Without knowing, a whole week has passed since his last visit.
"Schizo-girl! You're on my team!" I start in surprise, before walking over to Cassandra's side of the small field. It was customary for us to get a bit of exercise each day, and today's sport just happened to be baseball. Our team grimaces at my arrival. Whispers of "freak" and "attention whore" drift from all sides, and I keep my eyes glued to the ground.
We play for about 10 minutes before we switch. "Hey schizo! You're up to bat first!" I blink quickly before padding quietly out of the safety of the cage. I pick up a small red bat and hold it feebly with two trembling hands. The large girl who plays as the pitcher stands a few feet away from me, mouth curled up into an unpleasant sneer. I don't remember her name.
I wet my parched lips before raising the bat higher. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be a part of this game. But there's no backing out of it now. She grips the ball tightly in her hand and draws it back. I swallow. She flings her arm forward, the ball whipping towards me, and I barely have the time to register what happened before I feel a searing pain on my jaw, where it connects with my neck.
The bat drops from my hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut before doubling over in pain. The supervisor, who had merely been supervising, jumps up and runs over. There's something in her expression that makes it seem as though she would rather be anywhere else. Maybe it is exasperation, and maybe it is annoyance, but she crouches over me anyways. "Max, are you alright?" She sounds as though she's talking to a wounded animal. I cringe at the tone she employs, but nod all the same, grateful that she doesn't touch me.
I sneak a glance up at the pitcher. She's howling with laughter. Of course she whipped me in the face with a baseball on purpose. I get up slowly and unsteadily on my feet. "Let's get you to the nurse, shall we?" The supervisor still employs that pitying tone that one only used to sooth wounded creatures. I bite the inside of my cheek, wincing slightly when pain shoots up my jaw, and walk off the field, heading towards the nurse's office.
"You should be thankful you don't have a concussion or any fractures," the nurse tells me gently after half an hour of her examination. She didn't once touch me, only took an x-ray of my head and done a few simple tests to check for concussions. "I doubt you would've wanted to stay in here for the night," she smiles not unkindly at me. I blink at the ground. It didn't really matter to me where I stayed. Then again, as I think about it, if he visits again tonight, I'd want to be in my room for that. So I slide off the examination table and dip my head in her direction as a sign of thanks before heading back to my room.
I close the door behind me and sink onto the bed. Running my thumb absentmindedly over the large bump on the left side of my jaw, I fix my eyes on the stark alabaster walls, unaware of how much time has passed. The door opens to let in a woman with tray of food, who sets it on the table. It was dinner. I should've guessed that they would serve me dinner in my room.
After an "accident" like that, the staff would likely keep me in my room where I would be deemed safe for at least a week. I sigh inaudibly before lowering my fingers from the lump on my jaw. After looking at the tray of food on the table for a few minutes, I finally get up and approach it warily. I use a fork to feebly poke at a pile of mashed potatoes. After swallowing one mouthful, I grimace and place the fork back onto the tray. I'm not feeling hungry anyways. The staff would be back tomorrow morning to take the tray away. Maybe I can manage to scrape the contents off and get rid of it somehow. Then maybe they wouldn't force me to get on medication again.
The sky was darkening already. I glance at the clock, placed high up on the wall. It was almost 8pm. I lie back on my bed, sliding my feet under the covers and placing my hands flat on my stomach. Staring up at the ceiling, I hoped that he would come again tonight. It was unlikely, but I hoped all the same. If he didn't, I'd just have to try to not fall asleep. It was the only way to not have nightmares. 10pm rolled around, then 11pm. By midnight, shadows were looming into my room, but none of them were his. I sit up in bed. I couldn't risk lying down in case I fell asleep. I fiddle unconsciously with my fingers in my lap, slowly counting the number of branches on the shadows of the tree branch to keep myself awake. I had reached 12 when a figure appeared in the edge of my vision. It just appeared, it didn't come from outside, otherwise I would've seen a shadow covering those of the tree branches.
I look to my left, and there he was, crouching in the corner of my room where I was sitting last night. My eyes widen, my parched lips part just a crack, and my fingers stop fidgeting. A mere two seconds ago, there was nothing in the corner. Objects, physically beings, didn't just appear. Did that mean I was really crazy? Was I really a schizophrenic?
"H-How did you…?" My words die in my throat. He blinks at me, his expression unchanging. I feel tears welling up in my eyes and a burning feeling at the back of my throat as it constricts. Maybe he was a schizophrenic conjuration, nothing but my imagination. After all, he had never spoken to me, never given me any indication that he was real… Except for the feathers. I whirl around and pull out the bottom drawer of the cabinet, reaching behind to find… nothing. There was nothing there, no soft feathers, not even dust.
I sit back on my knees as I swallow hard and the tears come scalding down my cheeks. Of course he wasn't real. He was just a figment of my imagination for the past 10 years. I keep my eyes on his figure still in the corner of the room. There's no change in him, except for the slight widening of his eyes. He looks surprised, shocked even. He had never shown a single shred of emotion for the past 10 years, and now he suddenly becomes shocked? It's because I've finally figured out he's not real. My subconscious is shocked that I figured it out. How did I even dream him up?
He stands right as I slump over to sit next to the drawer. There's no use in watching his every movement. He wasn't real, just a part of my subconscious. He comes closer, and sits down across from me. The proximity would've been enough to make me tense up, if only he was real. But in this case, he wasn't, so there was no harm that could be dealt. I look at him, my watering eyes blurring my vision slightly. "How did I ever dream you up?" My voice is a hoarse whisper.
His eyes betray emotions that his face would not allow. I see hurt and concern in his eyes and his right hand moves up slowly. I keep my eyes fixed on his. "You're not real," I say, the words barely audible. "I spent 10 years thinking you were, but you aren't. You're just some part of my schizophrenic subconscious." His hand stops right under my jaw, where I got hit. I swear I can almost feel the heat radiating from his nonexistent hand. I almost let myself believe that he's real.
But he's not, so what does it matter if he touches me? It would probably go right through, like a ghost. That would explain why I didn't feel an urgent need to place myself as far away from him as possible. He's not real. He's never been real. He's only ever been a part of my imagin-
His fingers barely brushes against my cheek. I didn't realize that I had been speaking out loud until my voice fails me.
I can't move, stuck with my eyes wide and teary, staring at him. Contrary to what I thought, I feel his fingertips on my face. They feel warm and gentle as they lightly trace down my cheek to the bump on my jaw. I feel his thumb brush lightly across the bump, gentle enough so as to not hurt me, but there all the same.
He frowns, the first time I've ever seen his face sway from that emotionless mask. I blink and my brows pull together in confusion. My senses come back to me and I shy away from his touch. He leaves his fingers hovering in the air for a few seconds before he lets them fall back to the ground and leans back so that there is more space between us. A wave of coldness washes over me, and I realize that his warmth had kept me warm, because of our proximity.
"Y-You can't be real," I mumble, "Real things don't just appear out of nowhere." He says nothing, but extends a hand, palm facing the ceiling, as though offering for me to take it. I eye his hand warily for a few moments and he is about to let it fall again before I slowly extend my own hand. My fingers are shaking, and a few more tears slide down my cheeks. A few centimeters away from touching, I tear my gaze away from our hands to look at his face. He's been watching my face, my expression, rather than my hand. I see no reserves that he might have had about physical contact, and I almost pull back.
Almost. Because in my moment of hesitation, I see his eyes soften and the corner of his lips pull upwards in a tiny smile. My breath catches in my throat, and my fingers close around two of his warm fingers. I can feel him, and he's warm, so he's not a ghost. But he can't be real either.
My face must betray my thoughts because before I know it, he speaks. "I am real, Max." His voice is not boyish, but not so deep as to be a man's. It's smooth and soft, much like the feathers he had left for me. I lose my train of thought and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, "Your feathers are gone." He smiles gently, and I am shocked at the amount of emotion he has shown today. "I had to take them back. The staff are more than thorough in their search for possible weapons in your room, and I couldn't let them find them."
I just blink. He's never spoken a word to me in 10 years, and suddenly he becomes a chatterbox. I don't comment on this. Instead, I blurt out something else, "Normal people don't appear out of nowhere." He holds my hand slightly tighter, and a small part of my mind is amazed that I don't feel an overwhelming urge to break off this physical contact. "Normal people don't have wings either," is all he says.
I frown for a moment, "Why now?" He looks at me, puzzled. I feel the hurt staining my words, even as I try to hide it. The spillover of emotion was a weakness, one that I had learned not to show in front of my peers. I had no idea why I couldn't seem to hide it from him. "You've visited me for 10 years now. Why did you have to wait until now to let me touch you, to speak to me?"
He seems not to understand, "I never thought you needed that," he states bluntly. The pad of his thumb glides softly over my knuckles, and for once in my life, I don't feel repelled by another's touch. It seems to have the opposite effect, as I feel my anxiety slowing. "I only thought you would like someone to listen, to be there for you," he spoke, "I'm sorry I never knew."
My fingers loosened around his, and I pulled my hand back, "So you're real." I let that sink in for a moment, and he stays silent. "But that doesn't explain you being possible. People don't have wings, and they certainly don't appear out of thin air."
He seems to stiffen at the mention of his wings. Maybe they're a sore spot for him, like touching is for me. "I… I was part of an experiment. My drug addict of a mother gave me up for adoption as a baby, and somehow I was given to a part of the government that conducted experiments, designed to make the perfect race." His voice was bitter and I suddenly regretted letting go of his hand.
"I'll spare you the details, but I arrived in the scientist compound as a human. Then they mixed me with the DNA of a raven and I came out as something less than human." His eyes wouldn't meet mine. As they stayed glued to the floor, I wondered if this was how I always looked to my peers. "Apparently, if I stay still long enough, I become invisible. I blend into my surroundings. So technically, I didn't appear out of nowhere, I was here all along."
I found no words at the back of my throat, letting a slow frown take over my face. "You can be invisible," I finally manage to say. It was devoid of humour or disbelief, merely a statement of fact. He seems to freeze completely, only blinking. After a few moments, his figure blurs around the edges, and he did, indeed seem to fade into his surroundings. When I look harder, I realize that I can see the edge of his form, just barely outlined in the moonlight.
"Oh." It's a quiet sound, but all I can manage. He cocks his head, instantly flickering into visibility again, and offers me a small smile. One more thing. I bite the inside of my cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. "What's your name?" It comes out almost as a whisper. There's a tiny pause before he speaks again.
"Fang. My name's Fang."
Then all the lights come on.