Feathers (a Phanfiction)

Chapter 3: Chickadee

This story has gone through a change of name. It used to be "Cute but Psycho," it is now "Feathers." Enjoy!

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(Dan's POV)

   I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter a familiar room. It's familiar even though I'm new to this school. No matter what school I go to in any part of the world, this room is kind of like my sanctuary. Works of art done by students hang around the room. The faint smell of acrylic paints cling to the air. There are five large square tables for students to work.

   I walk to my seat that was assigned to me the other day. The table where I sit has eight stools surrounding it. My seat was on the south side of table five, which is the furthest table away from the front of the room, so I'm in the very back. To the right of me, there's an unoccupied seat, and only three other people sit at this table. One of them was Gwen who sat right across from me, and I really didn't bother to learn the other students' names.

   When Gwen sees me, she smiles brightly, "hey, Dan!" I return the smile, her enthusiasm always made the atmosphere warmer. Her eyes are dark blue, but, her skin is a deep caramel color, much like gingerbread. She was insanely beautiful. Her butterscotch hair is naturally tightly curled. So many sweet things describe her, which makes her seem even sweeter.
   "Hey! How's your self portrait going?" I ask. The first day of art class, Mr. Edward our teacher, assigned us an abstract project, where we can draw, paint, etc., anything that represents us and shows off our artistic talents. Gwen is amazing at drawing people realistically and working with watercolor, so she combined them both to do a self portrait. "So far, so good, I think!" she laughs.
   I sit down on my stool and get out my sketchbook from my backpack. I begin to immerse myself in a drawing I've been working on for about a week.

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   "Oh, well, welcome to our class! Umm, why don't you take a seat at table five?"
   I'm forcibly ripped out of my peaceful state of mind. I look up above our table where a colorfully decorated number "5" hangs from the ceiling. My attention diverts to the smiling Mr. Edward, and then to the tall young man standing beside him. Oh no. To be honest, this could only happen to me.
   The tatted guy walks over to my table. There's a perfectly good seat not next to me, but noooo. My eyes look into the bright blue waters of the Caribbean Sea for what seems like hours as he sits himself down in the previously unoccupied seat beside me. I don't know if I was meaning to stare or not.
   "Hey, I'm Phil," he says with a raspy tone, holding out his right hand. Last time I checked, we weren't at a meeting with the president, we really don't need to shake hands. A simple "hello" would've been fine. Nevertheless, I quickly grab his hand for a handshake. His grip is unbelievably strong compared to my weak one. I pull my hand away and awkwardly go back to drawing.
   He lets out a small laugh, "and your name is?"
   "Dan," I say quietly, not really wanting to initiate conversation with a man who looks like he just came back from a motorcycle gang meeting.
   "What?"
   "Dan," I repeat.
   "Mate, you're too quiet."
   "Dan," I announce to him.
   He smiles a toothy grin, "ahh, Dan. Short for Daniel? Or, like, just Dan?"
   "Daniel. But nobody calls me that."
   He hums to himself quietly. "I get that. My full name is Philip."
   "That's nice."
   "What's your last name?" he nudges on.
   "Howell."
   "What grade are y-"
   "Can you shut up?"
   He raises his eyebrows in surprise, "jus' wanted to know more about you, man. You triggered or somethin'?"
   I breathe heavily and continue on my work.
   "You're not too good at being polite."
   "What?"
   "Usually, when someone asks a question like, 'what's your name?' the person would answer their question and ask the same question back. Like, my last name is Lester."
   "Wow, was your dad's first name Moe and that's why you haven't seen him in years?"
   His gaze becomes fatal as he turns to face the front of the room instead of me. His jaw clenches, his hand balls into a tight fist. His knuckles slowly start turning white.

  Oops.

   I totally meant that just to be a harsh joke, but, uhh.. I think I hit a little too hard to home.

   For the rest of the period, he remains quiet, but he is tense and his eyes shoot daggers at everyone around him. This is gonna be an awkward year.

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   My hand moves effortlessly across the eighteen-inch by twenty two-inch paper. I make quick, swift lines, my mind working freely. With a blank canvas, I'm a bird set out of it's prison of a cage. I soar through the sky and let the warmth from the shining sun warm up my feathers. As the light hits my practically weightless body, my true colors become more vibrant. The sky is painted across my back, flowing on to my wings. The hues of blue would flash into onlookers eyes. Yellows that radiate as intense as the sun itself pattern across me. Shimmering whites dot my wings and birdie belly. I'm a small chickadee, but with the colors of the world.
   Suddenly, I'm falling out of the sky. A piecing noise swept through the valleys.
   The lunch bell had rung.
   I put my pencil down and rummage through my backpack for some money. I'm one of the last people in the classroom.
   "Hey, Dan, I'll meet you in the cafeteria," Gwen calls to me, one foot already out the door. I nod to signal I heard her.
   I shift the contents in my bag around. It was only the fourth day of school! How could my bag have so much shit in it already? I'm the only one in the classroom now. Even the teacher left. I gave up trying to find my money and I head into the hallway.
   Of course, me being me, I can't have a nice walk to lunch. That'd just be crazy! Mr. Daddy Issues is waiting for me not even twenty feet away from the art room. We're the only two in the hallway.
   I try to ignore him, looking down at my phone as I walk. I just really rather not have to be involved in a fight in my first week at a new school.
   Almost immediately after I pass him, a strong force tugs on the back of my shirt and then a push on my chest that sends me flying back into the metal lockers. The sound of the impact of a body slamming into metal echoes through the hallway.
   My body trembles. A giant of a man stands above me.
   "You tryin' to get yourself killed?" he says, a tone of menace swirls from between his lips.
   When I don't answer immediately, a large rock lands in my gut. What type of fucking exercise do you have to do to have your fist have as much power as a car with seven hundred horse power?
   I double over, I can already feel the blood coming up my esophagus.
   "I didn't mean t-" blood.
   I crumple on to the floor. The taste of old pennies spots my taste buds.
   He towers above me. All I can do is look up at him and hope he doesn't do more. My skull is pulsing. Blood starts to slowly trickle from my mouth.
   "You say shit like that again, and that locker won't be the only thing with a dent in it," Phil spits.
  I glance up to the locker. Sure enough, there's an upper body shaped dent in the locker.
  "It was just a joke, I'm so-" I cough. Another hit is sent to the side of my face. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as the gut punch, but a sting of pain still runs through my impulses.
  "I don't fucking care, don't say shit, unless you want this to happen again," he walks off down the hallway.

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I'm sorry this is insanely late!!! I already have chapter 4 written so it'll come out soon!!!

✩ Sydney ✩