Blackwing
an excerpt

A note to readers: PM me if you want to read beyond what I've got here. I already know I won't get 50K (10K more is a physical impossibility this Friday morning), but I'll probably be able to finish either this evening or next week. My first novel!!! Completed, that is. Thanks to everyone who's helped me out by providing material; I couldn't have done it without you!
Happy December and God Bless Everyone,
A. Nony Mous

Blackwing
by A. Nony Mous
a novel of November, the time of year when the skies are gray and the wind is chill

Chapter 1: The Beginning
I fly—I fly through the air, I dance the dance of death in the sky. The ground seems so far below me, ground that is only several meters away.
And then I swoop down as a bird does, swoop down and land just where the street turns a corner. I have only seen this corner a few times before, but I know it well. LIQUOR, it proclaims: DANCEDANCEDANCE. THE TIPSY SAILOR. CABARET. The lights glare at me, point and laugh. They can afford to laugh; they have a hostage. I shrink back, my fists clenched futilely, almost turn and run.
There had been a time when I wouldn't have run away, a time when I would have gone towards those lights. Nick and I would have gone together, to get soused and dance and more. Nick is gone now, and the lights are repulsive to me.
Out of the neon street comes a shadow, a shadow with its arms stretched towards me. Amanda, it says. Safiyya. Remember me?
No. Never met you in my life. I shudder, and the ground pulls me to it. I kneel, watching the figure as it comes closer.
Of course you didn't meet me, comes the reply. Of course not. Of course not.
Of course not.

shadow-dance all around
shadow-flicker like light and sound
shadow-dance fire and wind
shadow-burn at the stake

That was a dream, that was. All of that. Just like it was a dream that Mom slapped me only a few hours earlier, just before she left for the pub. Just like it is a dream that I can still feel her hand on my cheek, still see the faint outline in the mirror. Just a dream, nothing more. Like Poe—simply the wind and nothing more. When I go wake up in the morning, it'll all be gone, because it was all a dream. This is a dream, too. When I wake up I won't remember it, and Dad'll be there, and Mom, and the little bird I found on the road ten years ago won't have died in the night. Yeah.
And when I wake up, the doorbell won't be ringing. But since this is a dream, what does it matter if I answer it or not? Mom's not here—and even if she was, she'd be too drunk to care. I'll answer it.
Forget the stairway lights; I can see well enough in the dark. Goodness knows enough of my life has been lived in darkness. Dreamed. Dreamed.
The streetlights are shining through the front window, casting dusty gleams on the rough fabric backings of chairs. Every scratch in the coffee table shows up clearly.
The doorbell's still ringing. I trip over an empty bottle, and kick it under the couch. A dream-year ago, maybe more, that bottle might have been mine. The doorknob's cold.
He's reaching up to ring again, and he's surprised to see me. When you ring a doorbell in the middle of the night, what do you expect me to look like, a movie star? A pajama-clad teenage girl with tousled hair is more like it.
There are two of them.
They're policemen. I didn't do anything, so I'm safe. But what are they doing, ringing my doorbell in the middle of the night? Most sane people ring doorbells during the day.
The short one brings his arm down, and there's an awkward silence. "Is your father here, miss?"
"Not for the past nine years." Bitter—oh, how bitter I sound. Oh, how bitter I am.
"Is there an adult in the house?" He's nervous, too nervous.
"Nobody but me."
He shifts from foot to foot, then sticks out his hand awkwardly. "I'm Officer Hansen, and this is Officer Twain."
I tentatively meet his hand, and he shakes mine like he's shaking a wet fish. "I'm Amanda Cerani."
Officer Hansen tries to smile, but doesn't quite make it; Officer Twain steps in for him. "Amanda, we need you to come down to the hospital with us."
It's funny, because this is the sort of thing I've seen in movies and read in books: everything seems so far away, slow motion, and I can almost hear the squeal of tires as he speaks. Mom? I see a car wrapping itself around a light post like a wet rag. The hospital.
And she was drunk.
All the way to the hospital, in the cold backseat of the police car, I don't cry. I roll my anger into little grenades, waiting. For what? I don't know. Mom's in the hospital, and I'd bet anything that she's still chock-full of alcohol. I'd bet my life on that.
Oh, Mom. You used to be the sunshine, dancing on the clouds. You used to fly with me, when we were happy. Now….
She's in the operating room, and they won't let me see her; I have to sit outside on a cold bench. I'm still in my pajamas, and a sweater I grabbed off the couch. Officer Hansen is taking a bathroom break, and Officer Twain is staring out a hall window over the parking lot. I guess they don't know what to do any more than I do.

But I do know what to do. Leaving the bench, I follow the halls to the door, and by the time I reach it, I'm running. I run across the eerie mosaic of lamplight and shadow, a mosaic speckled with tiles of blue and red and yellow cars. Spreading arms, flapping unbuttoned sweater, receding black asphalt beneath my feet and I'm flying. Arms aren't needed but for aerodynamics; they're out in front, ready. For what? I know and I don't know.
And here I am: the street with the signs. There's no person-shaped shadow here to greet me this time, and I'd be glad—if I wasn't too angry to be glad.
Yes, I'm angry. I feel the fountain well up inside me, and I encourage it, draw the fire-hot, blue-cold flow out, mix it into not a lukewarm halfheartedness, but wrath.
Three revelers stroll along, blithely, drunkenly. They're the first to go, and then I move on. The sign in flashing pink neon—LIQUOR—that's next. It blinks off and on, then crumbles to the street in pieces, wires sparking in writhing coils like those of a dying snake. Around the crumbled sign and into the door, and the music's on and the beer is good and the people are as happy as they'll ever be with this stuff. Who notices the entrance of a pajama-clad girl? I don't care.
The bottles—sparkling in the dim light—sparkling gleam of fool's gold going down their throats—sparkling poison! And now the fireworks of a thousand pieces of glass flying, the wavering cry of some poor fool as his drink is snatched from his hands, the grunt of the same fool as my knee hits his stomach. He shouldn't try to get it back; getting it back'll only hurt him. But he tries, and falls to the floor. He dies.
The whole place is on its feet now, screaming and shouting and staring. They aren't hurt unless they try to stop me. Bottles breaking, liquor flowing, screams and shatters piercing the air like knives. And somehow I'm holding one—oh! how I use it.... I hate what I'm doing, but I hate what put my mother in the hospital even more.
Down the street, both sides. When I'm done there's no sound but the rustling tinkle of glass as those who've survived shift, barely breathing, waiting for me to go, waiting so they can move on into death or shock or drunken comas.
I look at the knife, still in my right hand, and clenched so tightly that my knuckles, black, scaled knuckles, would be white. It's like the knife is part of me, wants to do what I want it to do. It drifts toward me, but I halt it. I want to! But I don't. I'm not ready to die yet.
So back I fly, back to the hospital—black-scaled horror going and exhausted Amanda, wanting to die, coming. A whirling trip up the stairs and I'm back on the bench, shivering in my sweater. When Officer Hansen returns, he offers me his jacket. I refuse.
Oh, Mom, where are you? Where did you go, and why? Why did you let this pitiful creature take your place?
Why did I let this ...thing... take mine?

Chapter 2: Dark and Light and Shadow
She's alive. Just barely, but she's alive. I think I'm happy.
Mom's cousin, Andrea, is here, along with her daughter, Val. Val's my age, a bit older. By me on the bench she sits, and I can tell she doesn't know what to say. I suppose that's partly because we only met a moment ago, and under unusual circumstances.

white-paint corridor
lit too brightly but
not brightly enough to bring light

This time I don't dream, and don't wake up until there's a pretty young nurse shaking my arm. "Amanda, you can see your mother now."
I pull my sweater around me even more tightly, and follow her to the end of a corridor, to a room, dim in the morning sun that just peeks over the window. And there's Mom, lying in bed with her face all bandaged up, her left wrist in a cast, and the tubes leading from her. I've never seen her look more vulnerable or alone than I do now, and this time it only makes me sad. Mom.
She'd like to speak, but—from what they told me in the dead of night—the top of her mouth and nose were both fractured severely. I can see that she'd like to speak, but I can only guess at what she'd say. I think it's, I love you, Amanda. I hope it is, oh how I do. Who else in the world do I have to love me? I gently reach over and smooth a bit of her hair down. I want to cry.
Andrea is, gently, and Val looks a bit red-eyed herself. "We'll take care of her for a while, Michaela," Andrea says. Mom manages a bit of a nod, and Andrea and Val recede from the room like a wave from the beach, obviously meaning to let me have some time alone with Mom.
I sit in one of the chairs and look at her, and she looks back. I can see something in the corner of my eye, the shadow of something against the wall, but I don't dare look. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Mom.... "Get well soon." It's lame, it's clichéd, it's the only thing I can think of to say. I go to the door, but I look over my shoulder one last time as I reach it.
The shadow is sitting in my chair, looking at me. Get well soon.
My fingers convulse on the doorknob, and I nearly fall out of the room, shaking like a leaf.
Val's there in a second, her arm twined around my back to hold me up; she holds me up all the way to their car. My pride tells me to push away, but everything else tells me to let her help: I need all the help I can get. My pride loses.
Once in my room, packing a bag with clothes for my stay at Andrea's family's house, I brush my hair back and look at my face. Funny. I didn't think I had been crying. I grab my bag and head down, picking up my binder on the way. Crisis or not, my pride says I am strong enough to go to school today; for all that Andrea will insist on having me stay the day at her home, drinking tea and flipping through giant books with pictures of barns and sunsets and mountains. Perhaps I am trying to punish myself for all that the shadow has reminded me of—the street and... before.

I'm late to school, missing my first and second classes. Third period is study hall. I don't want that right now; I don't want to think. I sit at a cafeteria table alone and stare at the fake woodgrains, not wanting to get homework or notes from either my first or second hours. I don't want to stare at the woodgrains again, either; I've already figured out that they repeat the exact same pattern every 5.7 inches widthwise and every 1.83 feet lengthwise, and could almost sketch them from memory.
"Amanda," the teacher calls—one of the art teachers spending a useless hour making sure we don't misbehave.
I lever myself up and trudge to the teacher's table of choice. "Yes?"
He hands me a note, and I briefly notice the flecks of dried clay around his fingernails. I wonder what it feels like, to create masterpieces with your hands. Does the clay fee soft and pliable, like whims that you can change to your heart's delight? Or is it harder, like the firm faith some people have in humanity's innate goodness? The harder it is, the more it'll crack into pieces when broken. Then again, who wants to build her life on sand? What I need is rock.
What I have is a note.
Amanda Cerani—
See me in the English office 2nd period, please.
—Miss Pevensie
I show the note to the teacher, and he nods; I pick up my binder and leave. I have no idea what this is about.
The tiles on the hallway floors are speckled with blue and red—I never noticed that before. Somebody's locker is open—a freshman, judging by the Orientation to Life and Careers textbook perched auspiciously in front of the others. And, despite the Pre-Calculus book behind that, this freshman is rather naïve: he's left his wallet visible. I shut the locker as I walk past.
Miss Pevensie is indeed in the English office, waiting—rather, grading vocab tests and expecting me. There's a seat near her, and I take it, waiting for her to speak. I never had her as a teacher, but I've seen her around enough to know her smiling face and pale blue eyes. "Amanda!" she says, cheerful as ever I've seen her. "I suppose you already know I'm Miss Pevensie; I teach Freshman and Sophomore English, as well as Creative Writing. Now, you remember that poem you wrote in Mr. Martin's class a week ago?" Her eyes sparkle—cheerfully, a sparkle that is whole, not rough and jagged like the breaking of glass—and I nod. "Well, that poem's been circulating around the office this past week—and it's really good, Amanda!"
Regarding her cautiously, I let myself show the faint resemblance of a smile. I won't commit myself to anything yet; this has already been the worst day of my life since Dad left.
"Anyway, there's a poetry contest sponsored by the National Endowment for the Arts coming up, and the theme this year is Light and Dark. The general consensus among the English teachers is that we'd like you to write a poem for this contest and enter it next January. How about it?"

Dark—
that's the color of this alley
the alley that shadows walk
Light—
that's the color of what never
never reaches here
Dark—
that's the color of my heart
the heart that shadows haunt
Light—
that's....

I place my head in my hands and rub my forehead. Light... I've said what light isn't, but what is it? I've so many words for darkness, so few for light—except what light isn't.
Miss Pevensie sounds concerned. "Are you all right, Amanda?"
I want to answer, Not at all, but it comes out as "Kind of."
Her mouth twitches up in an attempt at a humorous drawing-out of the truth. "Not a morning person, then?"
I sit back up, and there's something in her that makes me want to tell her. "Not this morning. But I think I have an idea... I'll just have to see if I can work it." There's something in me, something broken, that won't let me tell her.
"That's great! If you're not interested in going back to study hall, then, you can just stay here for the rest of the period."
I pulled out a notebook and leaned over it, scribbling. Erasing. Tearing off paper and making pot-shots at the trash can. Scribbling more. Thinking.

Light—
that's the color of the hospital
the hospital where she is
Dark—
that's what the sky was that night
the night her car embraced the pole
Light—
that's what it looked like, the sparkle
the sparkle of her drink
Dark—
that's what it was when they came
came to tell me about Mom

Scrap it.

And the Light said:
Let Darkness reign for a time
But we will reclaim our own
And....

Do I really believe that? To the trash can with you! A diamonte, a pontoum? Too easy.

It was black
(black as midnight, for it was)
black when she set out
the darkest night
(for it was night, and the stars couldn't be seen)
night when she drove out
and the night was ebony thick
(thick as the pole she wrapped around)
ebony when she hit that tree.

It was white
(white as fluorescent, for it was)
white when she came in
the whitest room
(for the room was clean, and had to be)
room that she came in
and the doctors were wearing white
(white as her blood-drained face)
white when she entered that place.

Am I willing to share this poem with anybody? No. But this one I'll dispose of myself, just like I disposed everything that reminded me of—no, not a poem about that! But I have the words...

shadow following me around
shadow that makes my heart pound
shadow to me speaking
shadow of misery reeking
shadow bringing past to light
shadow I tried to keep in the night
shadow

Maybe.... No! I was trying to forget that—I'm not dragging it out again. It was painful enough the first time; I'm not reliving it.
But...
Maybe if I relive it once more, write it, I'll get it out of my system. Maybe then I'll never have to think of it again.
No. Think of something else—how about Nick? I could get a pretty emotional poem out of that one.
No. I don't share my secrets with anyone.
And, in the midst of this internal spat, the bell rings. I have to pay attention in Math—and I find Math a good damper on my creativity. School picks me up in its busy hands and drags me from place to place—and suddenly I find myself in emptying halls, watching the two streams, one to the buses and one to the parking lot.
School's a lonely place, actually, when you empty it. There's something about the bigness of it, the longness of the halls, that makes you feel small and alone whenever you're the only one there. What do I do now?
And the answer comes. "Amanda!"
It's Emily—Emily, the girl I've barely spoken to since sixth grade—Emily, the friend I used to have, until she chose popularity.
I miss her.
"Amanda!" She stops in front of me and smiles a dazzling smile. "How are you these days?"
I can tell she's uncomfortable, and I don't really want to make this easy for her. Then again… hope does spring eternal, doesn't it. I thought I hated her.
But still there's something broken in me, something that won't let me say everything. "Some up, some down. And yourself?"
"Going steady with Nick." She sees the look in my face; how can she miss it? "You two used to go together, didn't you?"
I nod. Bitter again, too bitter. "For a year, at least."
"You liked him?"
"Thought of nothing but him, Emily." I'm not stupid; she wants my opinion of him. "He was there through thick and thin, but eventually things started to go sour, and we broke up. Got to the point where we couldn't stand each other." Why am I telling her all this?
Because I want her to like me, to feel sorry for me, to do something to Nick, to be my friend again. I think I might be able to tell her more, if she tried to coax it out of me. I might tell her about Mom, or even about the shadow, if she asked.
She looks sympathetic enough, if you ask me. But now I see it's the sympathy of someone who's had an excellent life towards someone whose life has been like mine. It's the Prince and the Pauper, with no chance to switch places. Do I really want her bland, perfect, hypocritical life? Popular, honors student, volleyball champ and head of half the school's volunteer organizations—do I want that?
Yes, I think I do. But I don't have a chance of getting it.
"That's too bad," Emily replies. "Well"—she's finding this an awkward moment—"I was wondering... why do you wear the color black so often?"
"It's the color of mystery. Like night, it means secrets and imagination; I thought that reflected my self." It's the color of my heart, really. Not so much mystery as secrets: Pandora's Box, not the presents under the Christmas tree. I'm pretty sure that Pandora's Box closed just before my hope came out. Then again, I'm still here, aren't I?
"Mystery..." Emily muses. "Interesting.... That's really cool, Amanda! Well, I'd better be going. See you around, yes?"
"Yes." The enthusiasm at her reply, as real as the square root of negative one, drips from mine. That's why she came up to me—to ask about my fashion choice. Such great overtures of friendship!
There it is, out of the corner of my eye.
I turn my head, but nothing's there. I can feel its presence, though; a tingle prances its way up my spine. Where are you? Come out in the open and face me, coward!
No answer. I look around me, at the classroom doors and lockers, and it's not there. I walk slowly up and down the English hallway, glancing in doorways and looking, looking for the shadow that's shaped like a person and talks like a person.
There's a paper fluttering to the ground in front of the stairwell. I pick it up.

Amanda: $50
Michaela (savings behind the loose brick): $87
Nick: $64
Nick's Parents: $128.37
Total: $329.37

My face pales. I thought I had burned this months ago! I glance wildly around, feeling more the hunted than the hunter—which, considering the shadow, is back to usual. Except, of course, I now know what the shadow is—so maybe I can make it go away!
Glance around—nobody's there—I know you're there. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I don't see the shadow, but somehow I can feel it, watching. You're laughable, so big and human-shaped, but I know you're nonsense. You're just a figment of someone's imagination, something I got rid of a long time ago. I'm not afraid of you, because you don't exist, and you were never any more important that a mole, or a freckle, or a tonsil. So go away!
I'm can't see anything leave, but I can almost feel it, a tingle in my spine receding, an untensing of my nerves. When I look down, the paper's gone—just as I had though, it hadn't been any more real than the shadow.

"Hey, Amanda! You coming?" It's Val, and oh, how glad I am to see a friendly human face!
"I'm coming—just let me get my bag," I reply, heading to my locker, followed by Val. A delighted smile can't help twisting at my lips, I'm so glad to be free of that shadow. 46-06-36, pull, and what books do I need? I let out a mock groan at needing both my math book and my physics book, and Val laughs sympathetically—the laugh of a student who knows what it's like to have lots of homework and lots of books. I heft my bag over my shoulder and slam the locker. "Where's Andrea parked?"
"She's out in the Circle Drive, by the gym entrance," Val replies.
"How do you know your way around this school so well, since you don't go here?" I asked, curious.
"Speech meets, mostly. What do you want to do this afternoon, besides homework?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Any suggestions?"
"We could watch a movie, play a game, bake cookies—whatever you like!"
Though almost giddy with possibilities that I now see hope of enjoying, I decide on a common-sense approach. "Homework first, then let's see what we feel like." We take the stairs two at a time, and burst through the doors into the sunlight. Andrea's car is there, and we swing ourselves into the bag seat, flushed and smiling.
"Had a good day, then?" Andrea asks, and she can read the answer on our faces. "Well, I've got a bit of news myself. They had the first operation on Michaela today, Amanda, and it went really well. With another operation or so, and time enough to heal, the bone structure of her face should be fully reconstructed. She should be recovered enough that we can go see her tomorrow night."
My mood a bit dampened, I still find grace enough to smile, because it is indeed good news.

Chapter 3: Burning
Math is done, and Val's helped me get through physics, so now all I have left is the poem. I'd put it off till later, but Val's still plodding through a reader's response to Thoreau's "Civil Disobedience." So... where to begin...?

When the sun goes down and the stars go up
When the moon brings forth its face
When the sky reveals its dipping cup
That's the time, that's the place

I'm gonna dance all night long
Dance until the morning dawns
Dance to the midnight song
I'll dance over fields and lawns

Then the sun comes up and the day begins
Light bringing out all mystery
Light seeking out all my sins
Light making sense of my history

I'm gonna dance all night long
Dance until the morning dawns
Dance to the midnight song
I'll dance over fields and lawns

And all the night I'll have a merry old time
Until the sun brings all to life
Then I'll see my dirt and grime
Then I'll have to lay down all my strife

I'm gonna dance all night long
Dance until the morning dawns
Dance to the midnight song
I'll dance over fields and lawns

And when darkness fades away
The sun'll conquer, the sun'll win
And my night will change to day
The day will bring me in

I'm gonna dance all night long
Dance until the morning dawns
Dance to the midnight song
I'll dance over fields and lawns

I've run from day into the night
It's swallowed me in its fear
In this night I've lost my sight
In the day my hopes seem near

I'm gonna dance all night long
Dance until the morning dawns
Dance to the midnight song
I'll dance over fields and lawn

When the sun goes down and the stars go up
When the moon brings forth its face
When the sky reveals its dipping cup
That's the time, that's the place

Somehow, that poem has exhausted me, as if I've put all my energy into it and have none left for myself. Wiping my head across my forehead, I can feel my sweat; I wipe my hand on my pants, not letting any drip on the flowered bedspread of Andrea's guest room—it's too nice to ruin. Reading over the poem again, I wonder about it; it makes the same tingle go up my back as the shadow did. Rather than let myself stew on it, I tuck it into my binder and leave the room for the kitchen.
Andrea's bustling around the kitchen, making dinner, and the smell of it wafts over me like longing; Mom used to make meals like this. Pasta, salad—no desert yet; Val and I have decided to make cookies. This is a home, a real home—the kind of home I haven't been in since Nick's. But, after ...that...his home held no joy for me; it was simply a place several people lived. Before that home was Emily's, until she left me for popularity, and even before that was my own.
My house hasn't been home since Dad left. No, that's wrong—it hasn't been a home since the time they started fighting. If only it could be a home again. There's a poem there—one's already been written, but surely I could make another. Where's paper? I sit in the living room couch, only a few yards away from the kitchen, and begin.

If only the night was as bright
As the day, or right was might
And not the other way.

If only gray wouldn't stay
But would leave, or

I don't like it, and there's no time to start another one, because Val's done with her homework and it's dinnertime. When was the last time I had a homemade meal? I can't remember. And oh! how good it is! Just the smell makes my mouth water as Val and I set out the silverware. When was the last time I ate at the table with actual silverware? It's been too long. We sit down in wooden chairs, in front of loaded plates, and I'm—well, I think I'm happy.
"Val, would you pray?" Ben, Mom's cousin-in-law, asks.
All three bow their heads and hold hands, their eyes closed, and I do the same because I don't know what else to do—but I leave my eyes open a crack so I can see what happens. My hands meet Val's and Andrea's on either side, and Val begins. "Dear Lord, thank your for this day and for this food. Thank you also that Aunt Michaela is doing better, and please help her to get well. In Jesus' Name, Amen." We release hands and look up, and dinner begins. That's one thing I've never done before—pray. All these other things—eating dinner at the table, being in a home—I've done before, but not this.
But enough. There's food to be eaten, and it looks so good! And it is.

After dinner is done, Val and I have the task of clearing the table and making dessert, two tasks which we do with gusto and idle chatter—classes, mostly, like how we both hate math and find English a bit boring sometimes. The chocolate chips go into the dough, the dough goes on the trays, the trays go in the oven, and all four of us settle in front of the TV to decide what to watch; the consensus is Spiderman I. Cramming into the two couches—Val and I share one, and her parents share the other—we pile blankets on ourselves and pop in the DVD.
We're right at the part where the spider in the laboratory is about to bite Peter when the timer on the oven rings, and we pause it to go get cookies. Despite the fact that they're still a bit mushy and there's no doubt that they're burning hot, we each scrape three or four off the pan and pour tall glasses of milk, then settle in again.
I nearly spill my milk as Norman Osborne throws the other scientist through the big pane of glass, and for a moment all I can see is shattering glass, flying everywhere. When the light-sparkles fade from my eyesight, my right hand is gripping my glass in a death-grip, and Val is looking at me, concerned. I shake my head slightly. It's nothing.
But when Norman, now the Green Goblin, is swooping down on the Quest Aerospace testing sight, it is something, because I can feel the air gusting around me, can feel the deadly triumph that he feels. I close my eyes tightly, and the explosions of fire are, in my mind, fireworks of glass. I look at my skin, and I'm sure that it's gray, going black and scaly in places.
I'm scaring myself, scaring myself out of my wits. Here's a movie, good versus evil, and I'm—well, I'm not quite rooting for evil, but I'm understanding the evil. I know what it feels like to be the Green Goblin so much more than I know what it feels like to be Spiderman—or even one of the innocent characters, like Aunt May or Mary Jane. I should be rooting for the good guys, but I'm not. Sure, I'm not on the bad guys' side—or am I? I think I might be.
I'm scared. Green Goblin? I look at my hands, half human, half black-scaled. Blackwing, the snake that flies through the night, the terror of—well, the terror of every pub. That sounds so ridiculous that I nearly laugh aloud, but the name sticks in my head. That's who, that's what, I am, then: Blackwing. I like the sound of it.
And I'm scared, oh how I'm scared. The walls feel like they're closing in on me, and it's hard to breath.
I take a bit of cookie and wash it down with milk. What's happening in the movie now? I steel my eyes on it, watching, and I only tremble at two other parts. When the Goblin kills those people on the balcony, I tremble because inwardly I'm cheering for him, angry at how unjust they were to him, just like liquor was to Mom. And I tremble when he dies, because I don't want that to happen to me—I don't, I don't! Do I?

Do I? That's what I wonder in the middle of the night, wonder as I stare at the ceiling, barred with stripes of white cast by the streetlight outside, my covers pulled up to my chins and held there, clutched there, a refuge from the world. Do I?
The door creaks open, just a bit, and I look over, fearing, wondering.
There's a lady in white, surgical white, coming to me, her face grim, her hands holding a little bowl. She's coming towards me, step by step, and I stare at her, unable to move. It's not until she's leaning over me that I know who she is: Nick's mother. How did she get here? How did she know where I was?
She dips her finger in the bowl, and it comes out red, red and dripping. The finger comes towards me, closer, closer; it pauses above my face and begins its descent.
Blood. She's painting my lips with blood. I can feel it dripping down my cheeks like tears from my mouth, I can taste the metal of it, I can't move, I can't say a word.
I'm standing in the middle of a crowd, tied to a stake, and my feet are covered with wood. My fingers move frantically, weaving and burning, torn and bleeding from the nettles I'm weaving with. The crowd is shouting, shouting about witches and eating children and burn her, burn her! I look for the swans, the seven swans that should be my brothers, come to save me. But they aren't there, they're the children it's said I ate, there's no one to rescue me and all I can see is the man with the torch, coming closer and closer to burn me away and my hands sting and my mouth is still closed, painted with blood, dripping with blood just like my eyes are dripping with tears—
—and now I'm holding the torch, leaning down to the pile of wood, and I look up, and there's the shadow tied to the stake, crying and bloody all over. I look down at the torch I'm carrying, and the flames spreading from the torch to the wood, and it's too late to stop. A single drop of blood falls onto the wood from my mouth, and the shadow whimpers, the whimper of a child who's afraid.
I wake with a start, my right fist clenched on a handful of blanket. There's no one in the room—no woman, no shadow, no crowd. I hate the Brothers Grimm and their stupid fairy tales. Now go to sleep, Amanda Safiyya Cerani, and don't dream. Whatever you do, don't dream.

Chapter 4: Meeting Saul
"Amanda," come musical notes from the doorway. "You'd better get up or you'll be late for school."
"I'm coming," I groan, rolling over, and rolling myself over again and swinging my feet over the side of the bed. Fumbling for clothes, I grab what I need and stumble to the door. spilling into the hallway only to see that Val's already beaten me to the bathroom. Letting out another groan, this one more comic than tired, I slide my back down the wall and sit on the floor outside the bathroom door, waiting and smelling—could that be pancakes? Naah.... Then again....
The bathroom door pops open and Val skips out, already dressed and ready for the day. I stumble into the bathroom, and—ten minutes later—come out, as ready for the day as she, and hungry for the fresh pancakes being served.
"Would you like to visit your mother this afternoon?" Andrea asks. I nod silently and emphatically.

witches eat their children
that's what legend says
that witches eat their children
and should be burned at the stake

there are child-warriors in the world
forced to fight to stay alive
not here with guns to stay alive
here—

For the umpteenth time I stop my poem in the middle and crumple it into a ball of paper to be burned someday, someday when I can be alone in the wind and snow and commit my nightmares to the cold oblivion of winter and the hot ashing of fire. I already have at least four trashed poems in my bag, waiting to be taken to my empty house. I already know which day I'm going to burn them; it'll be one year exactly, during Christmas Break, and that's when I'll burn them, go out in the yard in the dead of night, wrapped in only my pajamas. I'll sit in the lee of the fence and light the match; I'll have to try several times to get the paper burning, it'll be so windy and cold. Once it's burning, I think I'll hold it as it turns to ashes; if I'm going to be spared burning at the stake, I'm not going to spare myself this.
The cafeteria is so big, so empty—even with thirty students, a teacher, and several cafeteria workers in it. There's no one at my table; there never is.
But that changes soon enough; a new student has just found his way to class, and my table is his table of choice. I bring out a new sheet of paper and stare at it, but, this time, my poem is slow in coming. I glance up at the new student cautiously; he looks as if he'd rather be in the secret chambers of the Inquisition than here. Where do ye hark from? I whisper in almost sepulchral tones, my fancy exaggerating a sudden Old English impulse and mixing it with my curiosity.
He looks at me strangely, but apparently he knows the meaning of the word 'hark.' Ross Juvenile Detention Center. And ye?
A nightmare. Having satisfied my craving for Old English conversation, I switch to good old everyday English. What's your name?
Saul. He says it with disgust, as if it was worse than a crime—from the ease of the words "Ross Juvenile Detention Center," he probably thinks it is.
I'm Amanda.
So, how are the teachers here? Straitlaced or lazy?
I shrug. It varies. There are always a few nice ones, a few mean, and plenty in between. Watch out for the math teachers; they tend to get ticked off over the littlest things. About half the English teachers are pretty nice, but they can't help it that their subject is boring. Anyway....
How about the students?
I've had few good experiences with any of them since my best friend left me for the popular crowd six years ago. Some of them are OK, but I tend to stick to my homework and poetry. What's it like in the Detention Center?
Saul rolls his eyes. People with dead end careers watching over worthless troublemakers. You know what to say, they'll declare you sane and no longer an emerging menace to society. Took me long enough to figure that out.
Nodding, I look back at my paper, willing my hand to move the pencil to it and make it write. My hand disdains obedience, mostly because my mind is having a hard time figuring out what it wants my hand to write. I'm tired of this Light and Dark theme, and of poetry in general. A short story, perhaps? My hand finally strays towards the paper, and I watch in idle amusement as it begins to draw and write. A tree edges the paper first, a bare old oak tree, with the last leaves of fall still clinging to its gnarled branches. It covers the top and right sides of the paper in quick strokes, and dead leaves tile the paper's bottom, broken only by a small mound of fresh-turned earth. But I bring forth another paper, and its left side is of a little girl, intent upon the contents of her cupped hands. On the right is a woman, squatting down to see.
Then comes the writing, interrupted only by the falling of pencil-gray leaves and the flight of a single bird.

When I was only five, I found a little bird on the side of the road, fallen out of its nest. Cradling the tiny creature in my chubby hands, I looked down at it, awed by the minute perfection of its little wings and head. Even at such a young age, though, I could tell that it was hurting. And to me, the one who knew all remedies, knew all solutions to skinned knees and jammed toes, was Mom. So I carried the precious bundle to her, careful in every way, lest I hurt the bird. Sure enough, Mom knew what to do; she and I together prepared a shoe box, lined with rags, and nestled the bird in a bed fit for a queen. I dubbed it Flutter, and as I named it, I could see myself with it, flying far above this autumn-painted neighborhood. As Flutter rested, I went out and dug up, with a trowel found in the garage, three worms, and offered them to her. She wouldn't eat, though, so I let her sleep.
All night long I dreamed, dreamed about flying with Flutter. In my dreams, Mom flew with us, and I had never been happier. When I woke, I rushed to Flutter's side, hoping that today would be the day we could fly.
And she was dead. Flutter—dead. I wept, running out to the oak tree in our backyard and hugging it for dear life. Before my tears were spent, I was on my knees by that tree, pulling dirt and grass out of the way with my bare fists. I buried her there, and charged the old oak with her protection. Thus died a dream, as they have died ever since.

I stop my writing, literally breathless from the intensity of its writing, and fight back tears. I only cry in my nightmares; why should I cry about a silly little bird that died eleven years ago?
Because I loved that bird, that's why. I loved it, and crying is what you do when you lose something you love. So—how often have I cried in the past day or two? I cried at Mom, I cried at the shadow in my dream, I am nearly crying at this. But why am I doing this? Mom's still around, going to get better; I got over that bird years ago, and the shadow doesn't exist. Those three images stick in my mind, though: Mom in that hospital bed, bandaged and IVed, the little bird lying in that shoe box, unmoving, and a shadow tied to a stake, bloody and crying. I never loved that shadow.
Why does it always come back to the shadow? It's haunted me for the past seven months or so, mostly just by appearing where it shouldn't be. Shadows shouldn't follow you around and talk to you, and shadows certainly shouldn't infiltrate your dreams, tied to stakes and bleeding and crying and whimpering like little children. Am I schizophrenic? I wonder if I am.
Do you mind if I read this? I jump at the quiet sound of Saul's voice, but nod. He slides the papers over to his side of the table, and I stare glumly at them as he reads. This is really good, he says once he's through. Did that really happen?
Sure did. I'd say more, but the bell rings, and it's off to math class again.

Chapter 5: Children
The child development classes in my school do a daycare, and one of the things they do with the children is have them perform for classes once a semester; this semester, it is the turn of my English class. They've set up their equipment in the auditorium, and several other English classes join us in filing in to watch.
The curtains open on a princess sitting on her throne/bejeweled computer chair. "There's a beautiful ruby that I want," she begins, then falters.
But the great big, comes a whisper from the front: the teacher, acting as prompter, is proving her value already.
"but the great big dragon has it!" she finishes triumphantly. "Who will get it for me?"
A horde of three cardboard-armored knights spill on stage from the wings, shouting loudly, "We'll try! We'll try!" They race off stage, and the curtains close.
When the curtains open again, there's a girl in pigtails milking a two-person cow. The knights race on stage with the same fervor as before, shouting requests for directions to the girl. "That way," lows the cow, sticking a hastily-retrieved human arm from the middle of its stomach. The girl nods emphatically. "It's that way."
In the next scene, we see the dragon, scaly and bright in its—mostly high-school level—paper mache hide. It growls with three different voices, and the arms by the head section wave a big piece of red-painted wood: the ruby. In runs the first knight, waving a cardboard sword. "Give me the ruby, dragon!"
"Never!" yells the dragon's head. "I'm going to—to—"
"Eat you!" shrieks the tail. "Kill you and eat you, kill you and eat you," chant the three parts, giggling hysterically. With one mock punch, the dragon sends the knight to the ground in a dramatic fall, bends over him, and wiggles its horny head. Apparently, being eaten tickles, but the dead knight stops laughing when the dragon lifts its head to face the next knight, which it also swiftly devours.
Enter the gallant third knight, who actually uses his sword. The dragon slumps to the ground in a somewhat awkward position, as the tail tries to slump to the wrong side. The princess dances on stage and plants a resounding kiss on the knight's cheek. "My hero!"
And that's the end to a cute play put on my adorable little children. Behind my smile and clapping hands, my heart is frozen. I never want to have children—ever.

I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home. In fact, I'd settle for anywhere but this place—I'd have to, because I'm not sure where home is. But that's beside the point. The point is:
I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home. Some people call Heaven home, but I don't think they'd let me in, so maybe home means my house, or Val's, or Mom's hospital room. Or maybe home is even the little world my nightmares inhabit, the little world I'm so nice and cozy in every night. Why can't I stop having nightmares?
Of course you can stop having nightmares. Just look away, stupid.
But it's like reading a horror story; it's so grotesque a fascination that you can't put it down. And I can't look away. Can't? Won't? Is this some bizarre form of self-punishment? It probably is at that, so I'll just go on watching until the bell rings. I won't even blink, or cringe, or put my head in my hands. I'll go right on punishing myself, just like always.
So what am I seeing? Well, it looks like a waterfall of blond hair, cascading down two well-shaped shoulders that lead to the rest of a perfectly-shaped body. I'm not envious of that body, really, or that perfect hair. I'm not sure I'm even envious about what's right next to that body, which just happens to be Emily's. Nick is by her side; all said and done, I don't think I'm envying her for having him. And no, not loathing, hating, or despising, either.
And I'm not envying Nick for being next to Emily. I don't hate, or loathe, or despise him for that. I'm wishing the smiles they've got on their faces were for me. Yes, that's right, for me.
Selfish, selfish, selfish. Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself, Amanda Safiyya Cerani?
Yes—Mom and Val and Emily and Nick—and why can't I forget that cursed shadow? But I do think of others, I do.
I wish Flutter hadn't died. But Flutter's not what I'm looking at, what I'm torturing myself with. All right, then: I wish Emily hadn't left me. I wish Nick and I hadn't broken up. It's out in the open—is that better?
Me, me, me.
Stop repeating words three times in a row. Stop mocking me—is there nothing in this sad little person sitting alone at a lunch table to have compassion on? Does anybody care for this bleeding girl, bleeding from the scars of self-inflicted torture?
I certainly don't. So there's the answer—why can't I stop torturing myself? Because I'm merciless, pitiless, guilty, and I can't help but hate myself for being like that, and I can't stop hating myself for hating myself.
Who will free me from this endless procession of misery? Will it be Emily or Nick? No—they've already had their turns, and only messed me up worse. Or maybe I messed myself up worse because of them. Whatever. Will it be Mom, then? But I think she's going to have hard enough a time finding someone else to free her. I would, but I don't know how. Val and Andrea? They may be working on it; I don't really know. The shadow?
Stop thinking about that stupid, stupid shadow.
Yeah. I can stop thinking about that shadow, just like I can stop watching Nick and Emily make out. Just like I can get myself out of this mess, just like I can write that Light and Dark poem. Just like I'll wake up in the morning and find that this has all been a dream, and I'm still five, and Flutter's alive downstairs, and I can stop Dad from leaving. Yeah. Just like that.
The bell rings, and that's as close to freedom as I'll ever get. I sit at my empty table a moment longer, looking at the empty spaces where Nick and Emily were sitting. Then I pull myself up, a ninety-year-old woman just waiting for death to come and set her free from this body, this life, that are so cumbersome.

hate so pure
hate so vivid
of one thing I'm sure:
that I'm livid

That rhyme scheme is horrible.

black iron lock and black iron key
black is my heart and I long to be free
because when all is black it's so hard to see

red are my wrist and my ankles too
red with blood as I try to break through
only creating my pain anew

white is my face and white is my brow
white as to my chains I bow
having no choice for now

black red and white I bow my head
as I follow the paths where I am led
not by myself but by the dead

I'm looking for the keys again; they aren't where I thought they'd be. In fact, they're nowhere to be seen; I though that, if I looked again, I might find them. I guess I was wrong; it seems like Mom's going to stay in her own little prison cell, because her bumbling, depressed daughter can't find a simple little key. Maybe it's the phrase, I love you. Maybe not. Maybe the key isn't something I'll ever find. Maybe Dad took the key with him when he left. Maybe the key dissolved in alcohol, like metal in hydrochloric acid. And again I'll say three words in quick succession: maybe, maybe, maybe.
I roll my head on the back seat of Andrea's car and look out the window. Why does the sky have to be gray on today, of all days? Why couldn't it be a cheerful blue, like the color of crayons, with a happy, smiling sun? Because life isn't like that, I guess. What is life like? For me, anyway, life is probably like today—bleached and too blah to even have substantial shadowing below anything at all. Cold—the cold that makes your bones ache, but isn't cold enough to merit a jacket. And quiet, too—no cute little Disney bluebirds singing in the trees—not even the rumble of distant thunder. The sky disdains the earth too much to give it more than a sprinkling at the most inconvenient times for those who wander the earth, and the earth both prides itself in its drought and longs, longs with all its very self, for water. That's my life, all right—not a quenching drop of water for years. Not enough rain wets my parched soul, and I have nothing to give to Mom. There's no flower of prose or poem, no act of devotion that could possibly mean anything, no key to unlock the cell bars.
But if there's no key, perhaps I can destroy those bars. Literally destroy those bars.
But we're in the hospital parking lot now, so that'll have to wait. Out the door—and I wish Val had been able to come, too; she'd have looked over the top of the car at me and smiled. Andrea's not at the right angle or in the right presence of mind to do anything of the sort.
Up the stairs—I remember going down them what, two nights ago? I'll do the same again tonight—and through the halls. Mom's in a different room, another flight up, and she has no roommate. I'm glad of that—selfish pig that I am—because I don't want another woman to see me cry as I sit by Mom's bed. It's almost worse when you're getting ready to cry, because it's so much easier to continue than to start. I don't have a very hard time starting or continuing.
You're Amanda—you don't cry.
Just watch me.
They'll need to operate again soon, the doctor says. Hopefully it'll go well.... I'm going to crash some parties tonight, and I'm going to break some things and smash some things and shatter some things. But most importantly, I'm going to dump some highly toxic liquids on the ground; they pollute less there.

And now for the glass-breaking episode of my day. Night. The total is three parties crashed, smushed, obliterated, one supermarket liquor section set on fire, two pubs decimated, an unknown number wounded, and five dead. Oh, and one child who got in my way conspicuously not dead; I will not kill children. From now on, I will not kill children.
It's not as if you ever have.
Shut up.

The glass-shattering, drink-spilling hours felt a lot more satisfying than my middle-of-the-night hour. Nearly doubled over in pain, I search fumblingly through the bathroom medicine cabinet.
Ages twelve and up: one tablet every four hours.
Ages two to twelve: consult a doctor.
Warning: do not use if pregnant or nursing.
I put each back on the shelf, just like I put each back on the shelf when I had a headache what? Eight months ago? It feels like that time all over again. A simple, safe headache medicine can't be that hard to find.
Oh, yes it can. But remember, you don't have a headache this time.
It's so easy to forget, sometimes. I grab the nearest bottle of pain reliever and swallow a pill hurriedly, before I change my mind.
And back to bed.
I have the covers pulled up to my chin before I think of it. I sit up, staring at the darkened room in horror. I've never told Mom, or Andrea, or Val. I can't, ever. If I hate me this much, what will they think of me?
Earning love is too hard, I whisper to myself as I lie back down. But do I have any other choice?
And even worse: can I even earn it?
I want to go home. Oh, how I want to go home.
If only they would let me in.
And then I have to get up to write that poem, just because that's who I am: the Amanda who writes poems about light and dark and going home where the glare of white and the abyss of black don't hurt her eyes. Maybe it would be better to be blind, blind as those already in their graves.

home
oh, how I long to go there
where the grass is green and the sun is bright
and the fairies dance all night
home
where the children play
and cars never hit them as they cross the street
in the wake of a yellow ball
home
oh, how I long to go there
to peace and rest and joy and hope and love
things I've found nowhere else but
home

And to sleep, real sleep this time. Sleep that isn't filled with nightmares, doesn't exhaust me more than waking. Yes, sleep....