding hairline. I weave an epic tale in my head about how he used to be in a travelling circus. One day he ran away and pursued his love of Italian cuisine, falling in love with a beautiful woman in the process. She was killed in a tragic accident involving a whale, and so he spent the rest of his days-

The man feels my prying eyes and glares. I squeak and hide below the window where he can’t see.

“Aislinn Blake, what are you doing?” my mother asks, turning around.

“Nothing,” I drawl, sitting up a little straighter.

HONK! The person behind us beeps their horn. I can hear him spitting profanities.

“Oh, look at that,” I chime. “The light is green.”

“Shoot!” Mom spins around and slams her foot on the gas. We lurch forward, once again speeding toward school.

We finally reach our destination about ten minutes later. My mother pulls the car up in front of the building and leans back to kiss my head. “Have a great day, sweetie!” she crows, as mothers often do.

“You too,” I mutter, swinging the door wide and leaping from the vehicle. I cannot stand another second in that insufferable box of death. It is time to fend for myself.