I awoke to a steady, pounding rhythm, its origin uncertain. Within a few seconds, I groaned upon deciphering its source.

It was the throbbing pain in my head.

Gradually, I rose from my bed, shaking broken shards of what had once been my lamp from my hair and exposed wings. My cheeks felt as if they'd been seared with a hot iron, and as I stumbled to my feet, the agony in my head concentrated in my left temple. A concussion? Probably.

With great trepidation, my eyes creaked open to assess the damage I had wreaked this time.

There was an enormous dent in my wooden floor, there were gaping slices in my walls, glass was scattered in abundance, and a chunk was missing from my closet door. Also, my shirt had been ripped in half and gleaming feather blades were littered about, jutting out of the walls and furniture and even ceiling at awkward angles. Notably enough, whatever feathers I was missing had apparently grown back during my short slumber.

Silently thanking whichever powers be that apparently no one had entered my room while I was unconscious, I launched the reconstruction of my obliterated surroundings, beginning with rearranging my posters to conveniently cover what disaster areas I could manage. An hour and a half later, no signs of trauma were visible to the average eye, my wings were safely tucked away behind a fresh vest and shirt, and the jagged feathers were stored in the heart of my video game stash. After all, I couldn't simply throw them away-they would turn any trash bag to ribbons in a matter of seconds.

Upon glancing in the mirror, I discovered that the burning pain in my face was the result of rather impressive claw marks running down my cheeks. Fortunately, I could blame them on my melodramatic cat, Master Chief. What? I forgot to mention that I had a cat? Trust me, you weren't missing much. It's evil.

Noting that it was now 5:00 PM, I positioned my trusty fedora in such a way that the nasty bruise forming on my temple was concealed, and braced my hand against the doorknob. I took a deep breath.

Cautiously, I exited my recently...redecorated bedroom and slunk into the dining room. Upon entering, I mentally froze everything so I could assess my family's reactions.

Clarissa's expression seemed to read, 'RIP you. Haha.'

My mother's? 'What happened to your face?!'

Xavier's: 'If you die, can I have your spaghetti?'

Rolling my stormy eyes at these thoughts, I took a seat before the plate that had clearly been set out for me and began to eat my mother's tolerable-at-best cooking. I was very conscious of the fact that no one else resumed eating and continued to stare at me instead.

After about a third of my spaghetti was gone, my mother finally confirmed my previous interpretation of her countenance, hesitantly breaking the silence to do so. "D-did Chief...?"

I nodded at the mention of the vile creature. That thing has always hated me; the lie was quite plausible.

Another awkward pause later, my slightly materialistic sister piped up: "So...Elizabeth told me about you getting expelled. She told a lot of people, actually..."

I choked on a halfway-decent meatball. "You talk to Elizabeth!?"

Clarissa shrugged. "Not usually. She was pretty eager to tell me about your heinous crimes, though."

I growled under my breath. "It's not true. I did nothing to Jaina or to anyone else."

My mother shot me a sideways glance. "You called your principal a self-obsessed bigot and accused her of contributing to the downfall of society."

"And you always taught me to be truthful," I countered, narrowing my eyes.

"Did you really mean all of that?" asked my wide-eyed little brother. "Do you really think think of your principal like that?"

Irritated by his redundancy, I glared down at him. "I struggle to name a person I detest more."

"What about me?"

I weighed his proposal on the scales of my mind. "No. She's worse."

"Whoa," he whispered, too awestruck to continue eating.

"Well," my mother interjected, commanding my attention once again, "I've decided being expelled, and grounded, is pretty much enough of a consequence."

I labored to dissimulate my relief, fearing that her awareness of it could only lead to her reevaluation of this decision.

"However..."

Rats.

"As you know, next week we will be travelling as a family to Alaska to visit my sister. I had arranged for Uncle Smith to housesit for us, but he...he left town again, a few days ago." Something about her tone had become ominous, and I knew better than to question her words. We all knew that my father's close friend Smith had a shadowed past, and he would occasionally vanish for months on end, on the run from the ghosts that haunted him still. In any case, it was not a matter to be discussed, especially in front of Xavier.

As if to dispel dark thoughts, my mother shuddered and proceeded. "Anyways, someone has to watch the house, and in light of today's events, that someone will be you. You won't be visiting your aunt with us."

"Old hag doesn't even like me," I muttered.

"What?"

"I said, 'Oh, have you thought about my safety?'"

A long pause, in which my mother considered whether or not I was only as honest as I professed to be when it served my intentions, ensued.

"Y-yeah," she replied at last, squinting ever so slightly. "Yeah, of course I did. You won't be staying alone. I made a few calls before dinner and arranged for a friend to stay with you, at least before and after school."

"Safety in numbers," Xavier recited, probably quoting a teacher.

"It's about quality, not quantity," Clarissa chimed, ever the devil's least intelligent advocate.

"Which friend?" I queried, smothering my enthusiasm in false nonchalance. Being left alone at your house for two weeks with one of your friends? Who taught my mother how to punish people!? "Is it James?"

My mother's jaw tightened. "One of your trustworthy friends."

I'd always found it hilarious that my mother absolutely detests James. He, Clarissa, and I have been hanging out since they were in third grade, and I in second. I suppose my mother had begun striving to keep us away from him since he gave me Grand Theft Auto V for my twelfth birthday. (She is a stickler about video game ratings, isn't she?)

"Katherine will be staying with you," my mother answered at long last.

Ah, Katherine Kaos, how I adore her. I believe you've met.

Internally laughing at the irony of my mother perceiving Kaos, the poster-child of apathy, cynicism, and self-deprecation, as a positive influence on me, I responded with a simple, "Very well."

Another lengthy silence.

"So..." Xavier started, the rusty little gears in his head groaning as they scratched against each other, "You...don't have to go to school anymore, right?"

Annoyed by his lack of intellect, I rolled my eyes and confirmed his witless question with a, "Yes, Einstein. And the sky is still blue, if you were wondering."

"Naw dip, Sherlock."

"Shut up, Watson!"

Blinking at me, he took a moment before resuming. "Aaaaaaaaaaaanyways. You did something bad, and now you get to stay home, right?"

"Revision: Elizabeth Jonas did something bad, and now I am required to stay home," I grumbled bitterly . It wasn't that I would miss the horrors of high school so much as it was the blaring injustice of the matter, not to mention that thinking of Elizabeth was inherently bothersome to begin with. And now, I'd be forced to either find another school within my county to attend or receive a GED instead of a diploma.

Xavier's little nose wrinkled up in confusion. "But I do bad stuff all the time! And I still have to go to stinkin' school."

"Well," I mused, stroking my chin as if there was a goatee there, "You're seven. And you've never dumped paint on the child of your principal."

The boy gasped, his beady eyes widening to twice their regular size. "I know what I'm doing tomorrow!"

"This is stupid," voiced Clarissa, propping her chin up in one hand. "Principal Hall can't expel you just because she doesn't like you."

"No," admitted my mother casually, feigning scrutiny of a piece of mediocre-tasting garlic bread, "but she can for threatening her and destroying her desk."

Glaring to the side, I scoffed and took a sip of milk.

"Hey, that reminds me," Clarissa reflected, "she's trying to pin that vandalism from last week on you, too. Crazy, right?"

I laughed a bit too loudly. "Preposterous!"

"Hey mom?" Xavier interrupted, pushing his empty plate away. "Do we have any paint?"

"In the office closet, behind the extra printing paper," she sighed distractedly, rubbing her eyes. A gleeful tint in his gaze, the malevolent child dashed away to concoct his diabolical plan.

"It's kind of crazy," my mother murmured, perhaps engrossed in thought. "That woman cares for her kid more than you care for your hat."

"Not possible," I dismissed immediately.

"What do you think would have happened if Elizabeth had covered your hat in green paint instead of Jaina?"

Electing to ignore the disgusting example of unclear pronoun reference that had just come out of my sister's mouth, I legitimately considered this.

"I can't be certain," I explained, taking another drink of milk, "but I would definitely deserve to be expelled afterwards."

They chuckled, and I did as well. I can't speak for them, but what amused me was that they thought I was kidding.

Though it may have seemed a trivial, material object to most, that hat meant the universe to me. It was my only remnant of my life before I was adopted all those years ago, and my only connection to the memories I had lost. In fact, my very first memory was nothing more than the strong sense that I had one job, and that was to keep the hat safe. (Yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds, but in my defense, I was seven at the time.) That's how they found me-clutching it for dear life and sobbing in a utility closet, covered in blood that was not my own and that did not match the DNA of anyone they had on record. I could remember nothing of my early years, hypothetically due to trauma-induced amnesia. Regardless of how I have worked to emotionally detach myself from those first, few memories, spiked with terror and confusion as they were, I had never been able to shake the sense of obligation I felt to the fedora, as if I swore on my life to someone I loved that I would keep it safe from harm. It must have been a psychological connection made by my horrified, seven-year-old brain.

Thinking back on it, I was rather perplexed about how those who had found me had neglected to notice the giant, jagged, blue, reptilian wings sticking out of my back. Alternately, if they had discovered them, they had certainly taken great care to keep them secret; but why? And what would have happened to me if they hadn't? These were only a few of the great mysteries in my life, fueled by my supernatural appendages and hazy recollections that lingered on the edge of my mind, just out of reach.

I pondered over these mysteries and over what exactly would happen to anyone who would dare to desecrate my fedora. Too much had been taken away from me: my biological parents, my memories, my chance at an ordinary life, my father, and now my education. I would not allow anyone, especially Elizabeth, to take my most sentimental possession from me.

Speaking of Elizabeth...

I was curious to know how she managed to set up such a complex scheme with that tiny brain of hers. I was beginning to wonder if I should confront her, if only to sate my curiosity. And of course, as much as I recognized how generally uncivilized and uncalled for violence usually was, I was more than prepared to kick her from here to next week, should that need arise.