Hello lovelies! My apologies for the slow update, I was unsure if I should continue posting or not. I decided that I will for now, so without further ado, here is chapter two! Thank you to those who have viewed and followed this story, your support means so much :)

If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!

Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!

Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.


FLIGHTLESS BIRD

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial


PART ONE: CHAPTER TWO

I stare down at my plate in boredom, preferring to look at my sunny-side up eggs with toast rather than consume them. It has never been one of my favorite things to eat, and I'm not hungry, anyway. I actually don't feel very good. A queasy sensation has been growing in my tummy ever since I woke up this morning after a restless night of awful dreams and bad memories. I yawn widely and rub at my tired eyes, wanting to go back to bed and just lay there forever.

Once breakfast is over, everyone either retreats to the backyard or runs upstairs to the playroom—I follow the latter group, but instead I turn the corner and head down the hall to the nursery where the cute little babies sleep. There's actually only three infants here, two boys and one girl. When I get kind of stressed out by all my internal struggles, I like to go visit them and see if there's anything I can do to help. I personally love babies—some of the other kids think they're unexciting because they don't really do anything but drool and cry and poop in their diapers, but I think they're very cute. Six-month-old Daisy doesn't cry that much—she sleeps all the time.

The nursery is designated for the children under the age of five. Ages five to twelve share a room together—but the teenagers, the ones that are thirteen to eighteen, have their own space, too. I'm still in the five-to-twelve category, obviously, since I won't be thirteen for another four years. I don't mind being with the younger kids; it makes me feel slightly better about myself when several of them shyly come up to me and ask me to play. Addy and Lilly are the most common of them to do that, which is honestly a whole lot easier for me. I couldn't handle everybody. Being the complete and utter center of attention isn't exactly something I enjoy imagining.

I peek my head into the pastel-colored nursery. The blinds are open, allowing shafts of bright sunshine into the room, highlighting the soft colors of the giant round rug in the middle of the oak-paneled floor. Dianne and Caro, two of the orphanage's best volunteers, are here today, spending time with the seven tiny toddlers. A warm feeling grows in my heart when I see Dianne with the two baby boys in her lap, bouncing them gently on her legs as they suck on their plastic rings and watch the toddlers waddle around and do little toddler things. At one point, a small red-haired girl notices me standing in the doorway and offers a bashful, baby-toothed smile—I smile back with a wave and tentatively take a step into the room. The door squeaks as it opens all the way. As expected, all their heads turn and their eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a big kid coming in.

"Good morning, Mackenzie!" Caro says with a dazzling grin, perfectly at ease while a girl tugs a hairbrush through her dark gleaming curls. Caro looks at the small kids in front of her and says cheerfully, "Say hello to Mackenzie!"

I blush a rosy pink and smile timidly as they turn around and wave their dimpled hands at me, beaming happily. "Hi, Mackenzie," they chorus in their sweet, adorable voices. A little boy about age four gets up clumsily and hops over to me, craning his head back to look up at me. He's shorter than me by about a foot, which suddenly makes me feel self-conscious over my height, even though I know I'm probably just exaggerating it.

"I'm Colton," the boy informs me proudly. He has short dark hair and gorgeous, large blue eyes that shine like the sea. "Wanna play?"

Secretly confused as to what he has in mind—I am a girl, after all (not that I think girls and boys aren't able to get along, it's simply that I'm older and we've never met)—I nod uncertainly, to his delight. "Sure," I reply, doubt coloring my quiet tone. But Colton smiles widely and grabs my hand in that rough fashion boys do, impatiently leading me over to a little area away from everyone else where he's set up a miniature racecar track with tiny cars and everything. I sit down carefully on the floor, making sure I don't squish anything, biting my lower lip.

Colton messes with the toy cars for a minute before sitting up on his knees and asking me in a curious, somewhat distracted tone, "How old are you?" That seems to be quite a popular question among young children.

"Um—" Being the insufferable idiot that I am, I suddenly forget which year I was born in and just sit there dumbly. My face goes red again and I regret even coming in here in the first place. Why do I always do things like that? I can't seem to ever mind my own business, I always have to know what's going on someplace else. And I'm not coherent around little kids anyway. They must all think I'm such a dork.

"Oh! Um, I'm nine," I blurt out, my voice higher than usual due to stress. How depressing, I'm having heart palpitations all because a four-year-old is speaking to me. I'm so pathetic. I bet no one else feels like this.

"I'm four," Colton replies, grinning confidently, holding up four fingers for emphasis. "My birthday is in April. That means I'll be five in—" He pauses, thinking for a moment, counting the months ahead until April—six more until he turns five. He yells out the answer triumphantly, "Six months! Yeah, then I'll be five. Oh! It would be, um, a lot of fun if you—if you came to my party. Will you be there, Mackenzie? Will you come to my bir'day party?" He looks up at me.

"Okay," I respond automatically. I've noticed I have difficulty saying no at times. But he'll probably forget I agreed to it, anyhow—maybe. He makes me pinkie-promise to come to his party, though, and as I hook my little finger through his, I get the feeling he may remember me after all. I wouldn't bet on it, since I'm a big downer. Nobody wants the sad lonely girl at their birthday party.

Playing with Colton is more fun than I thought. We race our cars around the track and my hand begins to hurt from when he either accidentally drops his car on it or ramming the hard metal toy into it—I guess we have opposing teams because he keeps trying to kill my driver. I laugh out loud because for once I'm happy that I'm able to be within two feet of someone so innocent and small without hurting them or getting mad. This tiny child seems to like me too—he doesn't care that I'm a girl, he just wants to play. That's all this is, just play.

A couple of the others come over and ask if they can play too. The whole thing rapidly turns into a big dispute over who gets the green car, and I awkwardly push myself away from the trouble and let Caro handle it. Colton has been using the green car for almost an hour, so it's decided that he let someone else play with it to be fair. I don't understand the draw towards something so insignificant as the color of a plastic toy car, but I suppose it is a big deal if you can start screaming and arguing over it. As Caro tries to reason with Colton, I go over to Dianne and the baby boys, Ashton and Leo. They are adorably round and chubby with big hazel eyes and tufts of light-colored hair growing on the top of their heads. Baby Daisy is lying on her play mat, kicking her miniature pink baby feet.

"Hi, Dianne," I say, leaning over to kiss the boys' foreheads in hello like I do every time I see them. A gummy smile spreads across Ashton's face and he reaches for a lock of my hair, grabbing it and giving it a shockingly strong tug. Dianne laughs when I wince, and the lighthearted sound is like a peal of bells. I laugh too, even though it hurts to have my roots get pulled.

Daisy lets out a giggly squeal at all the laughter and I direct my attention to her. "And hello to you, my petite flower," I croon in my most big-sisterly voice, gently lifting her up into my arms and holding her the right way. It makes me feel kind of grown up when I hold a baby, like I'm being trusted with this important life. Daisy likes it when I cradle her, and she smiles endearingly up at me; I wonder if she recognizes me. Ashton and Leo start to laugh all of a sudden, which makes Daisy laugh, and Leo waves his plump arm and gets drool all over his chin.

Today is a good day so far, I think to myself as the babies continue to giggle. The sound is pure life.


I should have known it wouldn't last. As I lay here on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as the waves of hurt roll over me in a furious ocean, I internally kick myself for thinking I could go a day without having a seizure. One day. Just one day, that's all I ask. But do I get what I wish for? No. And I never will. Hoping does nothing. I'm mad at myself and I'm mad at life for treating me this way. I'm nine years old! I should be doing normal things that nine-year-olds do. No—I should just be normal in general. But I can't change who I am and that is ridiculously sad.

"I'm sorry." Miss Karen's voice is guilty—the words fall from her lips and land at my bedside, low and remorseful. I know, I want to say. I know you're sorry. I know you want to help me and make it better. But you can't. No, she can't.

I don't say anything. I close my eyes and roll over to face the wall, a lump rising in my throat. The ache in my body is nothing compared to the ache in my heart. A few warm tears escape and fall onto the pillow beneath my head; I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to keep myself from falling apart. It hurts so much and I want it to end. Suddenly I hear that song in my head. . .I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing. Oh, how it hurts to hear those lyrics. I can relate.


It's been a week. I've had four seizures, been to the doctor once for a checkup, and got some new medicine. Now that I'm older, I'm allowed to take two pills a day instead of one—but whatever they're supposedto do doesn't seem to help with my problems. I mean, sure, perhaps my mood swings are not as constant and my anxiety levels don't rise as drastically as they would without it. I try not to complain since I don't want Miss Karen to worry or spend more money on me just because my prescription isn't working entirely—so I act like it does and pretend to be okay, even though I'm not. It's depressing to realize how good I've become at hiding myself.

The hood of my cozy purple jacket makes everything sound hollow, yet so much louder at the same time. Hugging my knees to my chest as I sit uncomfortably on a beanbag chair, I watch Spongebob and Sandy run from a giant worm while the kids around me all play with the toys and argue and laugh and pretend to be knights and princesses. I'm not in the best mood today—heck, I've been down all week, if not my entire life—so I plan on going up to the attic soon; it's the only place in the whole building that isn't inhabited by kids or littered with toys. There's a bunch of old stuff up there, like furniture and paintings and an antique clock; sheets are draped over them to protect them from dust. It's nice going up there with a good book and enjoying the easy silence, and it makes me feel safe in an unfamiliar way.

I'm brought out of my thoughts by something squashy hitting the back of my head. I jump in my seat—what the heck was that? I whirl around to face three younger kids standing a few feet behind me, still as statues and staring at me with wide eyes and petrified looks on their faces, like they've just disturbed a sleeping bear and are now fearing for their lives. I stare back at them for a moment, just as shocked as they are, then one of the two boys cries dramatically, "Run, she's gonna eat us!" The trio dart away screaming, leaving me to sit here in dumb confusion. Everybody looks at me.

Now is a good time to retreat to the attic, I decide. I hurry from the room, my cheeks flushing as I pass everyone, down the hall and into the kids' bedroom to grab a book and go. I perch on my bed for a minute; as I look through my small collection of stories, trying to pick which one I want to read, my heartbeat slows down—it doesn't feel like a caged bird anymore after a moment. Eventually I decide on Charlotte's Web even though I always cry at the end. I cry more because of the fact that this book was Grandma's favorite, and the first one of many that I ever learned to read from. This is her copy of it, actually; the one thing of hers I had to bring along.

The attic is dark and stuffy and smells strongly of mothballs. I remember to bring a blanket because it gets really cold up here the longer you stay. I find a flashlight on top of an old bookcase; I slam it on my knee a few times to get it to work, and the pale circle of light suddenly brightens up. I find a nice little spot near the back of the attic where there's a broken lamp and a creaky old rocking chair that remind me of Grandma.

I sit down in the wooden chair, pulling the blanket close around my shoulders and opening the book to the first page. I shine the flashlight down onto the yellowed paper, highlighting the tiny black print. It feels odd, in a way, reading this without Grandma. But she always told me that if I love a book, I should read it, so I will.


I wake up what seems like hours later with a painfully stiff neck and a fierce-looking Miss Karen standing right in front of me, hands on her hips. I blink into the unclear light, my eyelids itchy and tired, blearily looking up.

She raises her thin eyebrows and presses her lips together into a firm line. "Well?" she says bluntly. I'm rather confused right now due to just regaining consciousness (which is probably obvious on my face) and she's demanding things of me so soon? I rub my eyes with a wide yawn, wishing I could go back to sleep and enjoy the quiet numbness. I realize that was the first time in a really long time where I've slept without having a nightmare—I wonder why.

"Well, what?" I mumble irritably, untangling myself from the blanket wrapped around me. I hear a dull thud as the flashlight falls to the dusty floor and rolls away. I watch it disappear beneath an oak dresser, then glance up at Miss Karen again only to discover that she's gone. My eyes widen in alarm—where did she go? "Miss Karen?" I ask hesitantly into the darkness, withdrawing back to the safety of my blanket. My heart stutters in my chest; I'm scared. But what if this is just a dream? What if I really am having a nightmare? I try to console myself that isn't real. . .well, probably. You never know with me.

The attic is hauntingly silent except for my stifled breathing and rapid heartbeat. I'm rigid and shaking and my chest feels abnormally tight; I vaguely wonder if this is how Grandma felt when she had her heart attack.

All of a sudden my head starts to spin and I feel colder than I've ever been in my life. My teeth chatter and I breathe in sharply, watching in mute horror as glistening blue ice begins to crawl up the arms of my chair—it moves so fast that I don't have enough time to escape. The frost squeezes itself around my throat and I gasp as the air leaves my lungs. My body shivers violently as I'm consumed by the frigid cold of the ice, and it hurts like no other pain in the world.

I hear a familiar murmuring of my name just as everything goes black, but I awake with a startled jolt—the shudder ripples down my spine and into my aching legs. It takes me a second to grasp that I've fallen onto the hard attic floor, my hair clinging to my sweaty face and eyelashes. My chest heaves as I gulp down stuffy oxygen—it feels like I've been punched multiple times in the stomach. The wind was knocked right out of me. I struggle to pull myself into a sitting position, my sore, rigid joints popping with the slow movement.

I use my jacket sleeve to dab my forehead, pulling my damp hair away from my clammy cheeks. I stand up sluggishly, pushing my feet into the floor and blindly reaching for whatever is in front of me for balance. I pull the blanket off my legs and I wince at the echoing sound of my book and flashlight falling to the ground. My head pounds; blinking sleepily, I sway in place and lean against what feels like an old clock. What time is it, anyway? I rub my eyes, still weary and shaken from my dream. And what even was that? I'd never had a nightmare of anything like that in my entire life. Maybe it's the new medicine, I think, bending down to pick up my scattered things.

I clumsily make my way to the attic door, my numb fingers fumbling with the latch before I push it up and cringe away from the light. It hasn't been too long, then, if it's still bright down there. I leave the flashlight in its place and gather my book and blanket in my arms before carefully descending the drop-down ladder. The door is, for some reason, above the hallway in front of the girls' bathroom; I won't explain it to the other girls—since it's kinda funny hearing them freak out and gossip about it—that the odd sounds they always hear aren't a ghost or a poltergeist at all, but merely a series of normal noises that the furniture and the floor constantly make. I always laugh when I think of them panicking over the creepy phantom that supposedly lives up there; it's so silly. There's no such thing.

With clearer eyes and that funny thought in my head, I give the ladder a boost and watch as it retracts up and against the ceiling. The little stool I used earlier to help myself get up there is still standing beneath it; I jump onto it to push the door shut all the way, then loop my arm through the back of the chair and drag it along with me down the hall to put it back where I found it. I receive a few questioning looks from some kids passing by—must be weird, of course, seeing little old me amble past with a blanket, a book, and chair under my arm. I blush red.

The chair thumps on the carpeted steps behind me as I go downstairs to put it back in the dining room. I'm panting by the time I make it there, shoving the chair back into place with an irritated flick of my hand and turning around to return upstairs. I catch a glimpse of the mahogany grandfather clock standing by the big front double doors; the darkening sunlight streaming through the mosaic glass creates a unique pattern on the clock's sleek wood. The time says five-thirty PM; I was only up there for about an hour, then. I pause on my way toward the staircase to watch the triangular effect the door gives off on the floor, memorizing the color of the light and the simplistic beauty of it. A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips and the sight washes away any of my doubts.


If you were to go around and ask every single child in this place what their biggest dream is, you would get the stereotypical yet heartbreakingly realistic response: "I want a family." And none of them would complain if the family they did get were to be far beyond any of their expectations, because getting one in general is incredible; and it doesn't matter who they are, as long as they treat their new child right. I am no different—I shamelessly hope for that.

But I just never expected it would happen to me so soon. I see Miss Karen's face—the face of an angel and the face of my savior—and at the same time I don't. I can feel the smooth leather of the chair beneath me and the cool draft of the air conditioning blowing into the small round office; and all of a sudden I understand and catch little details about the room that I hadn't before, such as the cup on the desk filled with perfectly sharp pencils is blue like a robin's egg, and the paint color behind the classic furniture is not a neutral shade but of a light beige. My heart picks up the pace then slows down into a hard thump and I can hear the blood pulsing fast inside my ears.

"Miss Karen!" I exclaim, and my voice shakes in surprise and disbelief. How is this happening? All of the four years that I've been here flash before my very eyes. Every moment, every breath, every hour has all lead up to this, and my barely functioning heart can't handle it, so it beats faster and faster until I get dizzy and I feel like I might faint.

Miss Karen's eyes widen in alarm. "Are you all right, dear?" she asks anxiously, rising from her chair, coming over to me and putting her gentle hands on my shoulders. She tries to meet my eyes but my vision is so blurred with hot tears that I can't see her anymore. "Oh, Mackenzie! Don't be upset, this is a good thing!" She bends down in front of me and takes my hands in hers. "Don't cry, darling, it will be just fine this time."

"I—I'm not crying because—because I'm sad," I choke out, the tears spilling over onto my cheeks. "I—I'm crying because I d-don't believe it!" A wet sob escapes me and I bow my head against it. My heart is alive.

The feeling that courses through my veins is different than life and blood. I can hear it in my head as it flows through me; my fingertips and toes tingle, my head spins again, and I tremble in my seat. I don't believe that this is real life. This can't be real life, who would want to adopt me? I'm a mess: I need medication. I have anger issues. I'm pessimistic and tired most of the time. My nightmares are so bad that I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. It lacks basic logic for anyone to want me as their daughter. Who in their right mind would? I'm not fun. I don't do any of the things that other girls my age do. I'm not innocent or cute or any of that!

The Egberts reminded me of how completely worthless and difficult I am when they gave up on me. Who is to say that this family won't do the same? I can't go through that again, I just can't.

My happy moment vanishes as swiftly as it arrived, replaced again by the all-too familiar sensation of disappointment and self-hatred.

"I don't deserve a family," I whisper quietly, looking down at my hands as another stream of tears begin to fall.

Miss Karen is silent for a long minute, then her hands touch my cheeks and gently lift my face to look at her—the expression on hers is severe, more powerful than I've ever seen her before. It's unsettling. "Mackenzie Christine," she says in the low voice she only uses when she wants us to listen very closely. Or when she's mad. "I never want to hear you say that again. Don't ever think you aren't of any importance, because you are. And this isn't about the other children, this is about you. You deserve happiness. You deserve love and respect." I shake my head. I don't, I don't, I shouldn't. I start to cry again, overwhelmed with denial and emotion and my endless regret. As I sit there in my puddle of tears, the drops falling from my chin and onto my red flower-print dress, I remember what a blessing—for lack of a better word—it is to be adopted in the first place. I should be glad but instead I'm terrified.

I've never been more afraid in my entire life. The realization of the situation starts to settle in and I am not ready for it. Getting adopted means I'll have to leave the orphanage. Getting adopted means I'll be living in someone else's home. Getting adopted means I won't get to see Miss Karen every day. That one hurts so much I can barely stand it, and the tears flood my eyes again and pour over in a river. I throw my arms around her—it takes her by surprise at first, but she sets me down in her lap and embraces me tightly, and she strokes my hair.

I just can't leave Miss Karen. I need her, and a small part of me thinks that, maybe, she might need me too. If I'm being perfectly honest, she's my best friend, the only person who I feel comfortable going to when I need help or a hug. She's my relief, my safe harbor. If I leave now to go live with some other family, when will I ever see her? When will I get to talk to her and read books with her and go visit her in her office? The answer is obvious: I can't.

"I don't want to go away," I murmur into the collar of her blouse—she smells like vanilla and comfort. "I don't want to get adopted anymore. I want to. . .I want to stay here forever with you. I don't want to leave. . ."

The lump in my throat continues to grow and my tears keep falling. I'm so torn up and indecisive. The world is a big scary place and I'm not ready for it yet, because the day I walk out this orphanage's front door is the day I'll be stepping into a realm of new things and strange people. I feel like leaving for good would be a betrayal—I have to stay. I can't go, not right now, even if the only thing truly holding me here is Miss Karen.

"Sweetheart." Miss Karen's voice is soft and shaky, and I know she's crying too. "I know this is going to be. . .quite an adjustment for you, a new step. . . after what happened. . .but trust me, I would never let you be adopted by someone who wasn't going to be good to you. I won't let you get hurt again." I pull back slightly to look at her. "Would you like me to tell you about them?" she asks quietly, smiling gently down at me with tears still shining in her blue eyes. I can see the loss and sacrifice hidden inside them; I feel my throat get tighter again but this time I somehow manage to hold back another sob, nodding uncertainly.

Miss Karen settles into the floor with me still in her arms. "They're a younger couple," she begins. My eyes go wide with surprise and my heart flips over in my chest. "She—the woman who called—sounded young, at least. She said her name is Kristen, and her husband's name is Robert. They call him Rob for short. Or, wait—I don't think they're married just yet. . .I can't remember if she mentioned that or not." Kristen and Rob. I smile despite my pain, and a light fluttery feeling blooms in my belly. I absentmindedly reach for Miss Karen's hand, taking it in mine as I listen attentively. "Kristen said she was on our website when she found you. She saw your picture and showed it to Robert, and they talked it over and decided that they wanted you." I can hardly breathe. This is amazing.

No, more than amazing. Absolutely and impossibly and wonderfully extraordinary. I move my hand to my waist and give my skin a sharp pinch between my fingertips, wincing when it hurts—but I still can't believe that this is true. It can't be. . .can it? It's all so sudden and so much to process and I don't know what to say or think. What possessed this couple to want me, of all kids? Why not one of the cute babies or even Colton or Addison or Lilly? Why me?

Miss Karen tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. "You won't be leaving just yet, dear," she reassures me. "First I'll have to go to their house and see that it's fit for a child, and of course so I can meet them." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "You can come along too, if you'd like. It might be best if you introduced yourself as well, so it won't be as awkward when you do finally move in. That is, if you want to stay with them. You do have a say in this, Mackenzie." Miss Karen looks me seriously in the eye. "If you do take a liking to them, you get to live with them for a week. Then I'll come back to see how it's going, and if everything went well, we'll work out some things and after that's all done and over with, you'll officially be adopted." She smiles and my head spins at the words. It takes a second for this information to click with my brain; then I remember things.

"I know," I respond, my voice suddenly hollow with doubt and confusion. Why would she tell me that if I already know how it works? I remember last time. I remember my downfall with the Egberts. I shudder and I feel like I could throw up. I look up at Miss Karen and murmur, "I know what happens and how it'll go, because I've done it once before." I bite my lip, my brow furrowing in sadness. "What if they don't like me?" I ask, so softly that I can barely hear my own words. They tremble at my lips and fall into my lap. I frown, and it just adds to my mood. What am I going to do if this new couple decides to give me back, too? I'd probably die.

"They'll love you," Miss Karen murmurs soothingly, earnestly. "I know you're still upset about the Egberts, understandably; but sometimes. . .you have to give love and family a second chance. You can't just give up on it that easily, darling."

Yes I can, I think bitterly. I can and I have. But she's right, as much as I don't want to admit it. Family is important and love is too, and yet I can't bring myself to think I deserve either of them. I don't want to get rejected again. I don't want to be refused and dismissed and tossed to the side all because I'm different and that feeling is the worst feeling in the entire world. I want somebody to love me for who I am, despite all my faults.

"I don't know what to think," I confess unhappily yet truthfully. My voice is small. I feel lonely again.


Hope you enjoyed, guys!

We meet RK in the next chapter, which hopefully will be posted next Saturday! Leave a review/follow/favorite/share - any support is appreciated (:

Remember to check my Mackenzie Tumblr, littlemissfoy, for updates :) Looking forward to seeing you on the eighth! Thank you so much for reading xx

— Cherry xo