Young Writers Society

I’m starting to think that they hate us. That they hate me.

Mamma tells me that they just want control, that they’re scared of us. But I know the difference between fear and hate. Hate is the vile being that stems from fear. And once it takes hold, it doesn’t like to let go. Hate blinds people to carelessness, makes them believe they don’t care about something, not even the tiniest bit. They don’t care what happens to us, not even if we die.

And I’m witnessing that hate right now.

I sit on the stairs, where my parents can’t see me. They sent me to bed once the news channel turned on. I wanted to know why, so I crept down the hallway as silently as I could and crouched by the railing.

The news lady’s voice rings loud in my ears, even though the TV is in a different room. “Today marks the investigation of the death of three Avians who were shot and killed in the streets of Charlotte. Witnesses claim that the killing of these Avians was an act of self-defense, as they had been the ones to provoke a group of college students. Those same witnesses are referring to this rag-tag group of students as heroes, for protecting the people from rouge Avians. No footage was caught of the beginning of the fight. However, we can clearly see the end.”

The lady’s voice cuts out, followed by angered shouts. I can’t see the footage, but I can at least picture what might be happening. Avians and humans fighting, both parties pushing each other around. Eventually, the Avians will try to back down and leave, because we have at least some sort of common sense.

What I’m not prepared for this the gunshot. Or the three—no, five—that follow.

The sound reverberates through my body and freezes every fiber of my being. I can’t hear what the news lady says next, only the gunshot again and again and again.

I numbly stand, prepared to go off to bed, when I hear my mother speak.

“Now, that’s just awful!” Her voice is muffled and far away, but I can still make out her words.

“I know, Honey,” my father soothes. “Someone needs to do something.”

I smile solemnly. At least my family is supportive.

“I’m just glad out Athiya isn’t like them.” My mother’s words wrap around my ankles.

“She’s practically human at this point. I’m glad she’s the only one in our town. I’m afraid their influence might affect her.”

My heart stops. Her words cut something deep inside me.

“Those Avians always seem to be causing a scene.”

Each pronounced syllable drives a knife into my gut.

“They’re practically plaguing our country.”

Pushes me further and further away from her.

“Such awful beings.”

Wrenches my eyes open.

“No wonder everyone hates those terrible,”

Prickles my skin.

“vile,”

Makes me want to scream in agony.

“flicks.”

And it feels like the bond holding us together snaps from my chest.

My movements are robotic as I walk to my room. Too much has happened tonight for me to process. Not ever have I heard my mother speak like that. Is that what my parents really think? Am I plaguing their house? This town? That’s what I’ve been told my entire life, so maybe it’s time I start to beleive it.

My parents always stand up for me. Tell me I have a place here. It seems that’s never really been the case. I re-think everything they’ve ever told me. Every time they told me they loved me, that I belonged, that they were blessed to have me. Was it all a lie? What would they have even accomplished by lying to me?

I flop down on my bed, wrapping my golden wings around my broken body. I try my best not to cry, but it doesn’t work. The only witness to my sadness is my pillow, who catches my tears as they fall. Maybe the walls, too, who watch me fall apart.

I wonder why I was born into a human family. Avians born into human families stopped years before I was born. Nowadays, Avians are only born from two Winged parents.

The first wave of Avian babies shocked the world. No one knew where they came from or why they were there. All we knew was that winged children were rare but common enough that a substantial population had been built. The mystery still remains today.

But just as the world began to accept the idea of Avians, their births suddenly ceased. We were left with a single generation scattered with feathers.

Then there’s me. I wasn’t supposed to be born. My parents were terrified when they realized I was Avian. Just as no one could explain the other Avians, no one could explain me. Maybe I was born into the wrong generation. Maybe I’m not supposed to be alive at all.

Either way, my parents still raised me with love and care. But tonight changes everything, and I don’t know if I can go back.

….

I completely ignore my parents in the morning, rushing down the stairs and out the door before they can even acknowledge me. I expect school to be just as terrible as it normally is, even with the added weight of last night.

For me, school isn’t just the typical homework and boy drama. I don’t have the luxury of boy drama, even if I wanted it. But that’s not exactly what I’m talking about. It’s the harassment. No, no, not bullying. Harassment.

Having things stolen, getting called slurs in the hallway, having feathers plucked from my wings and held up like a trophy, being physically harmed, threats of violence and death, and being excluded from all activities and social groups. These things all happen. Not just at school, either. It’s practically everywhere I go, direct and indirect.

But no one can do anything to stop it. Because I’m an Avian—a flick—that the town doesn’t want. One more time getting beat up, and I might suffer so much brain damage that I will leave the town—and the world altogether.

I try my best to keep quiet. I’ve tried standing up for myself, but that only ever resulted in worse injuries. Instead, I do my work, stay quiet, and eat my lunch in the bathroom. Or, better yet, I’ll just skip lunch altogether. It reduces the risk of someone walking in on me.

The only good thing about staying quiet is that I hear all the gossip.

“Did you hear about Kyla? She got caught with drugs in her car.”

“I heard that she and Charles had sex in that same car.”

“Oh my God! Ew! Why would he ever want to bang Kyla?”

“At least he didn’t go for the flick.”

The group of girls snickers at the table in front of me. I barely even register their voices until they mention me. I’d like to say that I’ve gotten used to everyone’s snide comments, but it still stings like a fresh wound every time.

I resist the urge to walk up to them and slap them all across their pretty little faces. I wonder what they’d do if they couldn’t cover up such an imperfection with layers of makeup. I tell myself it’s not worth it. They’re not worth my energy.

“Oh my God, guys, she’s right behind us,” a girl points behind her and laughs.

They turn to me with pseudo smiles. “We’re so sorry. We didn’t actually mean what we said. It was just a joke! You know that, right?”

People like these girls have got to be the worst kind of bullies. They’ll laugh and point behind my back but don’t have the guts to say anything to my face. Instead, they’ll show empty remorse with a savior complex. They think they’re better than everyone else just because they offered an apology.

I grit my teeth. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, good, because we didn’t want to, like, hurt your feelings or anything. Don’t get mad, okay? We really didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

Oh, of course, they didn’t. It was just a joke. I can’t be mad or upset because it was just a joke. Something angry and vile boils under my skin. Who the hell are they to tell me what I can and can’t feel?

I feel a small poke on my wing, and I snap around. A boy with greasy brown hair holds up one of my feathers with a sneer. He waltzes over to the girls, holding up the golden feather victoriously like it’s an accomplishment to easily pluck something off of me.

“Jay! Don’t be mean to her!” One girl smiles and shoves the boy’s shoulder playfully.

There it is; the fake empathy, the savior complex, the monstrous ego.

I decide I’ve had enough. I slowly rise from my desk, hands planted firmly on the wood. “You’re holding a part of my body,” I say slowly, articulating each syllable.

The group turns to me. “W-what?” Jay studders.

“Was I not clear?” I snap. “You are holding a piece of my body.”

Jay looks at the feather like it’s something gross. Honestly, I’m glad he does. It is disgusting that he’s holding a part of me between his fingers. Revolting and foul.

When he drops the feather with a scoff, I sit down. I have to take a few breaths before my vision stops spinning with blinding anger. I have a terrible feeling that I’m going to regret saying anything, but for now, I don’t even want to think about the consequences.

…

I’ve been hearing about Avians all day. Murmurs in the hallway, groups crowding around phones, gasps of astonishment. I ignore it for the most part; people always have tunnel vision on the great anomaly of Winged people.

That is, until a a girl with makeup caked on her face approaches me. “Hey, flick.”

I look to the voice on instinct, even though I know I need to stop answering to the slur. I squeeze my eyes tight with frustration and turn away, but not before she speaks again.

“Oh, scared, are you? Look at me. I have something to ask you.”

With a multitude of curses trying to force their way to my tongue, I face the girl who’s walked up to my desk. She shoves a phone close to my face so quickly that I flinch back. I push the phone away so I can actually see what’s been put in front of me.

“You know anything about this? I bet you’re the one who called them here.”

Honestly, how does she think we work? How would I contact these Avians? Does this girl think I have psychic abilities or something? I don’t totally dismiss the idea, seeing as how she thinks I have anything to do with this situation.

On the screen in a local news article, posted just twenty minutes ago. I try to take the phone from the girl’s hand so I can read it, but she grips the case tight. I roll my eyes and swipe down to the text.

The first thing I see is a blurry image depicting a flash of black feathers darting behind the corner of a building. My eyes narrow at the picture, inspecting the scene. I can just barely make out the outline of a foot pushing off the ground beneath the wings, but once I spot the shoe, it’s unmistakable.

I blink rapidly, just to make sure my eyes don’t deceive me. This is a local article. This image was taken in our town. My hands tremble as I quickly scroll down further. I skim through the article, my mind going too fast for me to comprehend anything coherently.

There are other Avians here. I’m not alone anymore.