Grounded
By Ocean Wings
Chapter One
I turned around slowly in the mirror and looked over my shoulder to inspect my back. My lovely, beautiful wings were open at half-mast, each feather wonderfully defined in its own special way. I admired how the frail flesh of my back melded with the coarse feathers so easily, so perfectly, like the wings had naturally grown there.
Of course that wasn't the case. These giant chicken wings were 'grafted' onto me when I was a fetus, barely even alive. And this evil organization, full of psychotic scientists did that. It made me shudder to think of the years of pain and horror I went through before I became free. I went back to the mindless task of looking at my wings again. The wing joints joined with the shoulder blades; shoulder blades I could easily detach for freer movement.
I rolled said shoulder blades in a stretch above my head. Ah, that felt nice. I glanced at my freakishly large shoulders. I looked like an Olympic swimmer with my wings tucked in. Yeah, I totally did seventy laps in the pool every day to get these shoulders. Not.
I reached back, and slid my hand between the wing knobs, trying to feel what was between them. It was soft, like baby powder, but it didn't flake off (thank goodness). It wasn't skin, nor was it feathers. It was a kind of extremely soft, downy kind of skin, I think. I could feel the tiny feathers of skin between my fingernails. Skin-covered feathers, ew.
My beautiful wings. As freaking amazing as they were, they were still a big, monumental pain. Humans didn't have to worry about covering something other than their body. They didn't have weird growing pains in their backs that weren't even from a mammal. Plus, they didn't have the 'fun' of molting every couple of years. Let me tell you, wings are butt-ugly without feathers covering them. Humans didn't have to cut slits in the back of every shirt and jacket they owned. Human GIRLS didn't have to worry about getting their wings tangled up while trying to put on their bras. That's a huge pain in my book.
But I should stop complaining. How many people get to soar across the skies, something people could only dream about? If I didn't have wings, I would think about flying all the time. I guess I should count myself lucky in that aspect.
Although I could soar, many years I couldn't. I was confined to a dog crate, pain and fear and hate my only companions. It's hard not to shut yourself down when that happens. It's extremely hard not to loathe the things permanently attached to your body. Without them, you could go free. But the feeling you got when you were in the air was incredible, indescribable. It could be something so wonderful that tears could pour out your eyes and soak your clothes clean through in the sheer joy, but you still couldn't get a word out of your amazed mouth that was struggling to convey the feeling that was threatening to burst out of your chest. Think of it as a roller coaster coupled with a sugar high coupled with the most amazing moment of your life (not counting the flying part). It all added up to flying.
These beauties were a pain, yes, a huge pain, but they were a joy to have. They were probably more a part of me than I realized. I stroked the feathers absentmindedly and turned to face the mirror.
I gasped. I was suddenly struck by how OLD I looked. Well, duh, I had always looked old in the eyes, knowing too much and seeing too much from the past that haunted me to this day, but never like this. I was . . . mature-looking. My hair had been shorn down to almost a boy-cut, but it was long enough to look girly. It was a tough-looking haircut. There were streaks of a light red color in my hair, almost looking like watered-down blood. I liked it though, fluffing it around my eyes.
My eyes were the weirdest thing. They were trusting, compassionate, and hopelessly naïve. They were still the same Hispanic brown, but they were twinkly (and I mean seriously twinkling; you could see the lights) and . . . happy. Why were my eyes like this? My eyes were hard, calculating, and shrewd. They gave nothing away. Or so I thought. The eyes I looked at now were a tad worried. Skip that.
The rest of my face was basically the same. I mean, it had thinned out even more, and a more prominent spatter of freckles dotted the bridge of my nose, but I still had the same nose and the same half-full lips. And randomly, I had a bunch of ear piercings, just like I had always wanted.
My body was changed too. My legs were thin and shapely, my arms the same. I had long fingernails, which as weird, because I kept them short (or broken) out of necessity. I had a curvy pair of hips, full breasts, and an elegant shape to my neck. I was completely naked in the mirror, bare as the day I was born (if you can call it that), but it was one of those dreams were you don't realize it and don't care.
I went back to examining my face, but the image in the mirror swirled and morphed into the face I realized. My face. It still had the dying effects of the hot pink dye from New York, and was impossibly sun-kissed from flying high up. It was to my athletic shoulders, like normal. My eyes were expressive to the point of a knife, my body youthful, and my ears un-pierced because Erasers could probably rip them out easily and I didn't really want to find out . . .
Then I, she, opened her mouth. "Hey," she said, her sharp eyes softening as she realized who I was. There was pity in her eyes. For what?
"Hey," I repeated, "What is this?"
She held her fingers up to the mirror, motioning for me to mimic her movements. The glass of the mirror was as cold as I thought. She sighed.
"I'm you, from a long time ago," she said, "I'm sorry I let them do this to us."
"Do what?" I asked. She unfolded her wings to their full extension.
"I'm sorry we can't fly anymore," she whispered, fading away behind the glass.
I hurriedly pulled my fingers back from the mirror, clutching my hand as if I'd been burned. I froze, numbing panic overwhelming me. What had she said?! I touched the back of my neck, afraid to reach down and see if what she said was true.
It was.
I turned around in the mirror again, staring at my back. My naked, wingless back. I screamed, pulverizing the fleshy skin where my wings should've been, and whipped back around, giving a fresh scream, a single, unending note.
I was not Max. I was not the older Max or the younger Max. I was an Eraser. Eraser Max. I kept screaming, not knowing why I was so terrified. This was my natural body after all. I looked in the mirror, gazing with undoubtedly feral eyes, pupils slit like a cat's. Her ears were on the top of her head, furry and dog-like. Her crouch was horrid, like she was going to pounce any minute.
Her body was lean, muscular, and made to pursue. Her fingernails were pointy and strong, but her hair was pretty much the same, a little wilder, except the streaks were rustier. It was . . . blood!
She opened her mouth to say something, probably something important, but all I saw were her fangs, dangerous and needle-sharp. I screamed again.
And promptly sat up in bed. A bed? Oh thank god. It was a dream. I ruffled my hair, yawning. What time was it? I craned my neck to look at my clock. 4 AM. Another half-hour 'til breakfast. Dang.
The door creaked open suddenly and I tensed. What could anyone want at this hour? Fang, my mate, slid through the frame, shutting the door behind him. He was still the same. Black ears, white smile. We were both the same, liking to keep ourselves half-morphed. It showed our status. We were Alpha and Beta wolf here.
Fang slunk to my bed and hugged me. "What's the nightmare this time?" he asked.
I held my head, trying to dredge up the fleeting memory, racking my brains. I accepted defeat after awhile.
"I don't remember," I confessed, "This sucks."
"Maybe it'll come to you later," he mumbled, his breath tickling my neck.
[I had a nightmare too, don't worry.] Fang said, his voice echoing in my mind, a product of the telepathy chip in our brains.
{Poor boy,} I fake-simpered, {Does Mommy need to give you a kiss?}
[Don't mind if I do.] He thought, brushing his lips against mine softly, [C'mon, up and at 'em, time to face another day.]
He flashed out of my room in a heartbeat, as normal as could be. I glanced around my room. Oval bed, washstand, closet, bedside table, super-technological intercom/TV/computer . . . Everything was the same. So why were there chills on my neck and a sharp pain in my head?
I shook off the feeling and got dressed. I flinched passing the mirror. Everything was the same! Nothing was wrong! What was the matter with me?! I gnashed my fangs in anger at myself and turned away from the cold glass. Nothing was wrong!
I was Maximum Ride. Strong, capable, perfect. Not afraid of anything! Pathetic humans may have fear, but it was taken out of me. Erasers had nothing to fear.
