Flightless Wings

Totally random title, guys.
This is something that I've been working on for two days now. I'm already halfway through the second chapter, and hope to finish that one soon to post it.

~Emzy<3

Spoiler

It shocked me to think that I had gotten this far into the teenage phase of my life, and not been in this situation before.
Sickened by soaring emotions, and scarred by my inability to handle them, I doubt that it would come to surprise any person on this earth that a 15-year-old female was contemplating on taking her own life. It happens to the best of us, so they say.
‘They’ also claim that I am an overly hormonal attention seeker.

I didn’t want attention. I wanted an escape.

***​

The wind held a sweet flavour that day, contrasting with the screeching and screaming of the trees and shrubs it whipped. It blew up a spray of liquid, letting it settle on a vast area of my bare flesh. Although it stung, I didn’t move. It was a nice feeling, and anyway, my Mom always said that salt cleans wounds. So I guessed it would do some good.
My toes sustained a blue tinge as they wriggled below me, unable to feel the grass under them, or the mud caking them, and yet they ached so badly when they stirred. I hated having cold feet; however, the pain of oncoming frostbite comforted me from my fear of going further.

The sky grew darker as the day grew weaker, soon collapsing into a cloud-smothered image of bleakness. I was unable to comprehend how many stars seemed to have appeared so quickly, as the usual two or three were joined by thousands of their own kind. It was the first time I had witnessed a cluster of such little shiny dots, and for a moment, I forgot about everything.

Taking my mind away from its temporary heaven, the almighty slam of a wave below shook the ground I stood upon; causing me to stumble forward and further towards what could be the end.
With a sharp gasp, I threw myself backwards, and onto the yellowish grass that cushioned the floor. My heartbeat faltered, and jumped itself into an upbeat rhythm again, causing my lungs and mind to catch up to a similar pace.
After several minutes of shocked paralysis, I chuckled slightly, and stood upright once again. As my limbs gradually stopped shaking, I regained focus as to why I was in this position in the first place. My eyes looked downwards.
It’s now or never.
With one burst of final adrenaline, I crouched, whimpered, and pounced into the air before me. I felt like an angel, the wind rushing through my hair and fingertips. Making the teeth of a smile so warm, chatter with a cold embrace, my speed increased as gravity took hold.
I laughed again, and again, and again as the air took me.

I felt so free.

 

Phase One
Childish Secrets​

Filled with inane chatter, tedious banter, and childish giggles, the schoolyard buzzed with excitement of the upcoming summer break.
My child’s eyes squinted in the sun as it beat down; it was a warm day, with only a small polo shirt and pleated skirt hiding my young body from the heat.
With a smile, I skipped towards the group of girls who inhabited the climbing frame.
“Hi.” My childish grin revealed several gaps where milk teeth once sat in my mouth. “Can I play, too?”
“...Ew, no.” One girl sneered. “Go away. Fatty. Ugly little fatty.”
Ugly Little Fatty.
Ugly.
Little.
Fatty.

***​

I stared forwards. The face staring back at me seemed far from pleasant, and certainly not happy. The rings circling both eyes were a dark blue, and looked to be turning slightly black at the edges. With each exhale, a slight splutter of blood-tainted saliva dripped from the lower lip of the girl, followed by several more. She curled her lips back, showing blood coated gums and teeth as she spat out more than a ‘splutter’ of liquid. A sigh followed.
With a weak and slightly shaking hand, I rubbed my mouth clean and leant back up from the sink. Although stinging and hot, my face felt clean for now. All reminisce and drippings of blood had gone, and only the colour of my red glowing skin became noticeable. As I concentrated, my eyes focussed on the minor scrape under my left eye, and the increasingly darkening bruises that circled the eye sockets themselves.
Another sleepless night taunted by nightmarish memories.
Again, I threw my head downwards, away from the mirror, and into the basin below. The shocking sting of hot water hit my flesh like a smack in the face. Almost exactly like a smack in the face.
I should know; I’ve had enough of them.
I held myself in that position until my lungs hurt, and let my dainty arms push me back up. With a gasp, I inhaled more air. I felt good.
The face staring back at me from the mirror told me otherwise. The look in her eyes seemed unfaithful, displeased, or even angry. I don’t like making people angry. So I did it again... And again, and again.

Repetition isn’t a bad habit; it’s ensuring something works.

***​

“What’s that?”
Silence.
“Emma...Are you listening to me?”
I looked up from the lifeless paper that my biro had mauled over the past half an hour. My expression must have been clueless, as it triggered a chuckle from my redheaded friend. I blinked several times, moving a couple of black strands of prominent hair from my eye.
“What are you talking about?” I queried, my voice cracking slightly from lack of use. Samantha, rolling her eyes, pointed towards the desk. My heart skipped several beats.
“That.” She pressed, moving her hand closer. “What is it?” I swallowed, and shook my head in denial.
“Oh... it’s nothing.” I mumbled, pulling the sleeve of my jumper down to the edge of my hand. “Just scratches.”
“Well... those ‘scratches’ look pretty good.” She smiled, letting her finger touch my paper. “You’ll defiantly be getting an A in art this year.”
I chuckled.
The throaty sound of underage smoking reminded me of yet another of my imperfections, but the relief that had endorsed my body the moment I realised Samantha was talking about the paper totally took my mind away from that.
“I doubt I’ll get an A.” I mumbled, looking up at her. She mustn’t have heard me; another conversation had cropped up, with her smack-bang in the middle of it.

That was close.

 

I assume this story will skip forwards and backwards in time phrases, right?

It was clever to start with a death scene (well, not that her death was confirmed, but still), as most first chapters are merely an introduction and are often slow moving. Your imagery is absolutely delicious, and I'm impressed with your extensive vocabulary. You have adjectives in all the right places, and yet don't turn your work into purple prose. Well done <3

Haunting first chapter, and clever double meaning with the scratches in the second.

Keep it up. :3

 

I was about to add this to "Story favourites".
Then I realised this isn't fanfiction.net or fictionpress.com :P

Your writing style is inspirational - it's filled with so much detail and the vocabulary used is simply brilliant. Wish I could write like that D':

Overall: Amazing. Can't wait for more :3

 

Correct you are ;3
I wanted to experiment with writing styles, so I thought a new take on a typical story would jazz things up a little.
I'm glad you like my writing, and more chapters will be arriving soon.
<3

I'm glad you like it, hun :3 I'll update as soon as I can.

Thank you both for the lovely feedback <333

 

Beautifully done. The title may be random but it did draw me right in.
The prelude was chilling to say the least, but compelling all the same. This was a very solid first chapter, especially the second part. "Repetition isn’t a bad habit; it’s ensuring something works." is a one-liner that'll be stuck in my head for a while now. Your vocabulary and imagination are two things any writer could envy too, as has been mentioned.

Great start. I'm looking forward to the update.

 

Phase Two
Pick Up​

“Have you seen her nose?”
“No, what about it?”
“It’s kinda weird...”
“Who’s, Emma’s?”
“Yeah...”
“It’s big...”
...
“Are you guys talking about me?”
“What? No.”
“You were, weren’t you?”
“No, Emma. We wouldn’t talk about you.”

Of course, they wouldn’t talk about me. Nobody talks about other people.
They only whisper about other people.

***​

I let the plastic hover on my tongue, swallowing with an open mouth in preparation for my nightly routine. My mouth grew dry with each second that passed, my breath not helping as it dehydrated the innards of my oral cavity.
5...4...3...2...1...
The plastic hit my throat.
It came as more of a shock; the lack of lubrication the back of my tongue seemed to have made me want to push harder, to ensure I achieved what I wanted, but my excess strength proved to have the upper hand as I pushed a little too hard.
I gagged. With tears streaming from them, my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I bent downwards to retch further into the bleach-lined basin.
The splashes of water that rose from their resting place, spat sourly at my lips. I gritted my teeth, and moved my head to look away.
My shaking hand managed to push downwards onto the silver button, and dispose of the repulsive sight.

No food could comfort me more than knowing I will be thin tomorrow.

...Tomorrow never comes.

***​

“Today, we are going to talk about euthanasia.”

The opening line that my Religious-Studies teacher executed told me immediately that this would be a slow lesson.
I shuffled in my seat, adjusting my jacket sleeves so that I could grip them tightly in my fists; it was cold today, and I could all literally see my breath roll out into a fine mist before me. My feet were cold, huddled into my bag that sat slumped against my legs as I sat as still as possible without shaking.
The incoherent comments that others made throughout the full lesson flew blissfully over my head as I scribbled on my page, drawing anything from complex diagrams of stickmen to little ninjas displaying their intricate skills of combat on the date and title.

“Another term used by people to describe euthanasia is ‘assisted suicide.’”

I felt my skin crawl at the word. My stomach melted, burning as I swallowed back a sigh that barely held itself in my lungs. I hated this topic. I hated it with a passion so ferocious; it could burn hell itself to cinders.
“Are you okay?” A familiar voice chimed. I didn’t reply. It repeated. Over and over again, it repeated. I felt like I’d numbed to the core; my body embraced the closure that seemed to occur, and block any unwanted disturbances.

“Oh my god, has she fainted?”

 

"Of course, they wouldn’t talk about me. Nobody talks about other people.
They only whisper about other people."

I love that line <3

But wow, that was as good as ever. Curious as to why she fainted, but I guess that's to come with the next update :3

ooo, a voice. Unnamed voice, but someone who cares. Yay :D

Update soon? :B

 

Caring voice belongs to Samantha, I hope. :3

Perfectly gruesome account of throwing up, a great job once again.

Funnily enough I consider euthanasia a really intresting topic at school.:B

 

Phase Three
Running​

“Please don’t fight.”
“We aren’t fighting, love.”
“Then why did daddy hit you?”
“He didn’t hit me, Emma.”
“He did, mum. I saw him.”
“Emma, shut up and go to bed.”

He had hit her. I saw it with my young eyes. I saw it through the tears. The tears and the hurt.
I saw it.
He had his hand on her neck. She couldn’t breathe.
I saw it.
He was talking really angrily, through his closed teeth.
I saw it.
He took his hand and made a big fist with it.
I saw it.
He threw his fist at her face. Lots of times. I lost count.
I saw it.
I really saw it.

***​

I glanced downwards, feeling nausea take over my body as I examined the plate and its contents.
“Eat up, love. It’s grilled chicken and homemade roast-potatoes... Just like grandma used to make.” My mom smiled as she dried one of the pots used to cook the slop infront of me.
“Um... Thanks.” I swallowed, picking up my fork and prodding at a piece of chicken. My stomach let out a low growl, but certainly not from hunger.
This crap was knocking me sick.
I sighed, glancing towards Poppy. She lay on the floor beside my chair, her wet nostrils flaring at the scent of food. Her matted fur was short; ensuring that no leftover pieces of meat would grow tangled, and not leave clues my sly doings.
“There’s a good dog...” I mumbled, throwing a piece of chicken breast to the floor. I carried out the same process with each piece of food on my plate, until all had vanished.
“You ate that quickly.”
“Well I’m sorry that I enjoyed the meal.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve never eat so fast in your life!”
“I was hungry.”
“Of course you were.”
“...Yeah, I was.”
“Stop lying, Emma. You can’t fool me-”
“-shut up. Just give that fucking mouth of yours a rest for once in your life.”

The door made an acute snap as the hinges blew from the frame, sending the wood and metal handle soaring through the living room.

I hate her.

***​

I opened my eyes, letting a swift breeze of air glide down my throat as I gasped. Those around me were also gasping, frozen in a silence beyond any other. The atmosphere held no tension, just stunning shock, and the inability to move.
“Are you okay?” several others in the class chorused. They had already leapt from their seats, and arrived closely next to me.
“What happened?” I mumbled my eyes wide with fright.
“I don’t know. It happened too quickly to tell.” Samantha explained as she crumpled her face.
“This doesn’t look good, guys. Go and get another teacher, quick.”

“So, Emma, tell me again.” Mr Rochman, the deputy head, asked.
“I don’t know, sir.” I replied again, for possibly the seventh time in a row. He sighed impatiently, looking at his clipboard with tired eyes.
“You must know. You were in the middle of it.”
“It happened too quickly.”
“So you can’t remember anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well... what were you doing before it happened?”
“...I was looking down at my page. I closed my eyes, and then, it all happened.”
“What happened?”
“...Well, She just dropped. On the floor. My teacher dropped dead in the classroom.”

 

You're language is as vivid and tangible as ever. The story is very realistic and bold but your rich language prevents it from becoming a cold and insensitive read by sending enough (mostly negative) vibes the reader's way. You're really good at this.

 

Wow. Your writing style is lovely and, as said before, vocabulary is beautiful and same goes for imagery. Although the chapters are a bit short, they definitely have a decent amount of detail and kept my interest. The beginning of chapter three was quite interesting and the ending as well.

Keep it up. I'd love to read more.​

 

Phase Four
Secrets, lies, unspoken truths.​

“Where did this bruise come from, darling?”
“I don’t know, miss.”
“Emma, are you telling the truth?”
“Yes, miss.”
“I’ve been seeing a lot of them lately.”

That night, Miss Fletching, whom had taught me every day for my 6-year-old life, phoned home. She was concerned about the amount of bruising on my body. My mom must have come up with some good crap; that stupid teacher bought it all.

“I didn’t know you’d started doing karate, Emma.”
“...Karate?”
“Don’t worry, you mom told me all about it. Do you enjoy it?”
I just stared at her. Was this woman insane?
She smiled and walked away from me.

I was just a kid, after all.
I didn’t know anything.

***​

“Emma, you’re losing weight.”
I smiled at this comment. It was like an echo, rebounding off the lungs of every other passing student that took a moment of their time to look at me. For the first time in a while, I felt good. I felt genuinely good.
It was only towards the end of the day, that I focussed less on the words, and more on the tone used to express them. Once I realised what their tones implied, my opinion dropped drastically.
They sounded worried...
Why were they worried? I looked...obese, before. I’m a lot better now. They shouldn’t be worried; they should be happy.
But no. Nothing I do is ever good enough, is it? It’s either not enough, or far too much. It’s either ‘oh, Emma, do try harder,’ or ‘Emma, slow down!’
Why can’t I win? I never win.
Never.

With a swift swing of my arm, my fist collided with the glass violently. I growled beneath my breath, killing any words that tempted formation on my tongue. I could still hear it; it wouldn’t shut up. No matter what I did, I’d always be reminded of the voice.
“Emma, you’re losing weight.”

***​

I stared upwards, and it stared back. I’d grown used to the silence that lay upon my room, and it no longer killed me to stay unspoken for some time. My mind had better things to work with other than my need for noise, for it had whittled away to barely anything at this point; the hole in my bedroom ceiling was enough for me to focus on.
And so I did. I focussed on the hole in my bedroom ceiling.
Small flashbacks haunted me when I closed my eyes; witnessing death right infront of me was something that I would consider hard to handle. She was a lovely lady, too.

“Are you going to her funeral?”
That question. Samantha just HAD to ask that question.
“No.”
“Oh, why not?”
“Think about it.”
“Uh, I like, can’t help but think about her funeral. It’s going all around the school; it’s such gossip.”
“Think a little more.”
“Look, you and I both know I should be blonde, so just tell me why you don’t wanna go!”
I looked up at her. She was serious. Genuinely serious. Good god, this girl needed help.
Once she caught my glare, she looked away.

She got the point.

 

So much sadness put across in the last two chapters. D:

The flashbacks are powerful, particularly the one to her six year old self which reminds the reader for just how long Emma's life has been bad.

KEEP WRITING. >|

 

Oh wow, filled with mystery. I'm really curious as to why she is so stubborn as to not eat and everything, her past also makes me want to know more.

I hope everything is explained soon. Until then, I will enjoy not knowing c:
(Update soon, kthnx)

 

I'm digging this structure, where you open the Phase with a flashback, more and more.
You have a knack for weaving a scenario; not a single scene seems to be written for nothing and everything seems like part of a whole. That is what truly separates it from other works in this genre, in my opinion.

 

Phase Five
Crumbling​

“Emma?” I heard my mom’s croaky voice call from the kitchen.
The house phone had just been taken back to its rightful spot in the hallway; I had heard her feet shuffle across the thick carpet, and back to the linoleum flooring again.
“Yes?”
“Will you come here a second please?”
I rose from the sofa, leaving my favourite cartoon behind me with slight reluctance.

I sat down, brushing the rolled up, used tissues aside from the counter as I slumped my arms against it.
“What’s wrong, mommy?” I asked casually.
“It’s your dad, Emma...”
“What about him?”
“We need to go and see him tonight.”
“But I thought we were going to see him tomorrow, mom?”
“Yes, well, he’s going to be busy tomorrow, and the doctors said we could see him now.”
“But I was going to paint a picture for him tomorrow morning so I could show him...”
“Just forget about the picture. Go and get your coat and shoes on.”

I hadn’t realised how much traffic was on the roads leading to James Cook Hospital until we were weaving between each passing car.
I swear my heart stopped at least twice before we finally came to a halt.

***​

“Why are the weighing scales left in the middle of the bathroom, Emma?”

I glanced up at my mom, forcing a lump of dried mash-potato down my throat. I was surprised that it slid down with ease; an abrupt lump had swelled into my windpipe, suddenly making it hard to breathe.
“I-I don’t know.” Oh sweet Jesus. I stammered. If that wasn’t the biggest giveaway that I was lying, I don’t know what the hell is.
“Yes you do, young lady. And you’re going to tell me now.” My mom’s voice turned stern, her eyes narrowing slightly into a glare. “Why were you using the bathroom scales?”
“I was weighing the dog.” I lied again, setting my silverware onto my plate, signifying the end of another horrid meal.
“More like you were weighing yourself, you little liar.”
“Is there a sudden law against me weighing myself?”
“I don’t want you getting obsessed.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“How much weight have you lost? Hmm?”
A silence shook the atmosphere of the kitchen. I stood up from my chair and walked towards the hallway.
“Don’t ever ask me that again.” I finally answered, swallowing back the swelling bulge in my throat.

***​

“Her service was amazing, you know.” Samantha explained, her voice as high and airy, hands waving and animated as ever.
“Really.” I kept my voice low, dismissing all emotion that threatened to disrupt the bleakness in my tone.
“Yeah, it was great. The flowers and wreaths left at the crematorium were just... wow.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“Can you believe that?”
“...Believe what?”
“The way she died? I mean, I didn’t even know that someone could have a stroke just like that.”
“Mhm.”
“What is a stroke, anyway? Isn’t it something to do with their head?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even want to kn-”
“Or is it their lungs?”
I muttered a slight curse under my breath, rising from my seat and glaring at Mrs. Owen, my biology teacher.
“May I be excused to the nurse?”
“Of course, Emma. Are you okay?”

The slam of the door behind me held the answer she wished for, a shuddering ‘no’ echoing through the corridor as the door hit the wooden frame.

I slumped to the floor. Staring at the ceiling in despair, I noticed how time seemed to fly when thought took over me. I couldn’t help but to be consumed by this fear that soon, somebody would walk in on this mess. This lonesome, pathetic, tainted mess curled into the corner of a restroom, willing for a hole to open up and devour her. Cheeks stained with attempts at cosmetics, flooded away by self-pitying sobs and cries for hope, leaving a blackened trail behind.
My scarlet-encrusted fingertips probed by bag, landing finally on my mobile phone.
My numb hands fumbled on the keys, jabbing in the numbers as my breathing increased.
My heart faltered as I pressed ‘dial’.

 

Oh. Interesting once again. Very nice detail as usual and I wonder who she's calling. I love the ending of this chapter due to how much detail and emotion it has. I loved it. Can't wait to read more.​

 

Just thought I'd point out one tiny error.

"My scarlet-encrusted fingertips probed by bag" I guess it's meant to be "my" :3

I want to know who she's ringing! >|

This was a much more powerful sentence than just "cheeks stained with mascara". It was impressive.

I wish you had given some indication to how old she was in the flashback this time.
Nice job as always.

 

Phase Six
Breakdown, takedown.​

“The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved.”
Mother Teresa​

“Hey sweetie...”

I instantly recoiled from his hand. He was still evil, no matter how many wires and machines he was holding onto.
Despite being my father, he still addressed me as ‘the kid.’ This name, after seven years, grew to be a bit of a customary thing in my home.
Hello, my name is Emilia Halson, but you can just call me ‘the kid.’ Because I do LOVE being called that name day in, day out.
Yeah, that would go down well when I make new friends.

“Have you told the kid?” He rasped. It took me a moment to figure out what he said; even the heart monitor had a stronger voice than he had, and the only noise that thing made was a single, weak beep.
“No...” My mom replied, dabbing her cheeks and looking down at me. She gave me a smile, which unto this day will forever remain engraved into my memory banks.
She seemed different. I can’t quite place my finger on what her smile held, but it wasn’t the distraught, pain-stricken feelings that I – or anyone else, for that matter – would have anticipated.
She seemed quite relieved.
The sadness that she mocked before my father did not match the emotion in her deep chestnut eyes.
She was a liar. A pedigree breed of the lying kind. It was on that day that I had realised this fact, and not once have I forgot it. In each doubting moment, in each detailed explanation as to why she had said something wrong, done something stupid, or covered up for my dad’s past mistakes, that smile crosses my mind.

That smile killed the trust I had in her. Murdered it in cold blood. Strung it up and stabbed it. Set it alight and burned it.
Led it to an endless pit, and left it to die.

***​

Granted the fact that the flesh of my limbs had not seen the light of the nurses office, and the vast majority of my time spent out of class was engaged in conversation on the field of our school or cooked up in the dining hall, I had no trouble convincing Nurse Fitzgerald that everything was fine at the moment, and my stomach cramps were genuine.
Of course, this was a natural thing. I was female after all, and it comes as a seventh sense - sixth being multi-tasking – to be melodramatic about everything some way or another.

My mind argued amongst itself; one side of me felt horrid for lying, or at least knowing the reason why I felt so ill, but acted oblivious to it, and the other side edged me further, wanting me to get an escape.
“If she hadn’t ignored my 23 calls, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation.” I sighed, tapping my cold fingers against the wall.
“Yes, perhaps so, but what use will going home do?” A contradiction, indeed. But this point made did nothing to sway my thoughts.
“At least the several hundred people in the dining hall wouldn’t be acting as an audience if we’re at home.”
“Why not just retreat to the toilet until lessons begin again? It’s only half an hour, maybe less.”
“Oh, and have 30 people who actually know us, see the state we’re in?”
“It’s smaller than several hundred.”
“No audience is better than any audience-”

“You’re quiet, dear.” Words smothered in concern, and topped off with a charming Irish accent, awoken me from the innards of my mind.
“I just feel sick, miss.” I grumbled back, slumping into my chair.
“Well, your mother said she would be here soon.” With a smile, the grey haired nurse sat herself down opposite me. I flashed a weak smile, but nothing obviously false.
“Emma, I would like to ask you a small question.” She explained, laying her hand on mine. Her skin, crinkled like old, slightly tanned parcel paper, felt cold compared to the chalk surface of my own. I didn’t pull away, but if I had the chance, I would have most certainly took my hand away to a safe distance.
“Emma, are you eating?”

***​

The engine of our overused jeep broke the silence that settled itself between my mother and me. She was angry. I just knew she was. I could see it in her eyes when she looked in my direction. She didn’t want me home today.

The door to the house cracked open, allowing my senses to bathe in the comforting smell of home – otherwise known as a concoction of burnt toast, dog hairs, and stale smoke. Lovely.
“So... You’re sick?” My mom’s accusing tone felt like straws being slid into my ears. Not just normal straws, but the type that you get with the kiddie drinks; the small, thin ones that have really sharps ends to them.
Ouch.
“Yeah...” I mumbled back, glancing up into her eyes like a puppy that had previously been brutally kicked.
“What type of ‘sick’ are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are a couple of types of sick.”
“Such as?”
“Emotionally. Physically. Depressive-”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” I snapped slightly, sighing as she fell silent.
“Well?”
“Physically. I threw up in the toilet at school. I think I’m getting the flu or something.”
“Liar.”

I sighed.
My facade was dying.