Hello again! I hope everyone is having a happy holiday season so far :)

Unfortunately this is the last completed chapter until I finish chapter 9. I don't know when that will be but I promise I'm going to try my hardest to get it done soon for you guys! Thank you with all my heart for reading and reviewing, it truly means the world to me.

Just so you know, this chapter acknowledges Mackenzie's anxiety further and you learn more about one of the things that triggers it. I did plenty of research on anxiety and panic disorders beforehand so hopefully my attempt at writing it will be satisfactory. But please don't hesitate to inform me on anything you think is missing or was written incorrectly, I will happily do my best to fix it! No disrespect is intended.

Enjoy!

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

(Also, quick recap: the last part in chapter 6, Mackenzie was outside trying to call Miss Karen, but then spotted the boy jumping up to the fence. Just a reminder in case you forgot!)

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 EIGHT

"Hang on, I'll call you back—no, everything's fine, Mackenzie just fell—"

How many times can a single person mess up in one day? Apparently, a lot. My face is probably as red as a fire truck right now; I can feel the heat under my skin, blood boiling in my cheeks and tears smarting at my eyes. Despite the dull ache in my elbow and burn in my palm, I push myself up off the floor and fidget with my shirt sleeves. My fingers are trembling. Kristen is still talking but my ears are ringing so loudly that I can't hear her words. All I can think in this moment is,Why me, why me, why me? Because, really, you'd think that life would give me a short break.

Oh, goodness, who am I kidding? I'm never gonna get a break from this. Every day of my existence is an issue. It's always something with me.

"Are you okay?" Kristen's standing in front of me all of a sudden. She's too close—I'm gonna wind up hurting her in some way, considering I manage to just fall down and injure my own self for no apparent reason.

"Um, yeah." My voice comes out awkward and cautious. "Did that really happen?" I ask squeakily, my nervous tone rising as I turn around to inspect the source of the accident, vaguely wondering how it occurred. I don't think the cat walked by and startled me or anything, unless I was too focused on Kristen to notice him. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case considering my history of self-inflicted wounds. I have to pay closer attention to my surroundings if I want to survive or else one day I'm gonna get squished flat by some big truck.

We stand in uncomfortable silence for a minute, until I muster up enough courage to lift my head a bit. I can't say I regret it; something about Kristen's face makes me feel less idiotic. It's because she isn't laughing, or trying not to smile out of amusement at my klutziness. She doesn't eye me with disapproval or seem irritated that I interrupted her phone call. She just looks. . .discomfited. As if she's being drowned in the same amount of weird emotions that I am, like she knows what it means to always make mistakes and appear to be very foolish. We were both cursed with this unshakable tendency to mess things up constantly, and being unable to fix them.

"Sorry," I whisper softly, an ill-timed smile pulling up at the corners of my mouth. Kristen smiles, too.

"It's okay, babe," she laughs nervously, shaking her head and pushing her wavy hair behind her ears to give herself something to do so she won't make eye contact with me. "I do stuff like that all the time. I get it." I know she does. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, the more I mess up the easier it'll be to shake off the shame and not want to melt into a puddle on the floor. She understands, I think. She's not going to laugh at you, Kenz.

So I just nod in agreement and try to act casual. "Sorry if I—" Stop saying you're sorry! I flinch at how angry my inner demon sounds. I haven't heard that voice in a surprisingly long while. "Um, I'm gonna go. So I don't, y'know, bother you any further. . ." I turn to make a hasty getaway out the door, my dumb face reddening yet again, and as I hurry down the stairs I half-expect to hear Kristen call after me or say something dramatic—but alas, my life is not a movie and I don't believe Kristen would ever make it seem like one. That is ridiculous.

Rob is starting to wake up when I return to the living room. He's so disheveled and scruffy-looking—which isn't a bad thing, of course, I find it rather endearing. Well, it seems as if everything about Rob is lovable to me. . .but any person with a good pair of eyes could see how kind and sweet and funny he is. He's like a big puppy.

"Hi, Rob," I say quietly, careful not to alarm him. He turns his head towards me, his expression briefly perplexed until he sees me standing there, and relaxes. A light smile graces his lips, sleepy yet genuine, content.

"Hey, princess," he murmurs. "Why'd you leave me all of a sudden?" He means it jokingly, but a pang of guilt stabs at my heart anyway. So I run to him, falling into his arms and cuddling up to his warm chest in an attempt to wordlessly express my regret for abandoning him. He hugs me tenderly, swaddling me in the blanket and planting a kiss to the top of my head, eliciting a surprised giggle from my lips. "Oh, good, you came back."

"How could I stay away?" I breathe theatrically, tossing my head to the side, laying it on thick so it will make him laugh. And to my surprise, he actually does, despite my sense of humor being too rusty and dull.

"No, really, where'd you go?" Rob inquires curiously with a lopsided grin.

"Uhm, I went to find Kristen." I start to play with my hands, trying to appear distracted. I would prefer to keep that whole incident between me and Kristen; I know Rob wouldn't make fun of me, but still. It's dumb.

"Oh. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I just woke up and wanted to see where she was. She's upstairs on the phone." Be casual, Kenz. He won't suspect anything if you act normal. My brain is probably exaggerating the unfortunate situation. But, me being me, I will not take chances when it comes to my future, and the less mistakes I make the more eager I hope they'll be to keep me. If Rob finds out about this ridiculously unnecessary occurrence, I would die if he. . .well, if he finally realizes that I've been right this entire time. I'm not worth anybody's time or patience; there's nothing inside of me that will ever amount to much. I am just Mackenzie. Boring, not-amazing Mackenzie Foy.

I might be different than others in some ways, but overall I'm about as useful as a single speck of dust.

To hide the chagrined blush seeping into my cheeks, I bury my face in Rob's neck and sigh deeply. All I want is to simply fall asleep for the longest time, to not have nightmares or wake up crying or be scared of the dark or feel like death when I awake. I'd like to slip into unconsciousness and forget absolutely everything so it won't hurt as much during the day, so I won't wind up making a complete fool out of myself. I'd probably be a better person if, for once in my life, I got the usual eight or nine hours of rest. Maybe then I could actually pass as a decent human being.

A light sigh whispers through my lips. The main reason why I get like this is because without my pills, a crucially significant factor in my everyday behavior, I start to fall apart, piece by piece. My medicine helps to control how I act, lessening the risk of hurting myself or other people in the vicinity. My doctor used big words I didn't understand to describe it, explaining how it affects my moods and "adrenaline levels" (see what I mean there when I say big words? I may be smart but I honestly don't know what adrenaline is). I feel like some days it works and other days it doesn't, and that means it's either a defective prescription or my body is refusing it.

Halfheartedly untangling myself from the safety of Rob's arms, I decide that no matter how hopelessly and ineffectively my medication works, from the beginning I promised Miss Karen I would always take it. "I'll be back," I exhale wearily, giving Rob a doleful look as I stand up. "Gotta go get my meds. So fun, let's party."

He snickers at my sarcastic remark and nods understandingly. "'Kay. Mind checking on Kristen, too?"

"Sure," I reply willingly, heading towards the stairs. Coincidentally, Kristen comes out of her bedroom the same moment I arrive at the top of the steps with a slight scowl upon my face. "Hey," I mutter indifferently.

"Hi." She stops in her tracks, looking at me apprehensively. "Uh, are you okay? You look. . .annoyed."

I shrug, tugging at my shirt sleeve. "I forgot to take my medicine today and that's kinda sorta bad. . .So, I'm gonna do that now, even though at this point I don't think it's gonna make much of a difference," I explain, my tone just as cynical as I feel. Yeah, I definitely have to find my pills or else my anxiety will become a larger problem than it already is. I have to try and reduce the risk of future disasters as much as I possibly can.

"Why do you say that?" Kristen inquires, frowning. "Doesn't it—I mean, is—is it not working for you anymore?"

"Not really. Well—no, it does. Sometimes. I don't know why I said that, nevermind." A short awkward laugh escapes me before I can suppress it. "Oh, uh, Rob's awake; he was asking about you," I add hastily. With that pleasant piece of information, I hurry down the remainder of the hallway towards the room where I stashed my things; the same room, I am quickly reminded, that Rob and Kristen so generously decorated for me. I have not been in here long enough to truly appreciate the simple beauty of the furniture, how nicely and perfectly the pastel colors go together. Such a big, lovely gesture for such an insignificant little person. My throat closes up.

Once again, their profound kindness is staggering. My spending time in their home must mean more to them than I originally gave them credit for. Nobody expecting to have a guest for only a short while does stuff like this. They don't buy a beautiful dresser and bed and nightstand and braided rug and lamp and rocking chair—not unless they're optimistic that everything will surely work out. Is that what they think? Is that what I think?

Suddenly weak at the knees, I stumble over to the bed and sink onto the edge of the yellow comforter (which, by the way, is as soft and fluffy as a cloud). My lungs ache and my eyes are watery; I am still not used to being pampered like this. Never in my life have I met two people who genuinely want to sacrifice their freedom for me, the scary adult freedom that is now going to be all messed up because of me. Don't they know just how much they're gonna be forced to part with if they adopt me? I have no clue what they're thinking. It's puzzling.

Before I practically puke all over the carpet from nerves and dizzy thoughts, I hurry to find my suitcase so I can finally gulp down my medicine and be with Rob and Kristen again, only I won't be so jittery when I'm sitting there doing whatever it is we plan on doing. We could watch another movie, maybe. . .Hopefully something Disney.

My mind starts to wander as I amble distractedly around the room, searching for my belongings. I soon realize that I can't remember where it was I put them; alarmed, I stand up straight, eyes going wide. Oh no, this could be bad. This could be very, very bad. Where's your bag? Where'd you leave it? Come on, Kenzie, think. . .Oh, is it in the closet? Is that where it is? I check the small, half-empty closet. Nope. What about the bed? Look under the bed, it's probably there! On my hands and knees, I peek below the bed, and see nothing. Alright, well—okay, don't panic. Do not panic. You haven't looked everywhere yet. Get up and explore the whole room.

I can't keep the waves of terror from crashing into me as I gradually lose my head. Any memory of my suitcase and the precious items inside become faded and distant, my frantic, labored breathing constricting how easily I move to the point that I can't any longer; awfully light-headed, I sink to the floor and curl onto my side, gasping for air. Where is it, where is it, where is it? If I don't have it—well, I dunno what I'll do. . .die, perhaps? (Imagine Rob or Kristen walking in on the sight of me lying here, pale and unresponsive. An actual nightmare.)

Get up, my inner voice says again in a furious snarl. Quit acting like a big baby! Breathing normally is not that hard and you really shouldn't be on the verge of tears, for goodness' sake. Just go ask Rob and Kristen for help, you can't keep denying how much they care. They won't laugh at you for misplacing your stuff, stupid.

I want to go to them. God, I want to. So many times in the past where I didn't have to go through something alone and yet wasn't brave enough to seek comfort in others; I suffered on my own because I fully convinced myself that I am not worth saving. My life will never be important or special. Why bother worrying people if I can just mend my problems unaided? I can't keep doing that to them; they shouldn't have to deal with the monster I am.

So I try again. Shoulders aching from the strength of my suppressed sobs, I unsteadily force my legs to support the weight of my thin figure. I'm only about seventy-five pounds, but right now it feels like a thousand.

"Mackenzie?" Who is that? Who's calling me? I can hardly hear over the hollow ringing in my ears. I think it might be her, though. Wait, who would that be? Who is she? I don't know, I don't know, I don't remember anything—I don't remember anything—my suitcase! Oh, my suitcase. My medicine. Where is it? I have to find it, or else I will die. Maybe. Probably. It's a possibility, at the very least. But I'm not gonna die, right? Right? Oh, who cares! So what if I die! Nobody is going to miss me anyway! Okay, I guess I care just a little bit. Am I ready to die—?

Are you ready to die? No, no, no. Liar. No, no, no. Liar, liar, liar. No, no, no! Too late. Liar, liar, liar.

My fault. This is my fault. It's always my fault. There's no denying it; bad things occur because of me.

"Look what you've done!" Everything goes dark for a split second as I close my eyes. My cheek burns. "What the hell is the matter with you?!" Silence save for the pounding of my heart. "No, I—didn't mean that—"

"I need my medicine. Kristen, I need my medicine. Do you—do you know where it is?" Too late. Liar, liar, liar.

You're gonna die but you're not ready. "Uh—y-yeah, um—yeah, I do. C'mere, sit down, I'll go get it." She's too late. You didn't even tell her your bag is missing. She won't be able to find that, either, you dumb kid.

Warm arms holding me, gently guiding me, lifting me back onto my feet. She's soft like a fluffy pillow—her hugs are so nice. . .so, so nice. I'm not as scared when she hugs me. I gaze after her retreating form through the wetness in my eyes, barely able to stay upright. I grip the edge of the bed in my sweaty palms, sharp breaths piercing the center of my heaving chest. My heart is struggling to continue beating and it hurts and I don't know what to do.

"Kevin!" The woman's frightened voice is shocked. "Kevin, why did—how could you do that to her—?"

"I didn't mean to!" he shouts, panicked. The side of my face hurts. "I swear, I—it was an accident! I'm so sorry, Mackenzie, are you okay? Can you hear me, honey?" Why is he touching me? He hurt me, he hurt me. I don't want him touching me. Don't touch me, don't touch me! Where is Kristen? She'll save me, won't she?

"Hey, I found your stuff! It's all here in the bathroom."

. . .What?

She said she found your stuff, stupid girl. You can stop whining now.

My lips quiver. My blood goes cold. The bathroom. After my bath I must have moved my suitcase and now forgot that was where I. . .where I put it. . .well, dang. I could've had my pills already if I'd looked harder. I can't believe I just had a panic attack over literally nothing. Absolutely nothing! I'm a freak. A psycho. Insane.

"You and Rob need t'—t' have me admitted to a. . .mental hospital or somethin' because I need help," I inform Kristen drowsily, dabbing my streaming eyes with my shirt sleeve and choking on tears. The floor spins and the sunshine is too bright. It's getting tougher to breathe; my lungs are screaming for air. I gotta calm down soon or I'm gonna wind up passing out.

She found it, she found it. My medicine, she got it for me just like she said she would. Why is my head still hurting so much? I don't know, I don't know. I want someone to hold me.

"Shhh," the angel at my side soothes, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. "You're not leaving us. We aren't taking you anywhere. No mental hospitals, no doctors, no nothing." She scoots closer to me, planting a kiss near my temple, taking my hand in both of hers. "I'm here," she continues quietly, "I got you."

She helps me swallow my pills one at a time, making me gulp a bunch of water that tastes so cold. The hysteria of my panicked ordeal gradually wears off; her comforting presence is a contributing factor to the calm tiredness that seeps into my bones. I lean against her shoulder, vaguely wondering if there will ever come a day when I can simply wake up, put on some clothes, and go out to face the morning without having to worry about my behavior or if I'm gonna have a seizure in public and the scare the pants off innocent pedestrians. It's awful enough for Rob and Kristen—I shudder to picture random people staring at me in horror as I convulse violently on the ground.

"Do you wanna lie down for a while?" Kristen suggests in a whisper. Faintly nauseous, I fall backward onto the pillow and relish the cool fabric of the sheets. I'm so sleepy, so exhausted. Anxiety really leaves a mark on you, doesn't it? Not just your mind, all over your body, inside and out. Grey circles appear around your eyes from lack of rest because you're constantly awake, tossing and turning throughout the night. Battle scars visible to your sight only, carved into the skin of your arms, legs, stomach, face, neck; everywhere. Anxiety is combat.

The worst part about it is that it's silent. No one knows you're agonizing; you keep it locked up inside.

The last thing I feel before slumber claims me completely is the light brush of the angel's lips on my forehead.


The funny thing about dreams is how real they seem. Actually, depending on what happens, it isn't entertaining at all; the more lifelike the dream, the more frightened you become. Today, my nightmare is a historic memory.

Rewind one year and six months. April first, 2009. A skinny, traumatized eight-year-old girl is so close to breaking down in tears; the sobbing boy in front of her stares at her with betrayal in his eyes, a trio of bloody scratches cut across his reddening right cheek. Her heart is beating like a caged bird fighting to escape from the confines of its metal trap, angrily thumping a pair of strong wings against her lungs. A furious monster is above her small trembling frame, looming and intimidating, roaring at her, and she has nothing to defend herself with.

She is just a little girl, after all. Little girls shouldn't have to protect themselves; that's the parents' job.

His hand shoots out faster than a bolt of lightning and swiftly smacks her face, and it hurts. It hurts like no other pain she's ever felt before. Her fading vision is obscured by the salty moisture brimming at the corners of her eyes, overflowing in a little waterfall towards her chin, blurring the monster's abruptly horrified expression.

He says he didn't mean to. He says it was an accident. He asks if she can hear him. He can't be trusted.

They always say they didn't mean it, they always say it was an accident, they always say they're sorry. But you could apologize to me a million times and the words wouldn't hold any remorse. You're not sorry, Mr. Egbert, and you never will be. You hurt me, you broke my faith in people. Both you and your wife are demons.

If there is one thing I truly, desperately want to ask you two, it's this: are you glad you gave up on me?

Are you happy now?


I awake without a sound. Nothing but stillness and warmth surround me, similar to a cozy velvet blanket draped over my body, or a long-lasting hug from someone I love. I'm lying on my back, limbs sprawled numbly across the mattress, chest rising and falling in time to the steady beat of my heart. The room is filled with orange light.

What time is it? I can't figure out how long I've been asleep right away, but I think it's late evening. I notice the window is fully open to allow fresh air inside, and the slivers of sky I see are a breathtaking pale red. I shut my eyes and inhale the sweet October breeze. I slept good, better than expected after my ordeal earlier. It really drained me of energy, huh? Which is usually what happens after a panic attack or a seizure; it's expected.

Echoes of my nightmare creep at the edges of my semi-conscious mind like an irritating itch that's just so impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you scratch it. I don't wanna remember it. I don't wanna see him or relive his cruelty. I don't wanna be afraid anymore. That day has haunted me ever since it ended, and thrown into the mix of other disturbing occurrences, it's obvious why I hardly sleep. How am I supposed to when there are evil beasts chasing me? I honestly never catch a break. I totally forget what pleasant dreams are even about.

I doze in and out of consciousness for a while, still aware of the bed beneath me but lost inside myself. I drift weightlessly, going nowhere, watching the rapid flickers of pastel colors and indistinct faces. Minutes go by unnoticed; time doesn't seem to exist anymore. The peaceful calm of approaching nighttime is so satisfying.

At some point a small indescribable sound to my left causes me to stir, and my brow furrows faintly. It is significant enough to tug me out of my comfortable little oblivion; I instinctively strain my ears to listen. The nearly inaudible pad of footsteps on carpet alerts me to another presence in the room, but I'm not alarmed by it. Instead it comforts me, mostly because I just know who is here, almost intuitively.

"Rob. . .?" His name is spoken in a disoriented murmur; I'm not sure if he even heard me, I'm so quiet.

But luckily he did, because he responds with a soft, "Hey." Kneeling at my bedside, he reaches out and lightly caresses my cheek. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I was only checking on you. Everything alright?"

I tilt my chin upwards, a tiny hum of assurance resonating in my throat. His voice is smooth; it reminds me of satin, and if the fabric were to possess noise, it would sound just like Rob. That makes no sense, though. Oh, what am I thinking? Material doesn't make any sound, how ridiculous. Good thing I didn't actually say it.

"You've been out for a while," Rob informs me as my eyelids flutter apart. "It's almost eight o'clock."

"What?" I gasp groggily, shaking the life back into my hands and rubbing my face urgently. "How is it—it got so late—eight o'clock, really?" I gaze around in bewilderment, taking in the sunset's absence with a tiny huff of surprise. "Oh, no," I moan, flopping onto the pillows again as a disappointed pout forms on my dry lips.

"It's okay," Rob comforts me quickly. "You were tired, you deserved to get some sleep. I'm not mad."

I sigh wearily. "I know you're not, Rob." My attempt at a smile is pitiable when I go to sit up. Wincing at the stiffness in all my poor, aching muscles, I reluctantly force myself into an awkward half-leaning position.

"You hungry?" Rob asks, his tone brighter now that I'm coherent. "Kristen's going to make spaghetti."

That certainly grabs my attention. I haven't had spaghetti in years, not after that one incident years ago when a disorderly boy named Scott started throwing his plate of noodles and red sauce at unsuspecting victims.

The once-forgotten memory induces a laugh from my lungs. Rob grins and giggles, too, and I reach for him. He leans forward to embrace me, simultaneously standing and lifting me off the bed in one swift motion. I beam at him elatedly, happy to be in his arms, and the tender expression in his clear blue eyes is breathtaking; a warm sensation blooms in my tummy and I feel loved. I wonder if this is what it's actually like to have a daddy.

No, no, no. No, I can't jump to conclusions so soon. Can't get my hopes up again. Rob isn't my father.

Oh, but how I wish he was! He's absolutely perfect. He is everything I could want in a dad. He's good.

"Wanna see who can race the fastest down to the kitchen?" I challenge, tauntingly arching an eyebrow.

"Game on," Rob drawls, abruptly setting me on the floor and dashing out of sight. Funny how I wasn't being serious when I said that, though of course he's exactly the type who would believe me. He's a weird guy, I will admit; but I'd hate to see him act any other way. That's who he is: you either take it or leave it all behind.


Hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for reading! Chapter 9 will hopefully be here soon :)

Links to my Tumblrs are all on my profile! Happy holidays :3

— Cherry xo