Feathers That Won't Fly

Chapter VI The Truth

Azlyn pushed around her food with her fork, sticking a few occasional bites into her mouth. She tugged on the dark hood that rested over her head, and faced away from her mother. Her face felt fresh and cold from dried tears, and her throat was stuck from un-cried ones. The cold winter night picked up each of her arm hairs, one by one, creating an army of goosebumps under her hoodie. It was supposed to be a fun day, but it hadn't.

"Stop giving me that attitude!" Her mother yelled.

What attitude? Azlyn stayed as stiff as a board, except her mouth was taking slow, agonizing chews.

"You know what I'm talking about!" The mother said.

Did she? Azlyn didn't look at her.

"The hood over your head at the dinner table, the covering your face! Disrespectful child!" the mother said. Let's call her Mother for now.

Azlyn bit her lip, she knew what would happen next.

"Answer your mother!" Father screamed, his face transforming into that of a dog's.

"I...don't know...what...what are you talking about?" Azlyn said in a small voice.

"DAMN IT." Father stood up, digging one clenched fist into the dark wood table, and grabbing a hard plastic vase with the other.

Azlyn ducked, and with agility, flew under the table. She shivered, hearing the vase hit the chair she had been sitting in only a half a second before. She gulped.

"What are you doing?!" Father yelled. "Get from under there!"

And so it began.

Azlyn ran from the table to the bathroom, hoping to gain some time. Locking the bathroom door with Father on her heels, it began again. Air forced itself in and out of Azlyn's lungs at a heightened pace, as if it had not been receiving enough oxygen before. Both her nose and mouth joined in the game, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Now, Azlyn did not cry much, but this is an exception. The involuntary, unnatural movement of air throughout her respiratory system caused tears to flow down her reddening cheeks. She couldn't stop hyperventilating, no matter how many times she attempted to take deeper breaths.

The lock turned, but Azlyn kept hyperventilating. Surely Father would get her.

Oh, it was Mother. That's a relief, Mother would surely end this.

"What is wrong with you? Get that damned hood off your head!" Mother ripped off the hood, with much opposition from Azlyn's hands.

"What!?" Mother screamed.

Azlyn pointed at the balded spot on the side of her head. It was shameful.

"Oh. What's the big deal?!" Mother yelled.

Azlyn tightened her grip on the locks of hair in the pocket of her hoodie.

"What's that?" Mother grabbed Azlyn's arms and ripped them out of the hoodie's pockets, revealing golden brown hair balled up in Azlyn's fists.

"Give me that! Why did you cut out your hair!"

Azlyn freaked out, hyperventilating harder and harder. She didn't want Mother to take the hair. She needed to keep it in her proof box. Plus, she also felt the hair was a friend who had gotten the worst of it. The hyperventilating picked up its pace.

Mother was angry. "Stop doing that!"

"I...c-can't," Azlyn tried to say, suffocating on her own breaths.

Mother didn't do that crap. She took a firm, sharp hand and slapped Azlyn clean on the face. It didn't stop the quick breaths, but left a firm red mark on Azlyn's once-porcelain face. Mother went to throw away the hair, and Azlyn couldn't budge.

Bad idea.

Father came in, dragging Azlyn by the hand. Azlyn screamed, lashing her limbs in every way she could. She tried slipping out of Father's grip, but he held on too tight. He screamed insults at her, saying how useless she was, how disrespectful she was, and how stupid she was. He held her with one hand, and beat her with the other. Azlyn tried to avoid the blows in vain. She had no choice, she bit him. Not too hard, not even enough to leave a temporary mark, but it was enough. It was enough to get away.

Running towards the only place she could think of, Azlyn locked herself in her dog's crate. It was a box which was not completely closed on any side; it was composed of small bars. The lock was a mere slide lock, so Azlyn had to wrap her hand onto the lock to keep it closed. Father was coming, screaming as he did so. He couldn't get in the crate, so he shook it. He shook it until the water bowl in the crate spilled on poor Azlyn, and he shook it until Azlyn's fingers could grip the lock no longer. The lock pinched her fingers, and she quickly drew her hand away, only for her arms to be scraped by the metal bars on the crate. Father was now pulling her arms, tugging, tugging, and she was out.

"Why did you bite me?!" Father was yelling.

Azlyn screamed and ran around the front door area with Father tugging on her arms all the while. Azlyn attempted to run to her room, but Father had other plans. Father took his foot, and kicked Azlyn out of the house (literally). Azlyn tried to get back in (Lord knows why), but the door was slammed and locked behind her. She rested her head on the door and silently sobbed. Why did it only happen to her? She thought it had been over after today. She didn't expect anything to happen this night. Especially this night. Christmas Eve.

Where was the dog when she needed her? She was probably cowering in fear under the table, like she was earlier today. Earlier today when Azlyn was playing Owen's violin. Owen wasn't even using it, and Owen liked to fool around with Azlyn's instrument sometimes, too. But Azlyn knew why Owen was angry. He was jealous. He was jealous that Azlyn could play his instrument better than he could. That's why he ripped out Azlyn's hair. Her pretty, golden brown locks. Of course, Father had intervened and yelled. No, he didn't yell at Owen. Father had yelled at Azlyn. Lord knows why. He claims that Owen was practicing before Azlyn (although he had merely been playing video games). Owen, Azlyn's adoptive younger brother, did not care about what he had done. Father told Azlyn to go to her room. Azlyn started walking, but it wasn't good enough apparently. Father yelled even louder, and more suddenly, like a dog. It scared Azlyn enough to run into the closest room. One that was not her own. There was no lock on this door, and although Azlyn pressed her back against it, Father got in. He beat her. Like usual. Each punch packed with fury, creating bruises that would probably hurt for a while.

"Why didn't you go to your room like I told you?!" Father screamed.

Azlyn cried. Again. But who could blame her?

That's what had happened earlier, but now Azlyn was sitting outside in the cold December air, wearing a mere short-sleeved shirt. She had been out there for maybe twenty minutes, when Mother opened the door.

"What are you doing out here?!" Mother yelled.

"F-father put me out here," Azlyn stuttered.

Mother didn't believe her, so she pulled Azlyn inside. Back to hell.

That night, Azlyn couldn't sleep. While other children couldn't sleep out of the excitement for Christmas the next day, Azlyn couldn't sleep out of fear that she would be alive tomorrow. She would have to fake happiness tomorrow, as another family would be coming over for Christmas dinner the next day. They were Jewish, but they liked to share holidays and celebrations with Azlyn's family. Azlyn got up and found her proof box. Possibly the one thing that could get her out of this place. Possibly the only thing that carried proof of her real life. She ripped it up. She ripped up the letters, the things, and the box itself. She tore everything that could possibly be torn. She threw it all away. It was done now. She didn't have any proof anymore. She didn't have any way out of hell anymore.

Azlyn climbed into bed, and let all of the events of the day walk through her head. She let the pen write terrible comments about her, in her mind.

The child was merely thirteen years of age. This was real, my dear readers. This was not a mere story. This, my dear readers, was the truth.