Changeling Wars: Misummeria

The year is the 2030, and mankind has never faced a greater war. Your own children may be the enemy. Your own parents may not be all they seem. And you are the weapon, if you didn't know.


1. Blades

The death sentence between my shoulder blades broadens in alarm until I finally can’t deny it. The dusty mirror is unforgiving and fails to soften the blow. I swear the reflection going to shatter at what it’s seeing, or even worse scream. Paranoia spreads along my cursed veins as suddenly every inch of the room has ears and eyes that will betray me. The bed of which my tall frame has had to crouch to fit into for two years, and was comfortable ages before that could be made of rusty nails for all the comfort appeal it has now. The faded wallpaper of a warm orange colour turns blood red and seems to run down my walls. It’s only just happened, and I feel like sanity is crumbling off me piece by piece.

This is how it starts, they said. One minute you’re who you thought you were for sixteen years and the next; the person staring back at you is a stranger. A monster.

I stare back at the reflection and try to calm my shaking. Denial will be the only way to get me through this. Through what, Liam? Asks myself in a internal scream as I wonder how will I ever stop the screaming. The rest of your life? For such a burden, burden being the softest choice of word, they truly are beautiful. “Can you believe it?” My voice decides to venture past my tongue, a little braver than before. I’m alone in the house thankfully, and although all I want to do is let my lungs loose and screech ten thousand curses, I’m unable even mildly swear. “Your life is going to be ruined, by a pair of wings.” I almost want to laugh if I knew they would unleash all the sobs I am failing to stifle back.

They flex out from my back proudly, and the distress has caused them to grow to just a little less than a width of a meter. Each. The emerald tips stretch far above my head of hair I have ran my hands through too much until it is nothing but disheveled mess. “No!” I demand a refund from the world, but quietly; this a fate a person has to survive alone if they want to at all. “No, no, no, no, no…” Soon they become less like words and more like drastic coughs. My chest threatens to burst and my legs threaten to cave until I slide down the closet, the wings catch painfully on the rougher edges of the wood but the pain makes me think I could break them off. Could I do that?contemplate  It would hurt, sure. But it’s a price anyone would pay to be free. Happy birthday Liam, goes my conscience, freaks get what they deserve.

As I huddle onto the floor, I begin to rack my mind to how this could have happened. Eventually my heart rate slows down just enough to shrink the wings to a size that could possibly be hidden by a thick t-shirt and jumper but it still feels too risky.  Where will I go? What can I do? And most importantly, how long can I live a lie?

I want to close my eyes and pretend I'm still fifteen. I want to pretend I don't live here, in Tamlin, where people like me are sniffed out like hungry pigs and where wings are the inevitably-doomed pungent truffles. And most importantly; I want to pretend I didn't just see what I saw in that damn mirror. Nothing else seemed to matter; not my slightly over sized, freckled features, my copper hair or lanky frame. Just the wings, the lead ball and chain that would tug me down to destruction.

But I know that there is an almost comfort to the monstrosity that sprouted from my own skin - the feeling that I was right all along. I am a freak, I am an outsider. I am a faery, for god's sake. I wish I could go back to the past, where faery was a girl's term of affection and a punchline of an adult's joke. Where their smiles were kind, and most importantly fictional, and wings were plastered on the back's of fancy dress costumes and barbie dolls. Maybe they played in meadows, and nursed absent teeth placing a coin for the child's trouble. Maybe once they were sweet; but the world was stupid then. People were stupid; they trusted like they love.

And you should never love a faery. It is the slashing wound that never heals, the vixen that never stops teasing. They'll run your blood dry with chaos and scoop out your gory insides with bloody smiles. Metaphorically of course.  At least that's what the teachers said in elementary, and middle school, and highschool. The race I learnt about in school weren't normal, they were wild. How could I even began to connect those creatures to me? I wouldn't run blood dry, or entrance a naive little lamb with my eyes. The walls have stopped being as loud as before, and have dumbed down to a sensation like watching nails scale across a chalkboard. 

I run a softer hand along the blade of the wing, not so carefully scratching the tips; where poison is said to errupt. Could my own 'venom' kill me? I half hoped, half begged as I pray for the serum that would scorch my skin and make a pathway to my veins. 

Unfortunately, life is full of disappointments and apparently discovering you are the cause of the war isn't enough for one day. The liquid, which turns out to be purplish and has the texture of watered-down syrup as I examine it, only tingles my forsaken skin. 

Even as I try to hold my blinks to black out of this nightmare it's no use, as all I can see is the searing light of operation rooms. My organs will be pickled to study and my limbs prodded for the sake of hatred. My parents will be shunned, probably messed around with too if they have their way. They'll assume that they were hiding me, and their lives as mediocre as they are now will cease to exist. I might even have it easier, which I suppose would be something to smile about if I could remember how muscles could even begin to crack something as sweet.

The mirror glitters as I smash it into a thousand little pieces with all the strength my shaking body can muster.  I can feel the glass do its best to invade my skin and release little streams of blood all along my hand in little bubbles of red. It hurts, but I like it. Because it reminds me that I'm human, or that I can least pretend to be. No matter how long for, a lie is best lived when its keeper can believe it. And if I could live sixteen years in a supposed lie, I can surely muster a view more.

But looking through the world now will be like looking through this broken mirror; smeared crimson and cracked, the splinters of reality hidden in the fractures of fear.

All I can be sure of, is when the faeries come looking for me - and I'm sure they will - that I won't let them take me. I can't beat them, but I won't join them either.

I'll scream, I'll thrust my limbs wildly to escape and maybe all the cursed faery could be beaten out of me.

Get a grip, Liam. I tell myself. My greenish irises catch in the shard of glass I hold in my hand. There's no escaping this. You're the weapon now. 

My thoughts are a bed of hot coals, and I don't have the mental strength to pretend I don't feel a thing. I feel along my wings, and think of only her because she's the only thing that makes anything feel good anymore. She guides me to almost peace, sick at heart.


A/N Hi everyone! I really hope you enjoyed this, you may have noticed I have released two new movellas in a really short period of time; this and flood. I was hoping to enter one of them in the Movellian of the Year competition but I'll need your help if you wouldn't mind spending a couple of minutes and letting me know which one you prefer! I'm really looking forward to developing one further, and hopefully you'll enjoying reading it! Feedback is always loved, thanks for reading! :)

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