When Wings Burn

3.5 | HARPER

Blazing through my open window, the sun bounces off surfaces in my bedroom and I look away for relief in the shadows. Though it is bright, the air is still chilled with memories of night. For a moment, I sit cross-legged and gaze out at the wide sky and flat ground. Not for the first time, I have little answer about my circumstance. 5, 4, 3, I count down silently, taking deep breaths. ...2, 1.

I stop lingering on the memory of last night. I have things to do. I cannot give up my whole day to fantasize about illegal activity. My mother will ask questions if I do not come out soon. Before I exit the room, I glance back, out the window, to where it all began.

Like a warm filter has been spread, the grass, dirt and sky all appear dusty and comforting. A brisk wind dances, bringing with it early shards of winter. Further back, miles away, I can see small silhouettes of the buildings on the outskirts of town. A heavy feeling settles against my stomach as I look out at my home.

Town is infested with humans and we are a vicious race. We live strategically, under strict and uniform command. Our sole purpose, it sometimes seems, is to destruct of anything suspicious. We are taught to hate anything resembling supernatural activity. Most of us are unaware whether such things still exist but I like to believe in what I do not know. I like to listen, to read, to hear wisps of illegal conversation that somebody was caught after curfew breathing fire or simply sitting staring straight, whispering foreign words. Most of these are rumors, created because of a trivial dispute. Generally, by the time the accuser realizes the seriousness of their allegation, it's too late. Innocents are killed constantly. Our newspapers are consistently headlined with futile statements such as 'Area 11 Clear of Suspicion'. Only days later, the papers will acknowledge six more eliminations from the same place. That's what it is like here. Brutal. We are all actors, humans and suspicious beings alike. I still don't know if I really believe in supernaturals. A certain performance is required for life in this place. For us, my mother and I, it is easy. We live alone, mostly, but not far enough from civilization to be surveyed about it. Not that it matters. We're humans. And I have never met anyone immune to my mother's charm. She could talk her way out of any confusion without saying one word. It's a gift, and one I would like to inherit.

My mother is beautiful. Her hair shines and her potent eyes glow with the luster of the Mediterranean. She's young, gentle and freeing. She has a chilling story, of which I know only fragments, but when I ask about the dim memories, she shakes her head and pulls me close. "It is in the past, Harper," she often says. Her hands however, always grip me tightly, as if to hold me safe while she remembers.

The memories are fuzzy and far away, but I remember some. I remember because of the visions that greet me during sleep. I remember while I wake struggling under a tight terror, wiping back tears with shaking fingers.

The nightmares sometimes worry me, because Common Fact Eighty-Nine states that 'Visions or illusions of this world affected by that of the supernatural are suspicious in all cases. Report immediately.'

Of course, nobody ever alerts the authorities of this, as it would essentially be suicide. Besides, my nightmares never hold definite evidence of supernatural life. They just feel so. I have no proof, for which I am grateful. I have never met a supernatural, nor have I ever thought I would. We hear regularly about such things, but it is drilled into us largely by the government, that such a thing is both unlikely and unrealistic. Stories, they say. Fake. And then they go off and exterminate ten suspicious people, just to be sure. It's for safety. All for safety. I've lived fifteen years and yet the arms of humanity have only ever felt like claws.