Chapter 3: My Secret
I will be quite sporadic at updates, but thank you if you read. And thanks to ButterTardis for reviewing! Also, I have not read Angel or Nevermore so if I've missed something, oops... Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride or the flock. They belong to the amazing James Patterson. Scratch and Coral are my own characters.
Scratch is washing up. I'm sitting at the table, staring at the newspaper. I can't concentrate, I'm too excited. "Scratch?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm going for a fly."
"'Kay." I stand up and walk through the living room to the porch. I open the sliding glass door and step out onto the porch, sticking out into the canyon. I feel the wind caressing my face, smile, and step out into the currents of air.
My wings snap out, pale and silent. I catch a warm air current and spiral upwards. I feel so free in the air, like a bird. Well, I guess I am part bird. I angle northwards and pass over deep pine forests. I land on a huge outcrop of rock, jutting above the forest. It's my favourite place to relax. It's out of site of the house, secluded.
Birds fly across the sky. I may have been transformed without my consent, but it's amazing. I've also been given, certain, powers. I can hear the birds. But it's a secret.
I head back to the house later. As I approach, a dark shape detaches itself and swoops up to greet me. It's Scratch.
"You were gone a while," he says, blocking my path. Scratch is way too overprotective sometimes. This looks like one of them.
"So?" I reply.
"It's my job to keep you safe."
"I'm twelve. Old enough to look after myself." Scratch sighs, and moves aside. He knows when he's beaten. Kind of. "I'm going to feed the chickens."
"Fine." Scratch flies off into the sky. He looks like he's annoyed. It can be hard to tell. I angle to the right side of the house, where the hens are kept.
They cluck with greeting as I land on the edge of the cliff. I fold my wings against my back, warm with effort. They disappear through hidden slits in my clothes.
I head to the big tub where we keep the food, grabbing an old, broken mug. I dip it into the grain and throw the contents around the area. The chickens rush to it and peck at the soil eagerly. I sit on the dry earth. We haven't had rain for several days, and the ground is parched. The hens cluck at me, sharing their stories. I listen to tales passed down from their ancestors, tales of epic journeys to find food and shelter. I often prefer the hens to Scratch - especially when he's in a changeable mood. Like today.
