Quince

FAY

Iroll on my back and stare at the ceiling, the wooden ceiling fan spinning lazily. I close my eyes and sip in the motion of air.

If only one of the blades could detach and cut my head off.

It would save me from overthinking the shit-show that is my life.

I'm not talking about a slice of life kinda shit-show; I'm talking about an ongoing one. It's the one that sticks to your person like, well... shit.

This thing I have with Tyke opened my eyes in a not-so-nice way.

It's one of those nasty reality checks a self-entitled fairy goes through every now and then.

Which is never.

It's not Tyke's fault—it will never be; and I will fight tooth and nail if someone ever says the contrary. Still, it's true that ever since we started seeing each other, I can't deny that it's been a really fucked-up rollercoaster ride.

Yes, I see the stares whenever I'm with him, full of disgust, horrid fascination, and condescendence. Once, I was even slapped across the face as we walked downtown—apparently, holding an orc's arm wasn't the most popular thing to do.

And from it, Tyke was suspended for a month for a reason I don't want to bring up.

Only Donna and her pack know I hang out with Tyke, aside from a handful of fae.

Initially, I tried to keep my face straight in public.

Tried...

But then, the possibility of running into one of my parents' acquaintances was too much to handle. The idea of walking beside him before, during, and after a short walk had to sink in. And it never really did. Then, for days, paranoia would chase me wherever I went, whenever my phone rang, or whenever my father visited.

I tried breaking down all the wrongs, distance myself from prejudicial attitudes and other preconceived notions.

It's not worth fighting. Haters gonna hate, no matter what.

Tyke once told me, "You can't understand, and I never want you to."

I thought I had some backbone, feeling tough and cool that day, and I couldn't resist responding, "They can try me. I'll bite back."

"Your call," he said.

My call. I fight a frown, trying to find sense out of it.

I couldn't run the distance; it was just too much.

I only had a taste of specism, which nearly crushed me, but Tyke is branded by it and looks at me each time, beaming.

I'm just a coward.

Now, we pretend to be strangers in public. And it's probably for the best because if my mother?—

My mother...

My face tingles with the simple thought of her, adding to the heartbeat that flows down my legs.

I slap my face, rubbing it as if I could wash away the deeply encrusted angst.

If she ever found out, it would destroy her.

I glance at the picture frame on my wall.

"Fay, I need an answer."

Gathering my legs under me, I rest my phone on my lap. He wants an answer, but I don't have one.

My gaze flickers to the phone floating in my palm before returning to the portrait.

If Tyke only knew how damaged my family was, how many skeletons were in my closet...

Quince... The little boy with pixie dust in his hair, a chocolate mouth, and as much on his fingers.

His last photo.

The memory flash I'm trying so hard to bury rises to the surface.

I unhook the object. I don't know why I keep passing my fingers over Quince's plumpy cheeks—it's just glass.

It hurts to miss him so much. His arms were always around my neck, whispering secrets while he hugged me.

"Wake up, my love." I open my eyes groggily, the smell of fresh moss tickling my nose. A little smile sneaks onto my face when I look up at Mommy's face, feeling her hand softly touching my cheek.

"Fayra, hurry up," she says, pulling the duvet from me. "Hurry."

Small hands come tickling under my armpits as I stretch. "Wake up. Wake up... Tickle, tickle, tickle."

"Quincy, stop it." I laugh, twisting from this winged muffin.

Mommy's angry whisper cuts us. "Hush!"

I lift on my elbows, rumbling sounds of chairs and objects being knocked over rising through the floorboards. A cold feeling fills my chest, thumps of it hardening. "Mommy?"

Shoes on, she's hustling around the bedroom, panting, huffing, wiping her eyes as she treads over my bedcover. Then she stops, and my breathing imitates hers. Her green glowing eyes lift on me. She looks angry. Maybe she saw that Quince and I scribbled on the guestroom walls downstairs...

"Grab your teddy and stay close. Don't make a peep, sweeties."

I push myself out of bed and hold Quincy's and Mr. Smoot's hands.

Thud.

Clank.

Clash.

My legs stiffen. "Mommy!?"

Mom lunges at us and, kneeling, wraps her hands around our mouths.

"Don't talk, just breathe." As I gaze at Mom, I catch a twinkle in her eye. The sight of her wings glistening green makes me clutch Mr. Smoot tighter. "Don't make a sound," she mutters before withdrawing her hands from us, then trilling for my father, her bird-like whistle immediately lifting my skin.

Danger.

"Where's Dada?" Quince keeps pulling at my arm for the door.

I squeeze his hand. "Daddy's coming. Behave."

Mom presses her lips on my cheek, and fright overtakes me when she removes them from my skin and stands. "Mommy, I'm scared."

"Stay together," she says, turning toward my window, footsteps trailing behind her.

I try clinging to her leg, but she pulls away. "Fayra. Please..."

My clasp around Quince tightens. He blows raspberries at me, and I yank at his arm for him to stop.

As I watch Mom open the window, a gust of wind bursts inside, lifting my drawings pinned to the walls. I can't contain Quince as he tries to catch those detached flying around the room. "Quince, stay with me."

It's a storm of paper and shadow, Quince's black wings blending with the darkness. "I catch your rainboos."

"It's rainbows..." I whisper, staring up at the ceiling. Glowing stones of all colors clank against one another like chimes. Daddy said the amount of light they emit depends on the room's energy.

It is steadily rising...

"Quiet!" Mom whispers again. While she stares into the night, her back heaves, her wings flat against her spine.

My feet won't move. They're stuck to the floor like glue, and all I want to do is hide under the bed.

"Melinda, don't wait!" My father's murmurings grow until his silhouette is at my bedroom's doorframe.

"Daddy, it was me. Quince only handed me the brushes; I painted on the wall."

"Fay, everything is alright," he murmurs, camped at the threshhold. Like Mom, he's breathing hard, slinging his leather satchel over his shoulder.

I squeeze my teddy. "It's okay, Mr. Smoot. Everything is okay."

"Quincy?" Skirting the walls, Mommy's probing the small units looking under my desk, in my closet... "There's no time to hide, little knight."

I look around. The floor is carpeted with my drawings, but Quince is not there.

Mom's whispers sharpen as she stills, clasping her face. "Lark, where is Quince? He was just next to me!" She repeatedly pushes her fingers into her hair, turning on herself as she sobs quietly. "Where is Quince!?"

"Shit!" My father's wings begin to glow, and soon, I cannot see him anymore.

A quiet sob erupts from me as my chest trembles.

"Don't fear, Fay. All's okay." My mother pats me on the head, but it just increases the wheezing sound my throat is making.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

A lot of booming and crashing is going on, like dishes being smashed and wood hitting the floor and walls. The whole house is shaking from it. I jump to a loud bang like someone threw the fridge across the living room. Then grunts, angry ones. Not my father's... coarser, thicker, and they grow louder as heavy pieces knock into one another as if being stacked up, the sound intensifying at every clunk.

"You scums! I won't let you go up there," my father shouts.

Nostrils flare as I zero in on my doorway, focusing on the penumbra, listening to many rugged, raw breaths echoing up in the corridor.

We don't have stairs.

We fly from one level to another.

Someone is coming!

I squeeze her wrist. "Who's there!?"

"Shh, everything's under control."

Suddenly, my mother shoves me behind her and points at my door with the fake wand. I'm squinting, confused as to why she's using the object so late at night, too.

"Mommy, what are you doing with the wand?"

The replica is usually hung high on the dining room wall for decoration.

"We're playing a little game, sweetheart."

I know it's not a game as I grip my mother's leg, which is trembling under my grip.

I cling to her harder. "Mommy, who's in the house?"

"It's okay, baby. Just hold on to me. We're going to have a night flight, you and I."

"But what about Daddy and Quince?!"

"Dadda! Ahh!"

"Mommy! Why is Quince crying?!"

"Devon!" my father yells.

Daddy!

My mother shudders, gasping for air as tears and cries overwhelm her.

Speedy hands clamp at my waist, and my feet lift. "Mommy! Wait! Wait for them."

"Fay, they'll be right behind us. Now, hold tight!"

My mother's clasp is still printed in my memory, her quivering breath, her gut-wrenching whimpers. How her hands shook as she held me in her arms and took off in the dead of night.

And how I watched, my chin on my mother's shoulder, my father, covered in blood, following us, his face wet with tears and full of hate.

I will never forget the look of dread.

And as I saw our house grow smaller and smaller, an orc appeared at the window, holding Quince's head by the hair. A little head, all by itself.

He was only four...