Let me lay it out for you: I'm not normal.

In fact, one might call me...freakishly strange.

You couldn't tell from my appearance-to the world, I'm but you're average 5-foot-9, red-headed teenage girl. But in the privacy of my own room- sometimes my own mind- I am not who I seem to be.

For instance.

Occasionally, a violent thought will flash through my head, and I'll push it away- like when I'm cutting an apple and I picture myself stabbing my nearby friends through the heart with the knife. I can see the horrified looks on their faces; they would never see it coming. Of course, when these things happen, I try to push them out of my mind, questioning my sanity. It's not like I have a reason for hurting them...

But you see, it's not just that. I get so...angry sometimes- at the slightest of provocations. I seethe in rage until I writhe on the floor and claw at my skin. If you were to ask why I have so many posters on my walls, I would most certainly not tell you that it's because of all the knife marks under them.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you're thinking. Of course she's not normal. She's a psycho. Lock her up before she hurts somebody.

But there's more.

I mentioned before that no one is aware of my... peculiarities. I can't let anyone find out; they would throw me in a rubber room, or worse. Once, when I was twelve, I tried to tell my adoptive sister about these things, and she looked at me like I belonged in a size eight straight-jacket, so I slapped an uncharacteristically stupid smile on my face and yelled 'April fools'.

I do hate keeping secrets from my family- even if they're not my flesh and blood, they did take me in and they are all I've got. I would like to tell them, but I'm just so afraid...

...so scared of falling that I won't try to fly.

Oh, that's not a metaphor, by the way. I have wings.

I sat Indian-style on my bed, allowing my copper-hued hair to fall gently into my lap Cautiously extending my metallic violet wings to their full length- each was easily five feet across- I plucked a teal-tinted feather, casually watching it harden into a jagged blade. Creepy.

Intrigued, I slowly dragged the colorful blade across the palm of my hand, watching the resulting blood trickle down my forearm. Cocking my head, I marveled the contrast of the bright crimson on my pale skin.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted my weirdness. Startled, I flung the blade away and it lodged precariously into my wall.

"Alida," called a tired, middle-aged voice, "are you decent?"

"No," I squeaked, painfully crunching my wings back into a folding position and slipping my purple vest on over them. As I heard my mother grow restless at the door, I frantically wiped the blood from my arm with my conveniently red tie and concealed my damaged hand behind my back.

As if on cue, my mother opened my door to see me grinning idiotically with one hand behind me and the other innocently draped over my crossed legs.

Her eyes narrowed. "What have you done?"

The woman is good.

As if her suspicion was unfounded, I shrugged. "MM-hmm..."

"What are you hiding?"

My ocean-blue eyes flit to the wall behind her, where currently, a shiny, bloody, feather knife was wedged. I shrugged again, nonchalantly wiggling my hand into a black marching glove behind me.

"No alcohol?"

"Mm-mm."

"Guys?"

"Mm-mm."

"X-rated video games?"

"Mm-mm..." I repeated, guiltily eyeing my closet- in which several of those were stored.

Right before my eyes, her stern features slowly softened, and I knew the interrogation was over; I would live to see another day. Sheesh. It's not like I've ever had 2/3 of those things in my room. But then again, I guess my sister is another story...

Unable to suppress a sigh of relief, I raised up my unmarred left hand to catch the blur of purple she tossed my way. Its identity astonished and infuriated me.

"My fedora!" I cried. I never let this thing out of my sight! "Where did you get this?!"

Obviously stressed, my mother massaged her temples. "I rescued it from Xavier."

"Oh." My eyes reduced to slits.

Xavier. That putrid being.

By the way, I have a little brother. I try to avoid acknowledging his existence whenever possible.

Murmuring unnecessary reassurances to my beloved (yet admittedly inanimate) hat, I placed it upon its copper throne, vowing vengeance. That maniacal little wretch will atone for his crimes, if its the last thing I ever-!

"Lee! Chill!" commanded my mother. "Your hat is fine!"

I slowly lowered my pocket knife, grumbling to myself, "He contaminated her with his greasy little fingers. His mere survival mocks her."

"You know," remarked my mother exhaustedly, "Sometimes I wonder if you love that hat more than you love your own brother."

"So do I," I muttered, "So do I."

"Oh, Ms. Believer, my pretty sleeper, your twisted mind's like snow on the road; your shaking shoulders prove that it's colder inside your head than the winter of dead..."

I rolled over with a groan, shutting off the alarm. Man, I should have left it on. That's my favorite Twenty One Pilots song...

Immersed in these thoughts, I shifted to the left and consequently tumbled to the floor.

Ow.

Moaning, I pushed myself up rather clumsily, pausing when I noticed my disheveled sister Clarissa in the doorway. Her golden hair was tousled, her face swollen with fatigue. I would have found this image quite humorous, if not for my own undoubtedly ragged appearance.

"Gee sis," she slurred sleepily, "you look like you just rolled right out of bed..."

"Hilarious," I mumbled, voice laced with sarcasm. "I am practically oozing with mirth."

"How very odd," she mocked. She was always jealous of my sophisticated speech.

"I can talk like you too," I shot back, disgusted with my syntax. I, too, can speak this way. I can also mimic your diction.

I will admit, my speech patterns can in some ways be likened to my sister's. But I'm not that simple. Gracious.

My dear Clarissa chuckled and turned away, presumably leaving to prepare herself for school (and she did have her work cut out for her). I knew it had come time for me to do the same, so I peeled myself off the hardwood floor and stumbled over to my closet.

Patting my stash of precious video games, I turned to the rack on which my clothing hung- every single outfit was the exact same, consisting of a long-sleeved white dress shirt, a purple button-up vest, a red tie, and black slacks. Don't judge me- it's my style, okay?

I quickly dressed, delicately cramming my wings under the white shirt. (Enjoy the oxymoron.) It took me a solid half hour to tame my ridiculously thick mane of hair, which I then crowned with- what else?- my splendidly fashionable fedora.

I stood before my full-length mirror, admiring the deep, warm, violet of both the fedora and the vest. Were my wings out, they would match, though they would shine with a blue-greenish glimmer.

My gaze rested on the reflection of my denim-colored eyes. Nostalgia flooded my senses as I recalled my parents explaining to my young self that I was adopted; I had thought about how dissimilar my speech patterns were to theirs, and how my hair was not brown like theirs or golden like Clarissa's, and how my eyes...

They are so different from my family's welcoming, honey-flecked green eyes, which make mine look so cold, dark, and foreboding. Even as my father lay in his coffin, those eyes were so much warmer and full of life than mine ever were...

I shuddered at the recollection, scolding my own brain for retrieving such a memory and returning my attention to my idle reflection.

Whereupon I physically jumped.

I blinked and held out my twitching hand to the mirror. For a moment, I had thought...

Well, it's implausible.

It only seemed like my eyes had been gold for an instant there. I must be seeing things again.

Well, either that or...

No matter what the explanation for that incident is, one thing is certain.

I. Am not.

Normal.

I apologize for any formatting errors. I copied this from my wattpad account, and wattpad's formatting sucks.