Um, hello. This is my first story. I was annoyed into putting up a fanfiction, so if you don't like it, keep in mind that I don't either.
Disclaimer: James Patterson owns Maximum Ride.
I can't sleep.
It has been a repetitive process. Sleep overcomes me until I have the same dream. I am running behind a girl with a blank face, although I feel like I know her. Her hair is a light brown with sun streaks in them. She is tall, although not as tall as me, with a pulsating laugh that echoes throughout my mind. She wears a hospital gown with slits in the back. For what, I don't know. That, or I cannot remember.
I know this girl, although her face is hidden to me. I am following her in a dull forest, the scenery picturesque but seemingly fake. It is unknown to what we're running from, but whatever it is, the ignorance is bliss. I don't want to know, and I don't know if I'll find out.
Every night, the dream skips the ending like a scratched record, but tonight it hasn't. I don't know what time it is, but it seems as if time itself has stopped. The mystery of my dream has been solved tonight.
We are forced to a cliff, right to the end. She looks back at me, I think, but I can't see her face.
And then she jumps. My breath catches in my throat for a moment until she ascends into the sky with wings that are fourteen feet long. Tan, white, and speckled, they are the most gorgeous thing that I have ever seen, reality or not. When she is forty feet above the cliff ledge, she beckons me with one hand. Somehow I understand: she is asking me to jump, too.
And I do. The wind whirls through my coal black hair and I feel like I am falling, until there is a heavy weight on my shoulders - literally.
I do not know how, but somehow I know what to do.
Fifteen foot wings unfurl from my back, the color of a raven's, such a dark black that the tips catching the light are purple.
We're safe.
And that's the end.
I reach my hand just above my face. I can't see it - it's too dark - but I know it's there. It's like the girl. The answer is right in front of my face, but I can't see it. If I tilt it back and forth, there is no difference.
I place my hand over my chest. Is this really the end of the dream?
My hair is a mess when I wake up the next morning. My eyes are dark and sullen, the color of obsidian.
In another world, I would be marked as handsome. The gold flecks in my eyes are like stars in the sky, or so I've been told.
To me, it looks like a drowning fish in a river consumed by tar.
In this world, however, my eyes are too intimidating, my hair too long. My mother tells me I look like an "emo."
It takes me five minutes to comb through the mess of my hair. I toss too much in my sleep for it to be easy with such little hair; it passes just below my jawline.
I have to bend to look into the mirror with my height. I am six foot, although my friend is two inches taller. I am also too tall for the age of sixteen.
"You need to hurry, Nicholas!" my mother calls from her bedroom upstairs. Invonulantarily, I flinch at my given name. It is the name my father calls me by.
"I will," I call back.
I lace up my black converse and walk the two miles to school with a stoic expression, one that has served me well for the past two years of highschool.
There are people who ride the bus to school, as well as people who drive in their own cars. The bus doesn't stop at my house, and my family is too poor, too beaten down for a car.
The second I walk onto the school's property, I am insulted.
"Hey, emo," Travis, a boy in my science class, sneers.
"Got any new scars from daddy?" Penelope, the captian of the cheerleading squad, squeaks with her nasil voice.
"Have you come out yet?" I hear someone ask. I am not sure of who it is.
"Why don't you cut yourself, you emo?" Someone, somewhere, asks me. I don't know who it is. I am too far away for it to be of any importance.
"Goodwill called. They want their shirt ba-"
"Stop it." I turn my head at this new voice. It is full of fire, full of hatred and disgust at all of the names being spat in my direction. My eyes flicker to find the owner of such a tone, and then I see her.
She is tall, possibly four inches shorter than me, so many people clear instantly. Her chocolate eyes are glaring poisonous daggers at Isabel Vigale, the owner of the last insult, and her eyebrows are furrowed. I don't know why.
She wears a necklace with the word soar on it, a bird flying away on the "s." Her hair has blonde sun streaks that stand out from the brown color the rest of her head is.
Without knowing her name, I somehow know.
She is the girl from my dream.
Should I continue this?
-Blake