Hidden Wings

Chapter 1: The Nightmare & The New Kid

The garden’s flowers towered over me, their petals pulsing with a sickly, rhythmic glow under the light of three massive, silver moons. Everything about the grounds felt like a fairytale stretched until it reached the breaking point—the suffocating weight of my velvet gown, the marble fountains that whispered in a language I couldn’t quite catch, and the way the shadows seemed to detach themselves from the trees to watch me. I reached out to touch a rose, its color a deep, bruising violet, and the moment my skin grazed the silk-soft surface, the air hummed with a low-frequency vibration that rattled my teeth.

It wasn't a choice to walk; I was being pulled. My feet moved across the gravel not by my own volition, but by the relentless, invisible gravity of the dream. I could hear music, but it wasn't the melody of any ballroom I’d ever known; it was the sound of glass breaking, layered over a heartbeat that was far too fast. I felt like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight.

Then, the music cut out.

The marble floor vanished. The garden—the moons—they dissolved into a swirling gray mist that clung to my skin like spiderwebs. My boots hit cold, uneven cobblestones. The shift was violent, a physical wrenching of my senses that left me gasping for air. I was in a town I didn't recognize, the buildings leaning in like vultures, their windows dark, hollowed-out eyes. The scent of ozone and wet decay clung to the back of my throat.

My chest tightened, an iron band constricting my ribs. I have to find him. The thought wasn't a choice; it was a desperate, burning command from my own blood. I stumbled, my balance failing, and that was when the pain started—a searing, white-hot agony that erupted between my shoulder blades. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, stagnant air. I felt the wet, tearing sound of skin stretching, of something wide and heavy unfurling from my back, catching the wind. I didn't know what they were—only that they burned, and they were the only things keeping me from hitting the ground.

I launched forward, my lungs screaming as I pushed toward the dark, ruined building at the end of the alley. I was flying, but it wasn't graceful; it was a frantic, desperate thrashing. My vision clouded, dark spots dancing in the periphery, until I dropped out of the air. My boots hit the dirt with a jarring thud, and I folded the heavy, aching things on my back, gasping for breath that tasted of sulfur.

Then, I saw it.

A heavy trail of dark blood gleamed in the moonlight, slick and heavy, painting a path toward the shadows behind the building. The smell was the worst part—the metallic, thick tang of iron that made my head swim. I took a trembling step forward, my stomach turning, and then I saw him. His face, pale as ash, was turned toward the moon, his eyes closed in a final, agonizing peace.

I sat up in bed with a violent gasp, sheets tangling around my legs like a shroud.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. 3:15 a.m. I wiped a layer of cold sweat from my forehead, my hands shaking so violently I had to jam them into my pockets. Why did it feel so real? Why did the phantom ache in my shoulder blades persist, even when the wings were gone?

I dragged my body downstairs. The kitchen was a sanctuary of silence, bathed in the blue, artificial glow of the oven clock. I stood by the window, staring up at the empty Maine sky. It felt hollow, a blank, starless void compared to the vibrant, three-moon sky that still burned behind my eyelids.

Just a dream, I told myself, but the lie felt brittle.

By morning, the routine of the waking world—the bus, the noise of the hallway, the smell of floor wax—pushed the nightmare into the back of my mind. It was a coping mechanism, a way to keep the world from crumbling.

I pulled my hood up to cover my hair, keeping my eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum as I walked toward the front doors.

"Oh look, I didn’t know vampires came out in the light," Heather Bolshiv smirked, her two shadows, Greta and Olivia, flanking her like gargoyles.

I felt the familiar itch—the prickling heat of their gazes crawling up my spine, feeding on my discomfort. "Greta, vampires turn to dust, they don't explode. Learn your lore," I muttered, moving past them. I kept my head down, but as I passed the glass-walled office, an invisible force grabbed my chin, snapping my gaze toward the interior.

My breath caught. My heart lurched so violently it stopped me dead in my tracks.

Sitting in the office chair was the boy from the dream. He was wearing normal clothes, his skin looked warm in the fluorescent lights, but there was absolutely no mistaking him. He was looking directly at me, his blue eyes holding a weight of recognition that made my knees tremble. And then, he smiled—not a normal smile, but a slow, calculated unfolding of something dangerous.

The bell rang, a shrill, piercing sound that shattered the moment. I turned and fled, my heart racing, not knowing that the trap had already begun to close.