Days of the Phoenix

Especially now was it a horrible, wretched time for flutter-by's to be causing a riot in my stomach. The old, surely rotting wood beneath the shabby carpet and our feet squealed and groaned under our weight as we ascended the stairs up to my room. Honestly, I didn't know what was going to h appen. I didn't know, for example, if he was going to insult my friends in the kitchen [[again.]], or if he was going to teach me some 'life lesson'—not like that, you pervs...

Honestly, again, I thought… Well, he’d been proclaiming his love for me in different little ways. Maybe, I thought, he’s going to… Maybe he’s going to finally say it. I smiled to myself, hoping, putting all my faith, into just that thought. Oh, but was I wrong.

I got to my bedroom door after he was already turning the cool, iron handle. He pushed it open quickly, not taking his time to be careful of the floor lamp behind it—it fell to the floor, smashing, into a million little pieces...

"Shit, Drake!" I dropped to my knees and began to pick up the fragments of stained glass. "It was my favorite lamp, you moron!" I let out a small groan of disgust as a portion of the broken glass ripped into my hand. "Damn it! God..." I let the pieces tumble from my hands as I slowly rose from the ground. "I'm going to need a broom... Now what did you want, besides smashing the lamp?"

"It wasn't a good place for a lamp, anyway..." he muttered coldly.

"What has gotten into you?" I asked him, clutching my left hand to apply pressure-- crimson blood was dripping between my fingers slowly, each falling to the floor with a faint yet hard, pin-prick of a tap. I shuddered. Crap, I wouldn't be able to write anything... oh well. I smirked to myself inside my mind. "Please hurry, I need to get this cleaned up..."

"How long?" I faced him suddenly at his grim-sounding words.

"W- what?" His face was becoming pale, if not grey, and his eyes were rapidly hollowing out. His eyes, they further intrigued me. The began to form confusion, disgust, hatred...

"How long?" he asked slowly, annunciating each syllable. He clenched his strong hands into fists, reopened, then grasped together even tighter. "How long did you think you could keep this from me?" I was silent; I could feel my face losing color, warmth.

"Keep what from you?" I finally uttered. His entire face contorted into his eyes' emotions.

"That!" he yelled, his voice so full of wrath I stumbled backwards, knocking myself into the door. A tear, not from the pain of my hand, but from his tone, trekked down my cheek.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Drake…” I whispered. I slid with my back down the length of the door and wrapped my arms around my knees.

“You’re one of them,” he spat. He stood from my bed and took a step toward me. “That. That on your forehead. It makes you one. You know that.” I reached up to my forehead, between my eyes, above the bridge of my nose. I turned my head slightly to see myself in the mirror.

“M… my birthmark?” I asked timidly.

“Birthmark!” he roared. His arms lashed out above his head in rage. “No.” His expression turned stony, as well as his voice. “You’re one of them.” I let out a small cry before we were thrown into a burning silence. After a few minutes, I came to my feet shakily.

“Drake…” I spoke softly. I reached out to touch his shoulder, but he pushed my arm away.

“No, Phoebe. Just… no.” He walked past me and almost out of the room before turning back. “I can never mix with the sort like you.” His eyes narrowed. “If you’re not dropping this little act of yours, look it up. Half-moon on a forehead. Do it.” And with that, Drake vanished.

I was numb. I couldn’t believe it—didn’t want to believe it. Never, ever had he called me by my real name. In fact, he was the first one who started calling me by what I’m known as today.

It was heartbreaking. It truly was. So, still not understanding what he meant, I went—guess where?—online.

Opening the Google search engine, I typed in exactly what Drake had told me to—“half-moon on a forehead”. It seemed silly, at the time, but only when the links to the sites appeared did I understand.

“Well, shit.”