Tearlet

Chapter 1

Ch. 1-

"Get up!" Dad yells tearing my covers off my bed leaving me bare, only in boxers and a white t-shirt.

"Dad!" I yell back half asleep.

The young dark-skinned maid, a handful of years older, comes into my room with my school uniform folded and ironed. She sees me in my underwear, and I throw my hands to my face not wanting to see her expression.

I hear a soft apology and a door clicks as it closes. My Dad starts again with his rambling.

"Get up, Ednan!"

I groan and roll over. "I'm up!" I yell back, still not on my feet.

But my Dad doesn't budge, waiting, until I swing my legs off the bed and plant them on the ground, into the soft carpet. I look up at him and he is tying his tie; before, he used to just use a zip tie, but now with a real job he ties it, wanting to look professional for his rank.

We both moved from Morocco and came here for Dad to be part of the United States "globalization". He bought one of the largest cigar business, one of the top 10 in America. The irony to this is that my father is a heavy smoker. That coughs frequently and could finish two packs in a day.

He coughs loudly and finishes tying the complicated tie, that I never learned to tie, and stares at me softening his expression, an almost-fatherly matter.

"Ednan," he starts, "Do not get in trouble while you are at school and stop giving Roccia a hard time. Put up your own alarm to wake up by yourself."

"Sure."

He looks at me and for a second I think he might smile, but he leaves the room, still frowning, and heads to work. Roccia is one of the maids, the one who has already seen me in my underwear. She was supposed to wake me up, because I asked her to, which is the only reason why I know her name, but instead I find Dad rattling me awake. I am a heavy sleeper, even on my first day of school I stay into deep sleep. I could say thats one of my weaknesses.

Each (first day of school) mornings my Dad would wake me up, it has been like this since middle school. I used to be worse before. It is hard enough for me to wake up so early in the morning, especially at 6AM.

Before, as an elementary student, one would be excited with their lunch box in hand, a good breakfast, lots of sleep, and a smile planted on their little face, but as you grow older, now in Highschool, the struggle is to sleep early and to wake up early. Especially a being like me. I have the most busiest and most horrifying schedule for a non-human teenager...

I slip on my navy pants and then my socks. But I don't wear my undershirt or my collared shirt, yet-- no wrinkles visible on either of them. I cross my room and head to my dresser. I slip my white t-shirt off and stare at my reflection.

The faint words are still visible in my skin. It carves into my chest in eerie scratchy letters, spelling out a girls name, Olivia. The memory of her lifeless body skids across my mind. I force my eyes shut and try to get rid of the memory. She is like the others. Just another victim for The Demon inside of me.

I brush my fingertips over the name and watch the ink fade as my skin grows back, leaving nothing behind, not even a scar. I roll my shoulders as my wings exits my wounds and unfolds, brushing against the high ceiling.

They are black, as black as crow feathers, so they could easily blend in within the dark night. I haven't always had these wings. I call it a curse, but it feels more as an infinite prison. No one knows about this, not even my own blood. My Dad thinks of me as a depressed teen, nothing else. If anyone else found out they would call me a freak and would probably send me back to the psychiatrist. I know. I have tried it before. But its okay. Only I could see them.

I have always wondered what my Mother would have thought of them. But that was before. Before when she used to be alive and real. Now I don't care. She is in the Other World.

I run my fingers through the waves of my hair and rustle my wings before I fold them back in. I feel pain run through my back as I tuck them into the flab of my skin. It leaves two unhealing scars that connect at the lower of my back. It also leaves a tingling feeling of pain that I am sure that would bother me for the rest of the day.

I frown into the mirror and at my reflection. I don't know why I am still living this life. Actually I do. Because killing myself won't end the suffering.

I pull my under shirt over my head and tuck it in the waist of my pants. My wings are hidden well in my skin. No person can see them or feel them. But if they do come out from underneath my skin someone might feel it and eventually know what I am. But I never tried, and never will, because I am always careful. I wouldn't want to be put in a zoo or be part of those freak shows in the circuses.

I run my fingers, on my silky undershirt, where the name used to be printed on my chest, and try my best to forget about what had happened last night. I then pull my buttoned shirt on and get all the buttons in the right hole. I slip on the jacket and pull down the collar. I look at my self in the mirror, my mane of lion hair stands at all ends. I try to pat it down with my hand and a comb, but when that doesn't work, I grab one of the bottles of gel off my desk.

I take a glob of the product and smooth it through my hair patting some places down so it would not look like a mess. My waves turn to curls and I glare at my reflection noticing how focused I am as I was getting dressed.

I look down at the clock, 6:16. Enough time for breakfast. I head down the stairs and I cross paths with one of the older maids, Lisa, I have known her since I was just a little boy.

"Sabah Al-Khayr." She says loudly as her big belly jiggles. She comes up to me holding on to my arms.

"Goodmorning to you too." I sigh. She came with us from Morrocco. Her English a bit broken.

"Baby. Good in school. Don't trouble!" She says patting my back.

I nod my head and release from her hold. She is a bit clingy. Ever since my Mom has died she tries to become a motherly figure towards me, which is the reason my Dad keeps her.

I head downstairs to the breakfast room. Breakfast sits there, steam rising from the omelet, waiting for me. On the table is fresh cut white flowers sitting in a vase. I sit alone and stare at the empty seat were a family is supposed to eat, together. Not a person, alone.

I cut my food into tiny pieces and push it around the large overflowing plate. The cook expects me to eat this much. They would soon learn I do not. The fork scratches on the white plate and the only noise is the sound of me chewing. I quickly lose my appetite and leave most of my plate uneaten. I take a long sip of Almond Milk and exit the echoing room.

I step around the large and long halls and finally find the front door. A maid has my school bag ready for me, and I grab it without even glancing towards her direction. I head to the black limo thats parked in the front, also waiting for me. I first throw my bag inside and then slide in. The moment I am inside, the car door locks, and the limo starts without disturbing me. Only the vibration of the water in the cup holder is the only movement in this mobile.

I lean my head back and flinch as I put weight onto my back. I could still feel my feathers biting into my skin. I sigh and a few minutes pass as the limo comes to a stop. I exit and the cool breeze blows. But I ignore the cold and look up at the huge brown stone building. The facade is made of bricks with large windows tilted to black that gleams in the sun. Its big, fancy, and old. A large stone sign, near the schools building, sits by the front oak doors.

In gold letters it spells, Oak Wood Academy. OWA. The private school I am forced to spend most of my year inside of.