My name is Maximum Ride, or at least it used to be. Well, technically, it still is, but inside I feel like a totally different person. A shadow of who I used to be.

To put it simply, I'm broken. Shattered. Like a piece of glass. And it's all Fang's fault. Okay, maybe it was my fault that I let all of my emotions out, but Fang was the one who pushed me into doing it. I feel like a glass of milk, once full, but now drained and empty. I wish I had a glass of milk right now, I'm so hungry.

It's been a week since I left the Flock, one week since I was shattered. I miss them terribly - well, not Fang - but I can't go back. I promised Fang I would never return and I meant it. That's about all I have left, my pride. I can't let it go too.

It's hard to think straight. My head hurts and so do my ribs. They're finally starting to mend after my scrape with the Ari-bot, but I'm a long way from 100%. But my ribs are a whole lot better than me, mentally. Maybe I'm sick in the head. Is this what being a lunatic feels like? I'm not sure.

I just want it all to end. To wake up in a cave somewhere, listening to the breathing of my family and finding out that this was all some sick, twisted, horrifying dream. But this is my life, right? So that couldn't possibly happen. This is all very real. Every day that passes, I feel another part of me slipping away. How long will it be until there's nothing left except for a shell?

I wish I could reverse it all, to go back and change what I did. But life doesn't have a rewind button, so I'm out of luck. Luck. That's one thing I could use right now. It's been nearly three days since I've last eaten. I just don't have the will to go out and find food. I've lost my will to live. I don't mean that it's all gone, but that overpowering will to survive, to break free, is gone. I just want to be alone, to die in silence. If the School sent someone after me right now, I probably wouldn't even fight back.

I want to fight though. I can feel this very tiny spark of me still inside this shell. But every time I reach for it, I'm blocked by a wave of emotions I can't control. Rage, hate, fear. Mostly fear. I feel lost in my own feelings. It's hopeless.

I have been curled up in a ball in this corner for what seems like years. No one's come to bother me; this part of New York is abandoned. This position feels so good, so safe. It's hard to leave it, even for a moment. If only I could stay this way forever. But I have to find food. I'm not that far gone.

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I unwillingly uncurled myself from a fetal position. I've sleeping in an abandoned apartment building, in the suburbs of New York, on the top floor for a few days now. Thankfully no one's come anywhere near here, I'm not sure if my brain could handle even seeing another person at this point. But I'm mending, slowly, but surely. I can feel that little bright ball of me growing inside its cover of darkness, coming out again. It makes me feel good to look at it and say to myself, "It'll be alright." But I'm just fooling myself. It's not alright.

My main objective - that's a word I haven't used in a week - is to find food. Any kind of food, but preferably edible. I don't want to get sick, not in this state. That could be fatal. I've haven't even bothered trying to hide my wings these past few days; I just don't have the energy. My stomach feels like a black hole, sucking in everything around it.

I stretched my wings and arms out, trying not to retch. One word for you - cramps. Ouch. I shook out my wings a little to try and get at least some of the feathers realigned and then I jumped out a shattered window. Shattered. Just like me.

I hung in a free fall for a few seconds, allowing my feelings to be swept away in the howling wind, then I snapped my wings open and took flight. Flying hurts my ribs, so I try and avoid it as much as I can. But this trip was necessary, I needed food.

I spiraled around for a few minutes, enjoying the wind in my hair and the familiar rhythm of my wings. Up, down, up, down. Ah, the music of flight. I quickly tucked my wings in and angled into a short dive, landing on top of a low building.

I quickly shimmied down the drain pipe before anyone could see me, then stole behind a green trash bin. I could smell the food coming from inside of the restaurant, which, apparently, serviced this can. Soon, a chef dude came out with a tray of unwanted food, still good but unservable. After he had left, I dashed around the front of the can, looking inside eagerly as I did so.

I had hit the jackpot. I grabbed as much as I could, stuffing extra into my windbreaker when my pockets were full; day old rolls, croissants, a slice of chocolate cake, some sausage links, a few pieces of bacon, and an unopened bottle of orange juice.

I flew back to my abandoned apartment, lumpy and smiling for the first time in, well, a week. I quickly sat down in my dusty corner, unloaded my bounty, and began to eat. Gosh, I was so hungry. Even the cold, greasy bacon tasted good. And trust me, old, cold bacon isn't exactly on the top of the menu here. I fell asleep, feeling better than I had in days. But while my stomach was full, I still felt empty. Shattered.