Status: One Shot. If you like my writing check out my other story, Flux!

Fly Away

f l y a w a y .

Words in the 21st century are much scarier then they used to be. Today you can call someone a “bitch” and they’ll kill you. You can call someone a “freak” and they’ll kill themselves. You can call someone a “pussy” and they’ll reassure their strength by knocking your teeth out. My momma taught me “sticks and stones may break my bones” but she never prepared me for words that murder.

Daddy left when I was thirteen. He and momma had been divorced for awhile so I was used to not seeing him but maybe twice a year. So I knew something was wrong when he visited me on a non-holiday, holding a stuffed dog in his arms. You see, daddy was always afraid of confrontation. He believed that if you didn’t have nothin’ nice to say, then you ran away and hid until beautiful words grew in your throat and spilled out of your mouth like rose petals. Problem is, beautiful words can’t grow in a mouth seeded with hate. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and told me that he was moving across the country to live with a woman he fell in love with over the internet. He forgot to give me the stuffed dog.

He forgot a lot of things. He stopped calling on Christmas and stopped sending me cards on my birthday. I was replaced with his new family not even a year after he left. My momma and I never got along after that. I traded her attempt at love for boys and parties and she worked and worked until I almost never saw her anymore.

When I was little I wanted to be a gymnast. I used to train everyday for hours on end until my feet would bleed and my hands would be raw from the uneven bars. When daddy left, I quit gymnastics because I wasn’t good enough at it. He left because I wasn’t good enough, you see. I switched training for the Olympics with training for bathroom fights and how to sneak out of my house without waking my momma. I wish I would’ve used the door.

My stepsister turned fourteen yesterday; the same age I was when I had my first taste of flying. She still plays with dolls, at least. Nothin' seems real when you’re up above the clouds. It’s almost like you forget everything and become a new person. I loved being someone other than myself. I became Rocky when I flew. Nobody challenged me after I punched Patricia’s teeth out at school when she called me names. People were scared of me when I threatened to kill my teacher. Hell, I was even afraid of myself when I woke up on the floor with heavy eyes and blood on my wrists.

The biggest party of the year was on a school night. Not like I cared since my grades had plummeted, but momma kept the doors bolted with an alarm on the weekdays. I couldn’t say no to the feeling of being alive and the thought of people wanting me. I needed to feel something; craved to feel it.

I was too afraid to use the door. I was already flyin’ then; I was invincible. And God knows anyone who can fly can use a window as a door. My window didn’t seem that high when I jumped, but then again I didn’t even know my own name then. I don’t remember hitting the ground. All I remember was my momma screaming at me to wake up and no matter how hard I tried to tell her I was okay, she didn’t listen.

Doctors decided on suicide. They said nobody jumps out of a two story window with that much cocaine and alcohol in their body without wantin' to die. My momma cried and cried until she couldn’t even get out of bed anymore. I tried to tell her that I just wanted to go to a party but she couldn’t hear me anymore. Nobody can hear dead girls.

Momma threw me a nice funeral that month. I sat in the front row and watched people I barely knew cry over me. My casket was closed; my body was too deformed from my flight to be seen. I sat in that pew until they wheeled me away. I saw the teachers that I had threatened, Patricia with her missing teeth, and even my old gymnastics couch with a medal for me. My daddy never showed up. He forgot that his daughter had died. I think he clipped my wings before I jumped. He was always doin’ that to me; clipping my wings, keeping me stuck in the labyrinth, forgetting to let me out.

I wish I knew what he did with my stuffed dog.
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I hope you enjoy this! It's heavily based on my cousin besides the dying part...