Caged In

Chapter 4

Cullen couldn't breath. Exile . . . Exile . . . Exile! He could get put in the place where people who have killed others get put! That wasn't right. He wasn't a criminal. He didn't kill anyone. He just . . . paralysed a fellow student with the intent to hit her. Wow, he was most certainly a goner.

They did not even need to bother with a telepath to check his thoughts. He was just going to go to Exile and live out however long elves live. Curse elves and their long lives! Curse his stupid, stupid raw talent!

Tears feel down his face. "It's not my fault! I didn't mean to---" His shout got interrupted by a hiccup.

Inside, Cullen knew he was being stupid and irrational. That was just the worse that could happen. He was being a baby. Why was he still crying?! Get it together! Sophie only told him because he asked her to; if he did something like this every time she gives him information he asked for, she's going to stop bothering.

Cullen felt warm arms wrap around him.

Zora was the one who should be mad, not him. And Cullen had no doubt she would be when she awoke and found there was no cure to the absence of feeling in her legs. Now, that selfish brat, Zora, would be the selfish brat Zora, whom Cullen ruined the life of permanently. So, then, what did that make him?

Cullen's eyes, blurred with tears, searched for something to take his anger out on. There was . . . was that a lamp? No, he couldn't use that. His parents liked that too much. So, what was something no one cared about? He could break his sister's stuff. Nah, he want in the mood to pick a fight with her. So, what did that leave?

Cullen stood up, his mind oblivious to what his body was doing. All it could think was destroy. Anything and everything. Just destroy.

His numb legs moved to the stairs and he was soon in his rooms searching for what would be the most satisfying thing to break. His gaze landed on a framed painting of a thirteen-year-old boy with disheveled blond hair. The boy looked like he would get the girl every time, minus one thing: the irises of his eyes.

Cullen stared at those two different colors that separated him from everyone else.

He grabbed the painting and threw it as hard as he could straight at the window.

Cullen laughed bitterly as the crack echoed in the room.

The frame was in pieces and the canvas was all ripped up. One tear was right between the eyes, setting the normal away from the freak.

He fell to his knees, the cold, empty laughter shaking his body.

"Wow, you really are messed up," Orphelin said, standing at the doorway.

"What do you want?" he growled at her.

"Jeesh, no need to be so . . . you."

"Just spit it out." Cullen stood up, testing his wobbly legs to see if they were strong enough to walk away; they weren't.

"Mom wanted me to check on you. You know, to see if you're okay." That smirk on her face told Cullen, Don't you dare trust her. "But obviously, you're in the middle of . . . something."

Orphelin danced away leaving Cullen to interpret what that meant.

Everything was always not what it meant, so then . . . did Sophie not wonder about him?

Argh, why did little sisters have to be so annoying?! Did they just go "hey, I don't like this person. What should I do?" And then, another person say, "Do stuff they don't like." Was that how the meaning of annoying sisters was created?