Problems with Being Me

The morning’s chilly. I pull my hoodie on quickly. Problem with Being Me: it is very hard for me to control my body temperature. The hoodie settles around my waist, and the sleeves swallow my arms. Perk of Being Me: I have my father’s old hoodie to remedy the previous problem when it’s cold. I step out from where I live and onto the streets, pulling the hood over my head until it covers my face. Problem with Being Me: my skin is vaguely grey. You can’t imagine the looks I get when people notice. I jam my hands into my pockets and walk on, staring at the ground. Problem with Being Me: this probably makes me look like some kind of gang member.

I pass a group of three boys. They look up as I walk by, and one detaches from the group. He starts to follow me and I sigh. Soon he’s right behind me and he pulls a knife from his sleeve. “You the kid of the leader?” His voice is dry and scratchy. I sigh again.

Problem with Being Me: I get challenged a lot.

He takes my silence as the yes it is and lunges at me. I duck suddenly and to the left, dropping into a quick roll. I come out of the roll before he has time to straighten himself from stumbling and pull my knife out of the pocket of my jeans. I rip the sheath off as he turns to face me and sink it into his stomach, ripping it out of him in one smooth movement. He chokes and falls to his knees, arms clutched over the stab wound. His friends come running to his side. I pick up my sheath and cover my now bloody knife, tucking it back into my pocket, and walk away. Perk of Being Me: I have never lost any of these challenges.

He raises his injured voice in a throaty growl as his friends try to console him. He shouts after me. He shouts why didn’t I finish him. He shouts am I too much of a coward. He shouts do I plan on just walking away from him oh he didn’t think so he’d be back one day to put me in my place. Then I round the corner and his cries fade into the distance. Problem with Being Me: killing is not, has never been, and will never be in my nature.

I tuck my hands back in the pocket of my hoodie, getting a little blood on it, but that’s okay. This hoodie has seen a lot of blood, and it will see plenty more. Same goes for my knife. Both were gifts from my father. Gifts of sorts, anyways. My mother gave me her curse. I guess that counts as a gift.

A series of staccato footsteps sound behind me, and the two boys that I didn’t stab in the gut from earlier show up after me. They catch up to me, their breath gasping. “You…are…the…daughter…right?” One of them finally says, catching his breath in between words. The other points at his friend as if saying he has the same question.

“I am a daughter.” I answer, choosing my words in such a way that neither confirms nor denies what they are asking me.

“Wings.” The other one gasps. “I wanna see.”

I sigh for the third time. Problem with Being Me: I have wings. Another Problem with Being Me: everyone and their mother want to see them.

“They’re under my clothes.” I tell the two boys. “Under my shirt. I can’t bring them out now.”

They shoot each other looks and turn back to me as if to say they don’t mind. Sighing for the fourth time, I tip back my hood and shake my black hair free, staring them down as they shrink back from my strange features. “I’d rather not.” I say, my words tinged with a growl. They hesitate and I make a move to pull my knife out. They mumble something like ‘didn’t really care anyways’ and vanish around the corners. Perk of Being Me: the things that tend to give me problems keep me safe as well.

I continue on, rubbing my hands together to reclaim some warmth. A flower shop comes into view. I stop in front of the windows longingly. Problem with Being Me: I can’t buy anything here, or anywhere else. I don’t have the money, not like they would even sell me things, and anyways they’re closed. It’s too early in the morning. I stare at a few displays of some kind of delicate white flower. They’re very beautiful…

After a few minutes I continue on, empty handed like every time before and probably for every time after. Maybe one day I’ll be able to walk into that shop and buy those flowers. It would be nice.

The sun is turning the sky a gentle bluish-grey color. This is when I would go outside to play with my mother when I was a little girl, provided it wasn’t too cold. I take a deep breath of the cool, fresh morning air, and it quiets the fires inside of me. Nearby is a small café. I walk up to the door and knock on it softly, even though the sign says it won’t open for a few more hours. The owner opens the door when she sees that it’s me. She waves me inside.

“What do you want today?” Her voice is soft as she sets a place for me at the counter. I’m not sure whether this counts as a Problem or a Perk, but this is the only place in town I can get lunch or whatever. I sit down at the place she set.

“I don’t know. Something small, not really that hungry. Maybe something with fruit.” My answer is as soft as her question.

“Right…today’s….” She offers me a small smile and disappears into the kitchen. I play with my napkin until she returns with a couple pieces of toast covered in jam with a cup of strawberries on the side. She puts the food in front of me along with a fork. I pull a few crumpled bills from my pocket and put them on the counter, then eat in silence. When I am done I flip my hood back over my head, thank the owner, and leave.

It’s getting even lighter now. I need to get there faster if I want to get home before late morning. I feel my shirt rip a little and pull up the sleeve of my hoodie. One of my skin scales has ripped straight through the already weak fabric. Problem with…oh I give up I’m too tired for that wry humor stuff.

I push the gate open when I reach it and enter the small grassy yard. I sit down on my knees in front of a smooth stone. For a while there’s only silence. Then, with tears threatening to prick my eyes, I run my hand over the names etched in the cool surface. “Good morning.” I whisper.

Problem with Being Me: my parents are dead.