Hello my readers!

I had planned to not start this, but I became inspired.

I warn you now, I am not the most frequent updater. I have a busy schedule threatening me this year, and sometimes, I lose my inspiration. But I have the determination to finish my stories, and I promise to do just that.

But while I have time to update, I will try to write as much as possible.

This story faces a difficult but real subject. Because I write about it does not mean I, in any way, support or approve of it. Just saying that right now.

Another note I will make is at the end of every chapter I usually have a music dedication. They do not necessarily pertain to the story; they just help me write it. However, in this story, the songs might be more related. But if a song appears about something completely unrelated, don't think too much about it. I just recommend the song.

This story includes Iggy, Gazzy, and Max as well.

So, without further adieu, I present ShadowDiving.

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own the characters of Maximum Ride or any other references made. All rights belong to James Patterson and all other respected owners.

Fang's POV

Yo.

I know you don't know me, and I know you probably don't have any idea why I'm talking to you now, but please.

Listen.

I want… no, I need to tell you about my life.

At this point, most of you have become disinterested. I know you're thinking that I'm going to complain about homework, girls, and parents that just won't let me do what I want to do. You're imagining the green yard, picket fence, and picturesque house.

You're imagining the perfect mom, smiling with a plate of cookies and an understanding demeanor.

You're imagining the perfect dad, stern but with concern in the right place.

You're imagining the annoying but lovable 1.5 siblings.

I'm here to tell you that doesn't exist. For anyone.

Especially me.

My world exists on the outskirts of desolation. Instead of green lawns and picket fences, I have grey concrete and pick pocketing. Homework is the least of my worries, if it even gets registered at all on the list. I'm not restricted from doing anything – I have to do everything.

My home is a tap away from falling down. It's dirty and smells like the powders my mom is always getting high off of.

There is no dad in the picture anymore. Mom killed that a long time ago. The bloodstains remain as evidence, partially obscured by new bloodstains. Mine.

I only have one girl to care about. Angel, my 7 year old sister.

She is my top priority. I live to protect her. I take the battering to make sure she can live a happy life, oblivious to what really happens when Mom comes home tipsy and I send her to Iggy's.

Iggy is 18 and the only one who knows what I go through. And even he doesn't know everything. He has been my friend for as long as I can remember. I entrust Angel's safety to him. He entertains her and tells her tales as to what I'm doing. He distracts her from the reality I'm living for her.

Angel thinks I am in a gang. That I'm always bruised, cut, and broken from gang fights. She tells me to quit the gang. I tell her I can't. I tell her that the gang helps pay for our food, the house, our school. I tell her that they give us safety from other gangs.

Well, I used to be in a gang when I was ten. I never got hurt by them. They all got killed before they had a chance to. While I was gone to get supplies for them, someone had detonated a bomb in our clubhouse, killing all the members.

It's funny how the people doing nothing wrong get destroyed, while the destroyers survive.

Mom comes home drunk most days. I get punished every time she does. No matter what I've done – good or bad – I am beaten, attacked because of it. On the rare days she doesn't drink or get high off her drugs, she acts like a real mom to Angel. She resembles the mom I used to have when I was 10.

But then, towards me, she gets the most violent.

She works as a genetic engineer, working in labs and messing with people's DNA. Being so smart means she can get creative with her punishments. And when she is somewhat sober she has time to think of anything I've done and find a torture for it. I usually can't do much after that for a day, but I make myself hold up the façade and continue on through the pain.

I would undergo all the pain thousands of times to make sure Angel never experiences a thing.

When I was 9, Mom found out she was pregnant with Angel. She wasn't a drinker or druggie then. I had a dad who loved Mom, but didn't like the fact that Mom wanted to use her pregnancy as an experiment for her work. Mom was persistent, and Dad tried to leave her, not able to handle what would come of the experiment. In her grief, she started drinking. She never experimented on Angel after all, thank God, but she murdered Dad in her drunken rage.

That was the first night she hit me.

I soon learned that crying did no good. She beat me more if I screamed or cried. So, I learned to control my emotions and hide them, so she couldn't manipulate them.

I grew my hair long to cover up my bruises and scars on my neck and face, as well as to conceal my eyes so I could hide my emotions if they leaked through my mental barrier.

When Angel was born, she was luckily not affected by the alcohol. But even though Mom loved her then (and still adores her), she tried to attack Angel when she was first brought home. She was drunk again.

I interfered.

I screamed at her and told her she was horrid mother, and that I hated her. She beat me, but Angel was fine. I swore then I would take care of Angel, since Mom obviously wouldn't, and I would keep her safe.

The next day, Mom was sober.

That same day, I was drugged, knocking me unconscious.

I woke up in a lab. Mom was nearby with a scalpel. I was lying on my stomach, strapped to a gurney. Mom smiled at me.

Then she cut into my back, with no anesthetic.

I screamed and fell unconscious to the pain.

When I woke up, I had wings. Wings.

When I woke up, I no longer loved my mother.

I hated her.

I grew to love my wings. But I never grew to love my mom again.

At 17, olive-toned, skinny, dark haired, dark eyed, and distant, I am still abused by Mom.

At 17, silent, skilled in fighting, mutated, and scarred, I still love Angel. I would die for her.

But I can't die. I have to live for her, to protect her.

I never turned to drugs, or fighting others, or cutting myself like depressed people do. No suicidal thoughts. I can't hinder myself. If I hinder myself, I hinder my ability to protect Angel.

And then she'll get hurt. And it'll be my fault.

So I am here to tell you about my life, as I live it. My emotions, thoughts, and actions, all spilled on a paper for you to read. I know you can't do anything. It just feels good for someone to know.

So sit back and enjoy the ride as you dive into the shadows of my life that constantly haunt me.

My name is Fang.

And this is my story.

This chapter is dedicated to Call for You by The Side Project.