Chapter 1: Clouds
A/N: Again, a short chapter. Sorry, but I had to break it up a certain way to make myself happy (and to make the story flow better). :) Anyways…two words: PLEASE REVIEW:D
t.I.G.r.E.S.S.
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It was happening again.
Even in my sleep, I could sense it, feel it, taste it. The nauseating, cold feeling that ate away at my peace, that ravaged my dreams and destroyed my rest. A bitter and choking taste, something I wished I could just spit out of my mouth and be rid of. But that was impossible. I was well-attuned to realizing when the attacker took over. The monster that was tearing me apart at night had been here before.
My nightmares.
This time it wasn't as bad as the night before. But how is it possible to have a "good" nightmare? It wasn't as horrifying, and yet it was. I felt like I was floating through the blender of my memories as bits and pieces and chunks of recollection and exaggerated imaginings went flying by. They weren't pleasant. Things that had been naïve and careless back then were painful and terrifying now, amplified by the dark arena of the night wakings.
My father, whispering to me gently as we sat on the roof as I cried selfishly and childishly because he couldn't come to my ballet recital.
"I'm sorry, I'll come next time," he promised. "I have to take care of this mission. Sorry, Kes."
No, you won't be able to.
My father smiling as he took off in a surge of a strong downbeat, his soft wingtips brushing my cheek like a paternal kiss.
Dad! Don't go! You can't leave me and Mom again! I reached out to grab his arm to stop him from leaving, but, of course, in a nightmare, you're all but powerless.
And then I saw an event I hadn't witnessed but had pictured a thousand times. The moment of impact, when my father Hawkfight slammed into Discord for the fatal blow. Discord was laughing as he died, though. Laughing the last laugh. I hated it. Because even though Hawkfight had disabled the last bomb, he hadn't disabled the charge on Discord. In a violet array of sparks and flashes, the lair exploded. I watched all of it dully, like someone witnessing a cruelty through blood-stained, broken glass.
I opened my eyes.
With a defeated sigh, I turned to look at the clock. Five minutes until six in the morning. It was a whole twenty minutes before my alarm would go off, but I knew that sleep would not come easily again. Not in the short span that I had. Not after the last time that I'd closed my eyes.
I rolled out of bed, landing lightly on the balls of my feet. My mother would probably get mad at me for going barefoot again; it's always a pet peeve of hers because she constantly has cold feet while I prefer to have no shoes on.
That is, she would chide me if she was sober. It's hard to know these days, as we draw nearer and nearer towards the anniversary. Mom never drinks herself into a stuttering idiot, or until she cries like some of the people I've seen drunk. Instead, she drinks until she doesn't know what she's doing, who she is, or where she is. She'll scream at me and scream at me, blaming me for the finances, the condition of the house, her poor choices. Sometimes she'll even blame me for my father's death. Once she pukes or regains her senses, she'll apologize and promise not to do it again, only to do it again the next night, and the next, until a few weeks after the anniversary day.
And the thing is, Mom only cries once she's sober.
I don't hold it against her. I can't. I know she doesn't mean the things that come out of her mouth. And I only have to allow this to her a few weeks out of every year. Every other day she's a perfectly fine mother. I can't cave in and start feeling sorry for myself. For the memory of my dad, I have to stay strong for both of us.
As I headed down the stairs, I heard a familiar sound. It put a little relief into me. I'd missed one of Mom's episodes by a hair. She stood, over the kitchen sink, getting rid of the last traces of the previous night's alcohol.
"Morning," I said, reaching over and putting a towel next to the sink. Then I went to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice. Mom straightened after a moment and wiped her face.
"Good morning, Kestrel."
She looked tired. I realized that she'd probably been out all night, drinking at her favorite bar.
"Kes. Could you make me some tea, hon?" Mom asked, leaning against the cabinets wearily. While Dad was around, Mom didn't drink at all. She'd used during her teenage years because of her abusive father, but only lightly and every now and then. Dad managed to break it completely three years after they got married. He made her feel ashamed every time he brewed her his special anti-hangover tea that he made out of herbs and stuff that his dad taught him when he was a kid. So Mom quit and was happy. But once Dad was gone, two years after he died, Mom started drinking again. It's fortunate Dad taught me how to make the hangover tea, or I think Mom would've gotten fired a long time ago for not showing up to work. She gets the worst hangover headaches I've ever seen or heard of.
"Sure," I said, and took things out the cabinets while putting a kettle of water to boil. I threw everything together in the cup and waited for the water. I glanced back at Mom, who'd staggered to the table and plopped down into a chair exhaustedly. "Are you sure you're going to make it to work?"
She waved a hand at me like she was shaking the words away. Her other hand was busy rubbing her temples. "Of course, of course. The tea will do the trick, it always does."
"All right," I said dutifully. I took some eggs out of the refrigerator. I wanted to make a good breakfast.
If I couldn't have a full night's sleep, I might as well have a full stomach, I figured ruefully.
"Hurry, Kes, or you're going to be late for school," Mom said. She'd leaned forward until her head was buried in her arms.
"Uh…yeah, of course, Mom," I said quietly. Drunk or not, Mom's common sense and awareness still weren't there. Best not to argue with her about such a silly thing. I had a good hour and a half before I needed to get going.
Most kids had two hours at six o' clock in the morning. But during this time of the year, I needed the extra half hour. I needed to be able to think a little and enjoy the peace and quiet once I was up in the sky.
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I stared at my closet, dismayed. It held all kinds of items of clothing, from "so last year" to "can you get any nerdier?". I couldn't afford all the "in" clothes. If everyone wanted me to dress like everyone else so badly, why did they charge so much for it? I shook my head in disdain and closed my closet door. With Mom's modest income and the maintenance of important things like the mortgage and the gas bills (not to mention Mom's recent alcohol sprees), we barely made ends meet, much less had the extra money lying around to furnish a well-stocked wardrobe. I was planning on getting a job sooner rather than later.
Skirts were out of the question today because of my mode of transportation (I'd made the mistake once before, and some of the more idiotic guys are still calling me "Polka Dot" because of the panties I'd had on at the moment), so I pulled my favorite pair of jeans from my drawer and slipped into them. I then scanned the contents of my shirt drawer and decided on a deep red button up shirt.
"Well, that's that," I said aloud. I shut my drawers, pulling on my scruffy red Converse to accent the outfit, and grabbed my black messenger bag, complete with the weight of my math and social studies books. I also snagged one of my favorite wristbands with a red star on it and slipped it on.
I smiled slightly as I stopped in front of the mirror. I saw a short girl who hadn't gotten enough sleep dressed in half punk, half preppy clothes. With disheveled hair. And something stuck between her two front teeth. And strawberry jam smudged on her cheek, leftover from her morning toast. Well, I could do something about the latter three. The first few I couldn't do much about.
After I brushed my teeth, put on a little eyeliner and mascara, and fixed my hair into a loose, low ponytail, I was ready to go. I went downstairs again to check on my mom. Not surprisingly, she'd fallen asleep on the kitchen table. My eyebrows creased slightly in worry. I hoped she'd make it in time. Just in case, I set the timer on the kitchen counter for fifteen minutes more. I just hoped she wouldn't sleep through it.
I stopped above her and bent down, kissing her cheek.
"I'm off, Mom," I said softly. And then I went out the front door.
The cold morning air nipped at me through my oversized zip up sweatshirt. I pulled it up all the way, trying to stay warm for the few minutes I'd be able to keep it on, and braced myself against the breeze's insistent tug.
Glancing up at the sky, I saw it was fairly overcast. Gray clouds blocked the horizon, looming overhead menacingly, threatening to spoil the day. But just past them, the warm sun called silently out to me, promising better weather ahead. I called back in acquiescence with a smile.
I'm coming.
I pulled off my sweatshirt and concentrated for a split second. I felt a sliding sensation in my back, one that felt kind of like taking off your best dress shoes after having worn them for a whole day, and my wings spread out of my back. It felt like a release and a liberation all at once. It's uncomfortable for me to keep my wings in for too long; I wish I could leave them out all the time. But unfortunately, the dictator of society has ruled that russet, auburn, and dark brown wings are not to be worn at any time in public.
I took a slight running start. Maybe someday I'll be strong enough to take off standing, but that takes a lot of wing strength. It's a lot easier when you have momentum. I pumped my wings down, and then I was off the ground.
I was free.