Winged

Caged in Feathers

I don't get fairy tales. "Happily Ever After" doesn't apply here, in this world. There are no knights, no princes, and no daring quests. My feet are too big for glass slippers. My dresses are too short for waltzing at balls. I am not a princess. I have no royalty to me. I don't expect to find my way.

All I have is war, and there is no prophecy of my victory. I plan the set up, line up the troops, and lead the pack with a sword in hand. I am at battle with my own life, and my words are my men. They've been beaten and bruised by continuous onslaught of my own cruel fate, but they are still good men. They still hold up their shields, and raise their bloodied swords. We all mourn those we lose. All victories are somber events.

Even now, standing stiff behind my make-shift fruit cart, I feel my men regrouping. The tension in the air makes their skin tingle with anticipation. They eat their share of the rations. They grind the edge of their dulling metal. They sleep. They cry. They mourn. They pray to go home to their families. They stand, march into their line-ups, and cross tundra of my mind for the next brutal attack. We only work defense here.

I do not get fairy tales. I only have war.

My cart rolls a few feet forward, banging ever so slightly on the cobble stone path. Scraping at the hinges of metal like steel sharpening on a stone. It is dull. It is comforting. I watch people wince as I roll past. The grey fabric of my skirt clinks against my legs like armor. It is heavy and stiff in the humid summer air. I watch the apples slide between the watermelons as my cart rocks against a misplaced stone. I slow as not to bruise them. The merchants sneer at me, and I feel my men stiffen. I feel them anticipate another attack. I try my best to soothe their anxiety. We want no battles today I remind them and myself. We do not start our wars they murmur back.

I near the edge of the merchant district, speeding up slightly to pass the other fruit vendors on the block. I feel their sneers, their coughs, their judgments. These people are not very fond of those like me. A rotten tomato hits my back. My men draw their swords and I hush them. No wars today. No wars.  I swallow, and turn my cart out of the district. Today is not the day to sell in their block. Most days aren't. 

The day moves on slowly. Another tomato lands at my feet as I make my way back through the district on my way home. My men sigh, stalled and slow from their anticipation. No battles today, I tell them. You all can go home. I watch them retreat to their tents. I hear the pens writing letters to wives and children as I push my cart out of the gates of town. The fires of my soldiers light themselves as I roll my cart through empty fields. My men eat dinner, smoked duck and cooked rabbit, as I reach my home stable and put my cart inside the empty stall. My horse whinnies next to me. I hush her with a stroke on the nose and turn for the door of my cottage. By the time I enter my home, my men, my words, have fallen asleep in their beds, exhausted from the wasted time.

My father sits in the back room as always, running a finger over a small eucalyptus tree, potted inside one of my old boots. I watch as his fingers dance across the leaf, lighting it slightly with an odd glow. My father shifts in his chair and smiles as I walk over. Plant bends towards his movements, twisting to touch my father’s fingers more.

“How was sales?” His voice cracks from misuse, warn by the hot days of nearing summer.

“Poor as usual. I don’t understand why we still sell Papa. You know they don’t like us.”

A grunt echoes from my father’s throat as his brow furrows, pulling his long greyed hair slightly into his eyes. The plant at his fingers grows rigged at my father’s sudden shift in mood. It’s truck thickens, and unusual barbs spike from its branches. He soothes it with a light pat.

“Their fruit is no better than ours” is his response. I heave a deep sigh.

“You know that is not why they don’t buy Papa. Your magic is unwanted. I am unwanted. We both scare them.”

“Humanity is scared of many irrational things, might as well add fruit to the list.” At that, my father lies back into his chair. The small tree winds its way around his pointer finger as a sigh drifts him into slumber. He doesn’t understand. I wonder if he ever will. I wonder if he fights for his ignorance. I stand there for a bit, memorizing the soot that coats his forehead and the crinkles that lines his eyes. As hardy as my father is, as woodsy and as strong, I know he hasn’t much longer here. This world has drained him. No doubt I have too. 

I let him rest and make my way to the small mirror across the hall.

A dirty girl stares back at me, haloed by two large white wings. My light hair is stained dark by the time on the streets. My eyes, a light blue, hide behind the mess of grime coating me. My skin is charred by the skin. And yet these wings, these foul white wings, gleam a pure white behind me. How I despise them. I pluck a feather out of their white exterior and cringe at the pain. 

I wish my father would just conform. Take the cure. Spare himself from the pain society thrusts upon us. It isn’t hard, they give out bottles in town. But no, he would rather stay here, exiled, spending the rest of his life with his plants and his monstrous daughter.

I wander into my room at the end of the cottage, where the fire’s warmth doesn’t reach. Without the fruit cart’s constant scraping, I now hear my wings against the wooden floor. It is a dull noise, but one I hate. My men rustle in their sleep at the sound. From the pocket of my dress, I pull out the cure I grabbed while in town and place it onto the small table at the foot of my bed. 

I want to be free of these burdens, these obnoxious weights on my back. I want to walk into town without curses and stares and sneers. I want to be normal, to lose these awful things. 

I uncork the small vial and swallow it in one gulp, cringing at the putrid taste. The empty vial joins its empty brothers back on the table as I lay down in bed and close my eyes, my wings resting at my side. 

Another heavy sigh breathes its way out of me. I don’t know why the cure doesn’t work for me, but I’ll keep taking it. I’ll take it until I drink it all.

I fall asleep to the smell of the awful liquid escaping from my lips.