Tattered

 Thwack.

      A butterfly smacks against the windshield of Granda’s speeding Lincoln Towncar, leaving a smudge of guts across the already bug covered glass. The butterfly’s wing dust glitters in the sun like tiny crystals, leaving taunting remnants of the creature that had just been alive. I shudder— I hate when that happens. It always makes me feel like I’ve just witnessed the murder of Tinkerbell.

      I wipe the beads of sweat from my face for umpteenth time since arriving in this armpit of a state and frown as I see the smudge of black eyeliner across the back of my hand. Great. Now not only am I burning alive in the ninety-four degree heat— despite the fact that it’s September— I’m going to look like a raccoon by the time we finally get to Granda’s house. As I dig in the console for a tissue to wipe the eyeliner off, I spot a bright pink, plastic cigarette lighter in the cup holder. When I’m sure Granda isn’t looking, I slip it into my pocket.

       I cross my arms over my chest and lean my head against the edge of my open window, watching the endless oaks and pines fly past. The bouquet of flowers in my lap feels heavy, despite the fact that they’re only wilted wildflowers that my mom pulled from our yard. I wanted to throw them away at the airport, but when I’d dangled them over the trashcan, I couldn’t make my fingers let go.

 Last week, my so-called mother had told me that she was sending me to live with Granda. In Alabama. Alabama. Ala-fracking-bama. Where you have to drink your oxygen instead of inhale it.

             Krista— I stopped calling her Mom the day she decided to stop being a parent in favor of alcohol— had told me that my life would be better here, but from what I've seen so far, it can't be that much better. Granda has barely even spoken to me since she picked me up from the airport.

            Granda lives over an hour from the closest city in a town that has only one gas station. A deep longing for home aches through my chest, but I know I can’t go back there anytime soon. Just before I boarded the airplane to Mobile, Krista told me that she’d come and visit soon, but I wondered how “soon” it would be. She said that she wanted to get better, she’d promised it, in fact. But I saw the fire dancing behind her sea green eyes, and that meant that she was lying.

      I stare at myself in the dirty side mirror, studying my face. My eyes match my mother’s—green as jade gemstones against the contrast of the tan skin I inherited from my father. A different ache pulses through my heart at the memory of him. I haven't yet perfected the art of thinking of that man without remembering what he used to do to us. A hot tear runs down my face, but I wipe it away before Granda notices.

             Granda's car slowly turns onto a small road lined with magnolia trees. The long, menacing branches stretch towards me as if they’re pointing their fingers and laughing about what a joke my life has been so far. Granda shuts off the car and climbs out without so much as a blink in my direction. I grab my duffle bag and the pitiful bouquet of flowers, and follow Granda into the shabby house. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust, and the tattered, sun-faded curtains reek slightly of mildew from where the rain has leaked through the open windows.

"So, where is my room?" I ask, shifting my duffle bag on my shoulders. I've only visited here once, and I was five at the time. I don't really remember where anything is.

Granda opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind and snaps it shut. 

"My room?" I ask again, annoyed that she's clearly ignoring my question.

I see the hug coming before it actually happens, but my hands are too full to stop it. Granda throws her wrinkled arms around my shoulders and pulls me in close. I stiffen and try to pull away from her, but she doesn't release me.

            After a few moments, I let my body relax a little. Her hair, which is pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck, smells of lavender and peppermint. Much better than the stale vomit and bourbon smell of my mom’s.

            "Um, Granda?" I mutter. Hugs aren’t my thing.

            “I’m so sorry about what’s happened to you, darlin’” she says, her mouth pressed into my shoulder.

            I just nod. How do I respond to that?

            Granda releases me and nods towards the door on my left. “That’s your room. I’ll let you get settled.”           

I drag my bag into my new bedroom and collapse onto the twin sized bed with the flowers in my hand. I dig the pink lighter out of my pocket and flick the lever until a small flame jumps out of the little hole.

It only takes a nanosecond for the entire bouquet to become a flaming ball of fire. For a fleeting second, I consider dropping it onto the bed and letting the whole house burn.

“I’m making us some lunch, baby!” Granda calls from the kitchen. “Do you like fried squash?”

I shake the thought from my head. I can’t do that to my grandmother. She’s never done anything bad to me.

“Sure, whatever!” I yell back, running towards the bathroom with the flower torch. I throw it into the bathtub, just as the flames start to lick at my fingertips.

I turn the water on and watch the ashes splatter across the white ceramic surface. Maybe it won’t be so bad here. Maybe I can reignite the flame in my heart that was put out so long ago that I don’t even remember what it feels like to feel. Maybe a small, sweltering town is just what I need to start over, as Granda helps to wash the ashes from my soul down the drain.

Free Fall

“How long are we going to just lay here?” Michael asks.

“Just give me a few more seconds,” I say. He really irritates me sometimes.

Michael sighs dramatically, but he doesn’t say anything else.

The grass underneath my bare arms itches my skin. The tickling sensation flickers at my elbows and wrists like a snake’s tongue but I don’t allow myself the pleasure of scratching. Goose bumps crawl over the millions of freckles that stain my entire body, but I like the way it feels. It’s not enough, though. I stare up at the turquoise sky and try to see how long I can go without blinking.

“One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four-one-thousand,” I count silently. 

After fourteen and a half seconds, my screaming eyeballs start to quiver, and my lids close without my permission. I groan and bang my fists into the ground. Something. There’s got to be something I can do to do this on my own.

My entire life I’ve felt different. Strange. Unfocused. But most teenage girls say that, don’t they?  The thing is, most girls aren’t distracted by the ever-present yearning to let their wings unfold.

I pull pieces of grass out of the ground and tear them into tiny pieces. I can see Michael watching me in my periphery, but I don’t say anything to him yet.

Just five more seconds. I can do this.

 I’m not supposed to shift. My parents say it’s too dangerous a thing until I learn how to control my heart rate and stay shifted, but how am I supposed to learn if they won’t teach me? Michael clears his throat.

Crap. My five seconds are up.

“Are you ready?” Michael asks, as he pushes himself onto his elbows beside me.

I nod and close my eyes.

I feel his fear before I feel his skin touch mine, but I know it’s not a fear of kissing me. It’s a fear of what I’m about to do. He doesn’t want me to shift either, but he supports me anyway. He is my best friend, after all.

His lips hover over mine for a second, like two opposing magnets. He huffs out a breath. “Dammit, Ivy. Are you sure you wanna do this?”

I open my eyes. The feeling of my pupils shrinking to accommodate the bright sun makes my bones curl, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. The worried wrinkles in Michael’s forehead match the curve of his knitted eyebrows.

“Yes,” I whisper. I reach up and smooth the lines from his brow, then tug sharply on a lock of his hair. He narrows his eyes at me. “Just do it already. I have to know what it feels like, okay? You don’t understand what it’s like to hold yourself together all the time.”

“Okay,” he sighs. But I can tell that he’s hoping my theory is wrong.

Every time I come close to shifting, something has happened to heighten my senses. The sensations that almost drive you up the wall, the ones that are so annoying that they almost feel good—like itching, tickling, shaking, heck, even sneezing—almost make me shift, but not quite.

Michael leans over me again, but this time he doesn’t hesitate. His lips fall against mine in the lightest of touches. Nothing happens; but of course a kiss like that won’t work, and he knows it. He takes a quick, shuddering breath, then tries again.

This time, he presses his lips into mine like he means it. He takes my bottom lip into his mouth as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. I knew kissing Michael would be… well, awesome, but I had no idea it would make me feel like this. I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. It’s like all the blood in my body has congealed. Tiny pins are pricking the inside of my skin, and for a split second—for once in my life—I don’t want know what it feels like to shift. I want to stay right here in the grass with Michael, under the sky instead of flying into it. I don’t want to be anything other than what I’ve already learned to be.

But it turns out my theory was right.

It’s like a ripcord has been pulled from my stomach. I’m turned inside out, blooming into something that isn’t me, yet is me at the same time. My skin turns to feathers. My arms turn to wings. The ground is no longer my prison, and I’m hurtling effortlessly towards the sun.

The wind pulls me higher into the sky, and I want to laugh, but this body doesn’t have the ability. This body can’t be caged. This body is free.

I’ve never felt as amazing as I do now. I flap my wings a couple of times to keep up my momentum, but a stream of wind is carrying me along like I weigh nothing. My tiny heart is thrumming wildly in my chest from the exhilaration of the change.

But as I dip in and out of the blue sky, reveling in the feeling of flight, my heart rate starts to slow. The familiar creeping ache of the need to change into something else spreads through me. Panic seeps into my bones and I start to lose control.

The ripcord is pulled again, and I am falling.

The sound of air roaring in my ears deafens me, but I try to focus enough to replicate the feelings I had when Michael kissed me. It doesn’t work—it never works. My human body hits the ground hard.

Michael calls my name frantically as he runs towards me, and I know he’s afraid that I’ve shattered every bone in my body, but I don’t care if I have. I am broken either way.

A tear runs down my cheek and dangles from my earlobe. I finally know what it feels like to shift, but no matter what body I’m trapped in, my bones will always be yearning to be something else.

I will never know what it feels like to be comfortable in my own skin. I will never know what it feels like to be me.

Behind The Glass

I slip the key into the lock and twist. Penn and I discussed his escape last night when I’d snuck in after Lester, the guard, had fallen asleep at the door—as he does every night at eleven. It must be done today because today is the Festival, and most of the castle will be dancing in the streets, drunk and stuffed with oversized turkey legs and freshly baked rolls and chocolate mousse. Including my stepmother.

I push the door open and slip into the dark room, leaving the door cracked a bit so we can make an easy escape. I just have to get Penn.

“Hello, beautiful,” Penn says behind me. My stomach dances at the sound of his voice, and it’s a million times better than the feeling of parading around at some dumb festival. I turn to face him and he flashes me a smile made of teeth whiter than powdered sugar.

“Are you ready?” I ask nervously. I’m afraid that Lester will be back soon. My stepmother made it explicitly clear that he is not to leave his post for any reason, so when he disobeys her, he does it quickly.

Penn’s brow wrinkles, though his smile stays in tact. The two things don’t match each other and I want smooth the wrinkles from his forehead. He’s much too handsome to be making a scary expression like that. 

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. You just have no idea how much I’ve dreamed about leaving this place.”

I take a long look at him. Black wavy hair, sparkling green eyes, and a jaw line that could cut through glass—he’s every girl’s dream. And he’s chosen me. There’s just one problem though. He’s trapped in a mirror, forced to tell my stepmother that she’s beautiful every day. But I’m going to take care of that.

I run across the room and wrap my fingers around the intricately carved frame of the mirror and hoist it into the air. It’s not as heavy as I expected. I hold the mirror against my chest and tiptoe out of the room. I look to my left, then to my right, down the long, winding hallway. Lester hasn’t made it back yet, but I know it won’t be long. I walk as fast as I can to the back stairway, clutching the mirror to my body.

“I take back what I said about wanting to escape,” says Penn, his voice muffled against my dress.

“Oh, shut up,” I hiss, realizing the compromising position I’ve put him in. I ease the mirror away from me a bit and continue my trek down the slippery stone steps.

I take the mirror to my favorite garden, where the roses have taken over the stone walls that enclose them. I set Penn down in a tangle of vines, leaning him against one of the walls.

“Happy birthday,” I say as I run my fingers over the smooth glass. I wish I could feel his face against my palm.

“Five thousand long years I’ve been stuck in this mirror,” says Penn. “And this is the first time anyone has ever brought me out of the castle.”

“You're welcome,” I say. “I just wish I could actually celebrate your birthday, you know, with you. 

Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could come inside your mirror for the day?”

I shake my head at the thought. If only something like that were possible. Penn presses his hand against the glass to match mine. He looks at me longingly, and I know he wants to feel my touch as much as I want his.

The glass underneath my fingers suddenly begins to warm and soften, and for a moment, I believe it’s my imagination. But it’s not. The glass is no longer glass—it’s liquid.

“I can’t believe it’s actually working!” says Penn, rubbing his free hand over his mouth in shock.

“What’s happening?” I push my finger into the glass. It squishes like gel and my finger disappears into the mirror, appearing on the other side as a reflection.

“The spell on the mirror only works inside the castle. It’s magic is hindered outside of the castle walls. If someone wants to come inside, all they have to do is say the words.”

I extend my arm into the mirror, marveling at the image of my body being half flesh and half glass. Penn grabs my hand, and I freeze. The feeling of his skin against mine is something I thought I’d never feel. He grasps onto my fingers like I’m sinking underwater, like he’s trying to pull me to the surface. And he does. 

In an instant, I’m suddenly not in my world anymore. I’m in his.

But I’m alone.

The air around me is dark and cold, like the cellar in the castle. I turn around and see the other side of the mirror. The roses, shivering in the afternoon wind. The stone wall, cold and grey against the turquoise sky.

And Penn. Not inside the mirror with me.

“Why are you out there?” I say. My voice trembles. I don’t like being in here alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Penn says. The wind blows his hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t push it away. “I wish there was another way for me to be free, but this was the only option.”

I press my hands against the glass, hoping to find the liquid state it was in just moments ago. But it’s hard, cold glass again. Penn touches his fingers to his lips then drops them to the mirror, leaving the imprint of his fingerprints. He stands up and turns to leave.

“No!” I cry. I bang my fists on the glass, trying to break through. “You can’t just leave me here!”

I ram my shoulder into the barrier, but it doesn’t budge.

Penn looks over his shoulder and smiles sadly. “I will be forever grateful for what you’ve done for me. But the mirror must have a prisoner and I have served my time. It’s your turn now.”

“No,” I say again, though this time my voice cracks.

As he leaves me alone in the garden, I slump down against the hard black wall that is my prison. How could he betray me? Is freedom really worth hurting the one you love? As I stare out at the brilliant pink and red roses dancing along with the wind, I realize that it is. And I can’t hate him because I would have done the same thing.