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 your average tall, 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.
My mind has a disturbing tendency to warp everyday situations into violent obsessions. I can't slice an apple without noting how effortlessly I could plunge the knife, still dripping in acidic juice, into the warm, beating heart of a nearby friend. I can't escape the image of the shock in their eyes evolving into horror as their feeble minds process such an unanticipated turn of events.
Of course, when these thoughts plague me, I try to force them out of my mind. It's not like I have a reason for wanting to hurt my friends.
But you see, it's not just that. I get so...angry sometimes, at the slightest of provocations. I seethe in rage until I black out, waking up hours later to a room on the brink of destruction. I hang posters to cover gashes in the wall that I have no memory of making. I sweep shattered glass into my wastebasket and blame the cat for bizarre scratches on my body.
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 sought consolation and consultation from my adoptive sister about these things, and she stared at me like I belonged in a size eight straight-jacket. Like I was a monster. I'm confident that the only thing that saved me from a mental institution that day was my incredible foresight to make the confession on April Fools Day.
She was definitely onto something.
I do hate keeping secrets from my family. Even if they're not my flesh and blood, they're all that I have and I cherish them. I would like to tell them, but I'm just so afraid...
...I'm too frightened of falling to dare to fly.
Oh, that's not a metaphor, by the way. I have wings.
I sat Indian-style on my bed, allowing my copper-colored hair to tumble into my lap. Here in the privacy of my room, there was no one from which to conceal the truth. Cautiously, I extended my violet-hued wings to their full length (each was easily five feet across). From the teal streak in my left wing, I plucked a soft feather and scrutinized it. In my fingertips, it became metallic and jagged, like a shard of broken glass that shimmered in the light.
Creepy.
Intrigued, I slowly dragged the colorful blade across the palm of my hand, studying the resulting blood that trickled 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 feather away and it lodged precariously into my wall.
Ah, my bedroom wall, the pitiful thing. I'd be putting up another poster soon.
"Alida," called a tired, middle-aged voice, "are you decent?"
"No," I squeaked, frantically wiping the blood from my arm with my conveniently red tie. Hearing my mother grow restless at the door, I painfully smashed my wings back into my purple overcoat.
As if on cue, she 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 ungrounded, 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 wiping my stinging hand on a blanket behind me.
"No alcohol?"
"Mm-mm."
"Guys?"
"Mm-mm."
"X-rated video games?"
"Mm-mm..." I repeated, pathologically avoiding glancing at my closet. Of course, she meant M-rated or AO rated, and my closet harbored several, but she didn't need to know that.
Gradually, her stern features softened. 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 crystal!" 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.
By the way, I have a little brother. I try to avoid acknowledging his existence whenever possible.
Running my fingers over the polished amethyst necklace, I clasped it back around my neck, vowing vengeance. He must have swiped it from my dresser while I was showering. That maniacal little wretch will atone for his crimes if it's the last thing I ever-!
"Lee! Chill!" commanded my mother. "Your necklace is fine!"
I slowly lowered my pocketknife, grumbling to myself "He contaminated it with his greasy little fingers. His mere existence insults it."
"You know," remarked my mother exhaustedly, "Sometimes I wonder if you love that thing 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. Making my favorite song into my alarm may have been a mistake; I was beginning to associate it with the utter hell that is getting out of bed.
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.
"I can talk like you too," I shot back, disgusted with my syntax.
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). Knowing I should follow her example, I peeled myself off the hardwood floor and stumbled over to my closet.
Leaning on my stash of video games for support, I rifled through my meticulously sorted clothes before settling on a black suit vest, which I would wear with matching slacks, a white button-up, and, as always, my essential purple overcoat to conceal the awkward form of my wings.
Yes, I am aware that I dress abnormally formally. Yes, I'm pleased with myself about that rhyme.
After dressing, I spent a solid half hour on taming my ridiculously thick mane of hair, which I then crowned with a pork pie hat because I have class. I checked the mirror to make certain that the outfit as a whole was cohesive, squinting at myself for several seconds before realizing what was missing.
I'd buttoned my shirt over my crystal, an oversight remedied easily enough by pulling at the chain. It fell into its rightful place in between my collarbones, as it did every morning without fail. No matter what instabilities I struggled with or egregious traumas I endured, this crystal remained constant. It held memories that my brain had locked away, serving as the key to a past life that I had lost all but the vaguest recollection of.
Once again, I asked the mirror who I was, and it offered no reply.
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 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. Those blue eyes of mine-had they just flashed gold!?
Absolutely implausible. But, then again, this mirror had certainly seen stranger things-namely a pair of wings and more than a few vicious outbursts.
Was I seeing things again, or was this yet another strand of my twisted DNA? It hardly mattered to me anymore. I had long since come to accept that some things in my life simply have no explanation; I gave the incident only one more thought as I collected my things and left that day.
Whatever happened to my eyes in the mirror, whatever strange darkness dwelled in my head, whatever evoked the inhuman rage that came over me, no matter why puberty included growing wings for me, one thing is certain.
I. Am not.
Normal.