The Perks of Being a Freak (Editing)

26. I'm Not Sure What's Worse; Being An Idiot Or A Weapon

Because no matter what I said, they were right. I was an idiot. I was stupid. I let my feelings control me, and they drove me to leap off of the roof. 

They were right, and I was wrong.

As I flew back towards my home, my wings felt like lead. Gone was my freedom. Gone was my happiness. Now? Now I was alone and sad.

You’re not alone, Emily whispered. We’re all here.

They hate me, Em, I said. I was an idiot and they hate me now.

No, I could feel her shake her head. No one hates you. We all love you. You just made a bad choice.

So you think I’m stupid, too? Why did betrayal have to hurt so much?

No, Lia please- 

Just leave me alone, I insisted, wrapping my arms around myself. Please. I need some time to think. 

And then I shut out my best friend. 

Voluntary isolation.

My house came into view, the attic window still wide open. I hit my feet against the sill hard, ignoring the jolt of static that shot to my spine, and gripped the ledge above the window. For a precarious moment, I hung, wings dangling. Then, I dropped into my room.

We all had our quirks and imperfections. That was just a part of life. Some people were chubby, and others were too skinny. Some were sarcastic, but brilliant. Some were not-so-smart, but friendly. Everyone had something wrong with them.

But it seemed that my quirks made it so that people simply hated me once they got to know me.

I ducked into the attic bathroom, thankful for that one perk to living alone on the top floor. A hot shower was just the thing I needed. 

My sweatshirt was torn beyond repair. Two long openings running vertical over my back. Wingmarks.

I dropped it to the ground and studied my back in the mirror. The skin was still raw and red, stretched by black stitches, but it didn’t hurt anymore. Nothing hurt me anymore. Other than the healing scars, my back was clear.

Honestly, that shower was probably my favorite part of the week. Water running through feathers was a funny feeling, and the heat soothed whatever tension was left. I stepped into that shower tired and betrayed. I stepped out feeling alive.

I have never been one for vanity, but sometimes I can’t help but study my face in the mirror. Like now, with my hair plastered against my neck and chest and back, I look at myself, to see if this whole kidnapping experience has changed the way I look.

I looked tired.

My eyes, still bright, still green, are tired. I am frowning, even though I don’t realize it. I do not like the face that stares back at me. She is not Juliana. She is not Lia. She is someone new, someone unknown and unhappy. She is a ghost, a shadow of the person I used to be.

Something in my eye catches my attention, and I have to wipe the mirror clear of fog before I can look closer. And when I do, my blood runs like ice.

Neat black stitches in my iris.

They did not just cut open my back. They cut into my eyes. It made me feel a little stupid, but I realized that the entire time I was in the cage, I had not changed my contact lenses, or even thought about them, really.

That was because they had taken them out.

A weapon, I realized, had to be perfect. A weapon could not be stuck to just the land. A weapon could not have anything less than perfect vision.

I would not become that weapon. I refused.

I would cut off my wings if I had to. I would tear out my perfect eyes. I would ruin myself, just to make sure they couldn’t use me.