School of the Supernatural

Akumu: Life As A Shadow

"You were a mistake."

Another punch.

"You can never be something."

Another kick.

"You are weak."

I spit blood on the ground.

He towers over me. I cough and sputter out, "I'm sorry--" He kicks me in the stomach. "Shut up, whelp!" Hot tears pour down my face; pain spurs all over my body. Every inch of me is in agony, screaming for him to stop. But he won't. Not until his final sick deed is fulfilled.

He grabs my arm and drags me to the corner. I'm sobbing hard--I know what's coming. He does it every time. With a vile grin, he peels his shirt off and goes to work.

When he's finished, he pulls out a knife and places it against my bare stomach. Fitting perfectly with the past lines, he traces out that single, horrid word. Weak. I scream in pain and his heinous laugh rings in my ears. I cry out.

"Daddy, please stop!"

 XX

I shoot up, panting and stifling a scream. My hair is matted to my neck, and my wings are completely opened. They've knocked my alarm clock off my bedside table. I sit up, folding up my wings and burying my face in my hands.

I stand and walk into the bathroom. I'm trembling. And after reliving just one of my numerous beatings I feel like I need a shower. The things my father did were...traumatizing. Horrifying. Awful, sinister, wicked things. A cold shudder runs down my back and I crank up the water's heat.

I step out of the shower and dress in a black shirt with a lace back. As I slide it over my head I pause and look at the scar carved into my stomach. Weak. I ask myself the question I always debate over: was he right?

I ignore the thought and yank down the shirt. I pull on a pair of black-and-grey lace tights and a short black skirt. I wear black flats and brush out my dark brown hair, being sure that my bangs are perfectly straightened. I pull my hair up in its usual tight bun, leaving a few strands hanging down. Deciding I look straight, I set a--guess what colour--black hat atop my head. I walk out the door and off to class, scooping up my blue book bag on the way out.

I take a seat in the back of the room and pull out my English materials. The windows are open and a chilly breeze slips through, tickling my skin. It rustles the black feathers of my wings and I can't help but shiver.

The teacher walks in. He doesn't see me, like most people, as he organizes his things and hums an unfamiliar tune. I lace my fingers together and stare straight ahead, waiting for class to begin. As the teacher leaves the room--likely to make copies--I notice that there's another person in the room. I flinch, looking over at him. He's watching me. We stare at each other for a long moment as I'm captivated by him.

His hair is black, almost covering his piercing green eyes. He's tall and lean, draping himself casually in the desk chair. He looks pleasant, but he's staring at me with an intensity that shows great concentration. I look for a sign of his race, but there's nothing. No wings; no fiery red in his eyes; no pointed ears; no sharp teeth; no fangs. What is he? No way there's a human on campus. I just about scoff at the thought--to humans, everything in this school is a myth.

He hasn't looked away yet. I decide to ignore him and look down at my notebook, flitting over yesterday's notes about Shakespeare. However I feel his eyes on me. It's not a rude stare, or a mean one. It's not a judgmental one or a cold one, either. It's a curious, observant stare. And, to be honest, something in me likes to be noticed. I've never really been looked at; I have a tendency to blend in. But this kid...hm. I'm just not sure.