By the time I was four weeks old, life had settled into a strange rhythm—strange for them, normal for me. The biting had ended. The feather?snatching had ended. My father had finally learned to behave. Mostly. The only thing he never learned was how to stop pooping in the house.

  The females insisted it was a “startle reflex.” I insisted it was an after?effect of alcohol. I was certain I was right.

  My mother never corrected me, which meant I was definitely right.

  I was big enough now to close the fish box on my own. It took all my strength—my whole body weight leaning into the lid, wings flared for balance, claws digging into the wood—but I had succeeded for the first time the night before. I was proud of that. Very proud.

  Unfortunately, that victory was not everything, it was also the first night I was forced to sleep in my small nest instead of the warm, comfortable one between my parents.

  My feathers were fully in now—blue and silver, soft but real—and I knew what came next.

  Flying lessons.

  For days, my father had been saying, “It’s time.” And for days, he had also been saying, “It’s easy after the first time.”

  I didn’t know what the first time was supposed to be, so I asked my mother.

  “What was your first time like?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Your grandfather pushed me out the front door and off the porch.”

  I stared at her. “That’s not flying.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s falling. The flying part comes later.”

  I considered this. “Did you bite him?”

  “No,” she said. “But I should have.”

  So perhaps biting was back on the menu.

  I sat in my cold little nest as the sun rose, staring at the doorway. Today would be the day I took a finger. A mere bite would not be enough. I knew what was coming. My mother had tried to reassure me the night before, but it didn’t work. The only reason I stayed in my nest at all was because if I woke my father, he would throw me out of the house—and quite literally.

  Maybe a bribe would work.

  I slipped out of my nest and padded quietly into the living room. The fish box sat in its usual place, heavy and cold. I opened it, grabbed a fish, and dragged it to the counter. If I made breakfast for everyone, perhaps they would forget about throwing me off the porch.

  I paused, thinking.

  “Should I make portions for five or three?” I whispered to myself.

  It had been over a week since the babysitter or her husband arrived before breakfast. They usually came later now, after chores or errands. So I decided on three.

  I cut the fish into neat portions—tiny pieces for me, larger ones for my parents—and arranged them carefully on plates. My mother always said presentation mattered, though I wasn’t sure what that meant. Still, I tried.

  I was placing the last piece when I heard footsteps behind me.

  My parents entered the living room, still sleepy, feathers ruffled from the night. My father blinked at the plates. My mother blinked at me.

  My father pooped immediately.

  Right there. On the floor.

  I sighed. “You should seek medical help for that.”

  My mother covered her mouth to hide a laugh. My father did not laugh. He stared at me with the expression of someone who had just realized their child was plotting against them.

  He cleaned up the mess slowly, muttering under his breath. The look he gave me said everything.

  I was getting tossed out the door today. With force.

  A few minutes later, the babysitter couple arrived. I rushed to the fish box, grabbed another portion, and cut it up as fast as I could. If I fed them too, maybe I could hide behind someone when the throwing began.

  The sitter’s husband watched me cut the food with wide eyes.

  Then he pooped in the house.

  I looked at him, deadpan. “You should also seek medical advice.”

  He clamped his beak shut so hard it clicked. He didn’t open it again for five full minutes.

  I served them breakfast too, arranging the plates neatly, hoping the presentation would earn me mercy. We all sat down to eat, and an eerie silence settled over the room. No one spoke. No one moved too quickly. Even the males were quiet, which was suspicious.

  I looked around the table as I chewed, trying to decide who might make the best living shield.

  My mother? Too small. The babysitter? Too kind—she’d move aside. Her husband? Too slow—he’d get hit first, but not protect me. My father? Absolutely not.

  I looked at each of them in turn.

  Every single one of them was grinning.

  I was doomed.

  As breakfast ended, I knew it was time.

  There was no speech. No warning. No gentle transition. Just a sudden, terrible stillness in the air — the kind that happens right before a predator pounces. My feathers prickled. My instincts screamed. My mother caught my eye and winked, which meant she was not going to help me… but she also wasn’t going to throw me.

  Neutral. Useless. But better than hostile.

  The babysitter sat calmly, sipping water. Hard to read. She might help. She might laugh. She might watch me get launched into the sky. One out of four adults not planning to toss me was technically an improvement.

  Maybe.

  My father stood first.

  His eyes gleamed with the unholy light of a male who had been waiting four weeks to throw his child off a porch. I swear I saw an aura around him — the aura of someone who believed this was a sacred rite.

  The sitter’s husband stood next, wearing the exact same expression.

  I bolted.

  My chair clattered to the floor behind me as I sprinted across the room. The females chuckled but stayed seated, which meant they were not going to intervene. They were going to enjoy the show.

  I used them anyway.

  I darted behind my mother’s legs, then around the babysitter, then between their chairs, hoping the males would hesitate to barrel through the women. They did hesitate — for half a heartbeat — which bought me precious seconds.

  Seconds were everything.

  “Get her!” my father shouted, sounding far too excited.

  “She’s tiny, how is she this fast?” the sitter’s husband complained as he tripped over a cushion I had “accidentally” kicked into his path.

  I pulled rugs. I shoved my small nest into their way. I dragged the table an inch to the left so they’d stub their toes. I threw plates.

  Throwing plates was a mistake.

  Both females caught them mid?air with perfect reflexes, set them aside, and then — traitors — simply shifted themselves out of the way so I couldn’t use them as obstacles anymore.

  “Nice try, little one,” my mother said, smiling.

  I hissed at her. She laughed.

  The males were gaining on me. Their wings flared, their steps grew quicker, and their hands reached out like giant nets. I needed height. I needed distance. I needed something they wouldn’t expect.

  The rafters.

  I didn’t think. I just jumped.

  My wings flared instinctively — a snap of motion, a rush of air, a lift that felt like being pulled upward by invisible hands. Later, I would realize this was the first time I ever used my wings for lift. But in that moment, all I knew was that I was suddenly above them, perched on a beam, panting, triumphant.

  “I’m safe!” I declared.

  The babysitter looked up, eyes wide. “She used her wings.”

  The sitter’s husband squinted. “I think she did.”

  My father, who was too busy climbing onto a chair and nearly falling off it, shouted, “No she didn’t! She climbed!”

  “You didn’t even look,” my mother said.

  “I’m LOOKING NOW!” he yelled, wobbling dangerously.

  I dropped onto his head, bit him, and launched myself back into the rafters.

  “OW! WHY?!” he yelled, clutching his scalp.

  “Time bonus,” I said.

  “That’s not a thing!” he shouted.

  “It is now.”

  The sitter’s husband flew up after me. I bit him twice before he could grab me. He yelped, lost balance, and fell onto the couch with a thud.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “That’s two!” I shouted.

  “This isn’t a game!” he yelled back.

  “It feels like a game,” I said.

  “It’s NOT a game!” my father insisted, climbing onto the table.

  I dropped onto him again and bit him a third time.

  “That’s three,” I said proudly.

  “STOP BITING ME!”

  “STOP TRYING TO THROW ME!”

  “That’s the point of the lesson!”

  “Then your lesson is bad!”

  The chase devolved into chaos.

  I leapt from rafter to shelf to curtain rod. They flew after me, bumping into walls and each other. I bit fingers, hands, arms — anything that got close. They grabbed at me, missed, grabbed again, missed again. I shrieked. They shouted. The females laughed so hard they cried.

  But biting wasn’t my best tactic.

  Feathers were.

  The sitter’s husband swooped in from the right. I darted under him, grabbed a handful of tail feathers, and yanked.

  He screamed. “OW! WHY WOULD YOU—?!”

  He stumbled mid?air, flapping wildly, crashing into the wall.

  “That’s four seconds,” I said, darting away.

  My father lunged from the left. I rolled under him, grabbed two feathers from his tail stump, and yanked.

  He shrieked. “MY FEATHERS!”

  “You don’t even have many left,” I said.

  “That’s WHY it hurts!”

  He stumbled, tripped over the rug I’d pulled earlier, and fell face?first into the couch.

  “That’s eight seconds,” I said.

  The sitter’s husband recovered and flew at me again. I dodged, grabbed another feather, and yanked.

  He spun in a circle, clutching his backside. “STOP DOING THAT!”

  “Stop chasing me!”

  “That’s the lesson!”

  “Your lesson is stupid!”

  My father tried to grab me from above. I jumped, grabbed a feather from his wing, and yanked.

  He screamed, flapped wildly, and crashed into the table.

  “That’s twelve seconds,” I said.

  “You’re counting?!” he yelled.

  “Yes.”

  “STOP COUNTING!”

  “No.”

  The sitter’s husband tried to corner me near the wall. I darted between his legs, grabbed a feather, and yanked.

  He shrieked, lost balance, and fell onto my father.

  Both males collapsed in a heap.

  “That’s eighteen seconds,” I said.

  My mother wiped tears from her eyes. “This is the best morning I’ve had in years.”

  The babysitter nodded. “I haven’t laughed this hard since my wedding.”

  The males disentangled themselves, panting, feathers missing, dignity gone.

  “Okay,” my father said, gasping. “No more feather pulling.”

  “Then stop chasing me.”

  “We can’t!”

  “Then I can’t either.”

  The sitter’s husband lunged again. I dodged, grabbed a feather, and yanked.

  He screamed. “SHE DID IT AGAIN!”

  “That’s twenty?two seconds,” I said.

  My father tried to grab me from behind. I twisted, grabbed a feather, and yanked.

  He shrieked. “STOP IT!”

  “That’s twenty?six seconds.”

  “You’re not even trying to escape anymore!” he yelled.

  “I am escaping,” I said. “One feather at a time.”

  The chase continued.

  Feathers flew. Males screamed. Furniture toppled. The females laughed. I gained time. Lots of time.

  But eventually — inevitably — they caught me.

  Both males grabbed me at the same time, one by the wings, one by the legs. I shrieked, kicked, twisted, bit, flailed, and screamed every insult I knew.

  “TRAITORS!” “MONSTERS!” “FEATHER THIEVES!” “UNHOUSEBROKEN MALES!”

  My father held me up triumphantly. “Got her!”

  The sitter’s husband rubbed his bitten hand. “Finally.”

  I glared at them both. “You’re going to regret this.”

  They did not regret it.

  They carried me to the front door.

  I realized — too late — that the feather?pulling had sealed my fate. I had escalated the situation. I had made it worse. I had guaranteed the outcome.

  But right then, in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about consequences.

  I was thinking about not falling.

  I was exhausted. Not tired — exhausted. My lungs burned, my legs shook, and every feather on my body felt like it had been individually insulted. All I could do was lie there in their grip and pant like a dying creature.

  The males didn’t care.

  They each took a side, lifted me up like a sack of grain, and paraded me toward the doorway as if they were carrying a trophy instead of a child who had just fought for her life.

  “Wait—wait—just let me catch my breath before I die,” I pleaded, my voice thin and wheezy.

  My father patted my head. “You’ll be fine.”

  The sitter’s husband nodded solemnly. “Probably.”

  “Probably?!” I squeaked.

  They ignored me.

  They stepped onto the porch, swung me back and forth between them like I was a pendulum, and began counting.

  “One…”

  I braced myself. Maybe they’d be merciful. Maybe they’d give me a count of ten. Or twenty. Or a hundred. I could use a hundred. A hundred would be nice.

  “Two!”

  And I was airborne.

  They didn’t even reach three.

  The porch vanished beneath me. The wind roared past my ears. My stomach lurched into my throat. I screamed — a long, high, piercing sound that echoed off the cliffside.

  It was not a graceful fall.

  It was chaotic. Erratic. A tumble of limbs and wings and terror.

  I spun. I flipped. I twisted. I saw the sky. Then the floating island. Then the water far, far below. Then the sky again.

  I screamed between breaths, which meant the screaming came in bursts:

  “AAAA—huh—AAAA—huh—AAAA—”

  Somewhere in the chaos, my body decided it didn’t want to die. I leveled out — barely — and began gliding. Not well. Not smoothly. But enough that I was no longer tumbling like a dropped rock.

  I was gliding to my death instead of falling to it.

  Progress.

  Before I could even process that tiny victory, two shapes appeared beside me — my father and the sitter’s husband, flapping unsteadily, weaving through the air like they’d stopped for a drink on the way down.

  “Good! Good!” my father shouted, wobbling dangerously. “Just keep gliding!”

  “You’re doing great!” the sitter’s husband added, immediately dipping too low and then jerking back up. “Mostly!”

  “I’m dying!” I screamed.

  “That’s normal!” my father yelled.

  “It is not!” I shrieked.

  They coached me anyway.

  “Flap your wings!”

  “Not like that!”

  “Try again!”

  “No, not like that!”

  “Why are you falling faster?!”

  “I DON’T KNOW!”

  Sometimes my flapping worked. Sometimes it made me drop like a stone. Sometimes it spun me sideways. Sometimes it made me scream louder.

  Two hours passed like that.

  Two hours of gliding, falling, flapping, screaming, and listening to two males who flew like they were drunk even when they weren’t.

  Eventually, the females joined us.

  They emerged from the sky like a flock of angels — smooth, graceful, controlled. Their wings barely moved. Their bodies cut through the air like they were born to it.

  The males, by comparison, looked like they were trying to swat invisible insects while falling sideways.

  The females circled me, guiding me gently, adjusting my angle, showing me how to tilt my wings. With their help, I stopped screaming quite so much. I even managed a few steady glides.

  We approached a cliffside building — much larger than our home. It had a porch that wrapped all the way around it, and the walls were padded.

  Padded.

  It was meant for me.

  “Land there!” my father shouted.

  “I don’t know how!” I yelled back.

  “Just aim for the porch!”

  “I AM AIMING!”

  “Then stop screaming!”

  “I CAN’T!”

  I hit the wall.

  Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make a sound like thwump followed by a small, pathetic squeak. I slid down the padding and landed on my butt on the porch.

  I had an excuse. The two males who hit the wall after me did not.

  They bounced off the padding with loud, undignified thuds and collapsed in a heap. The females landed with perfect grace, barely disturbing the air.

  I sat there, dazed, feathers ruffled, dignity gone.

  We went inside.

  The building was warm, bright, and smelled like food. My stomach growled. My legs trembled. My wings felt like they’d been used as paddles.

  I pointed to a sign by the door. “What does that say?”

  The females exchanged a look, then smiled.

  “It says,” my mother replied, “‘Caution. New fliers.’”

  I groaned.

  They laughed.

  The moment we took our seats, I knew something was wrong.

  Not wrong like “the food smells strange” or “the males are whispering again.” Wrong like every table in the entire place had four adults and one ruffled, traumatized child sitting in the middle of them like a sacrificial offering.

  I stared. They stared back. We all understood each other instantly.

  This was not a restaurant. This was a ritual site of suffering disguised as a lunch spot.

  A server approached our table, glanced at the two males, and sighed the sigh of someone who had seen this too many times.

  “Bouncing off cliffs today?” she asked dryly.

  Both males pointed at me in perfect synchronization.

  The server looked me over — feathers bent, eyes wide, dignity gone — and nodded. “Ah. Yes. You’re obviously excellent at avoiding cliffs.”

  She set down cups and plates into some sort of slotted table, gave me a sympathetic pat on the head, and walked away with a soft chuckle that said, You poor thing.

  I took my first bite.

  Before I could swallow, a family at the next table stood up. Their child shook his head violently, pleading, “No, no, no, no—please—no—”

  It didn’t matter.

  Two adults grabbed him under the arms, carried him to the door, and tossed him out like a sack of feathers. His scream faded into the distance.

  I blinked. I looked around.

  Every table had the same setup. Every child had the same expression. Every adult had the same resigned determination.

  I wondered why the child hadn’t used anything around him to stall for time — plates, chairs, tables, anything.

  Then I noticed:

  Everything was bolted to the floor or secured in some way.

  Tables. Chairs. Cups. Decorations. Even the napkin holders.

  This wasn’t a dining hall. This was a torture chamber with snacks.

  I tried chewing again. It was hard. My jaw trembled from exhaustion. My wings still shook from the fall. My entire body felt like it had been used as a training dummy.

  Over the course of lunch, I saw four more families enter.

  And five more children get tossed out.

  I ate slower.

  A male approached our table, looked at the two idiots who had thrown me out a door, and asked, “Cliff?side practice today?”

  My father gestured at his bruises, missing feathers, and the general state of disaster he was in. “She caused the injuries.”

  The male looked at me — tiny, ruffled, chewing slowly like a traumatized thing — and burst into laughter before walking away.

  I ate slower.

  Two more people stopped by to comment on the males’ condition. One asked if they had been attacked by a wild animal on the surface of the island. Another asked if they had flown through a thorn bush.

  My father pointed at me each time.

  I ate even slower.

  But eventually, I could tell my time?delay tactics weren’t going to work. The males were recovering. Their feathers were settling. Their eyes were sharpening with purpose.

  My mother leaned over and whispered, “You should run soon.”

  I swallowed hard. “I know.”

  The chase began.

  It started with just my father and the sitter’s husband. Then another male joined. Then another. Then another. Soon, every male in the entire establishment was involved.

  They chased me between tables. Around chairs. Over cushions. Under wings. Through legs. Across the entire padded room.

  I pulled feathers. I bit fingers. I dodged, rolled, leapt, and screamed.

  The females watched calmly, sipping their drinks, occasionally offering commentary like:

  “She’s fast.” “She’s clever.” “She’s going to get thrown very far.” “She should flap more.”

  The chase lasted fifteen minutes.

  Fifteen minutes of chaos. Fifteen minutes of screaming. Fifteen minutes of males tripping over each other while I darted between their legs like a gremlin with a death wish.

  I was honestly surprised I lasted that long.

  But in the end, they caught me.

  Two males grabbed me by the wings. One grabbed my legs. Another opened the door.

  I kicked. I bit. I screamed. I pulled feathers. I insulted their ancestors.

  It didn’t matter.

  I was tossed out the door.

  Again.

  The second fall was shorter.

  Or maybe I was simply too tired to register the full horror of it. The sky, the cliff, the floating island, the water below — all the same sights as before, just shuffled like someone had picked up the world and shaken it. I screamed again, of course. I had a reputation to maintain.

  But this time, the females stayed with me.

  They flew on either side, calm and steady, wings slicing through the air like they were born from the wind itself. Compared to the males — who flew like they were trying to remember which part of their body was supposed to flap — the females were a blessing.

  Hours later, after I had screamed myself hoarse and glided myself numb, we returned to the torture restaurant.

  This time, we were led to a table that had been piled with random objects earlier — cushions, spare plates, a broken chair leg — as if no one had ever used it for seating before. I was too exhausted to question it. I barely noticed when the males grabbed me, plopped me into a seat, and strapped me in.

  Strapped. To. The. Chair.

  This was worse. This was so much worse.

  I ate slowly, partly because I was tired, partly because I hoped eating slowly would delay the inevitable.

  An older male approached our table. His wings were completely silver — not grey, not faded, but shimmering silver like polished metal. He leaned down, looked at me with amused eyes, and said:

  “That was the most exciting story I’ve heard in years.”

  My two males looked ashamed. And exhausted. And slightly afraid of me.

  The females chuckled.

  “No child has ever escaped that well,” the babysitter said. “At least not on solid surfaces.”

  “In the air,” my mother added, “she screamed just as much as the rest.”

  I glared at all of them and continued eating as slowly as physically possible. The older male walked off laughing openly.

  That was when I noticed the creature at another table.

  It wasn’t feathered. It wasn’t beaked. It wasn’t shaped like us, except in the vaguest sense.

  It had fuzzy stuff on its head, smooth skin, a strange mouth with no beak, and a tail covered in scales like the fish we ate

  It ate slowly, poking at its food like it was trying to decide whether the fish was worthy of being eaten.

  “This might be good if it were (something) times larger.”

  I didn’t know the number it used, but it used a long one.

  Then it stood up, walked to the balcony, and stepped off as if it could fly without wings.

  And then — out of nowhere — it had wings.

  Huge, shimmering wings that unfolded like a dream. It took off with such grace that it made my mother look like she was flapping with a broken wing.

  I stared, stunned.

  That couldn’t be real. That couldn’t be normal. That couldn’t be anything except a hallucination.

  Perhaps my fish was bad.

  I ate slower.

  When the males finished eating, it was time again. I had only eaten half my plate. I struggled against the straps, trying to find the release, but the trap was too well?designed.

  I was tossed out much quicker this time.