XIII. The Girl Who Folded Her Wings
- Feb 23
- 2 min read
Updated: Apr 2
She was seventeen and still believed the world could be kind, if she was kind to it first.
She spoke gently to stray cats and sick birds, coaxed spiders from the corners of the kitchen before the other kids could crush them. The foster mother called her soft, useless, a burden. The husband called her sweetheart, but his eyes held something darker. Everyone wanted something from her. Everyone but the small creatures that crept into her hands without fear.
The house itself sagged under the weight of indifference. The wallpaper was stained with age. The sink dripped continuously. The smell of detergent masked the scent of mildew and stale liquor. The other kids kept their distance from her. They mocked her for her quiet voice, for her strange violet eyes. The way she left folded paper flowers on the porch railing, small cranes tucked into the mailbox, stars lined along the edge of the living room window.
Her room was filled with origami birds and butterflies, things that could fly only if the world would let them. She said folding them made the walls feel less like they were closing in.
At dinner, the foster mother complained that she didn’t eat enough. That she didn’t try hard enough. That she thought she was better than all of them. The man just watched. He always watched.
I told myself I needed to study her. That there might be something different about this one, something that the A'hura would reveal to me as proof that she was special. But I already knew. This wasn’t the right one.
The innocence she carried was too fragile. If she learned the truth, it would shatter her completely. There would be no strength left to rebuild from.
And yet, I lingered here in silence, watching as she tried to make beauty out of everything meant to suffocate her.
The night it happened, the house was loud with shouting. The foster mother’s voice cracked like a whip, her words sharp and slurred.
Whore. Liar. Slut.
The foster mother threw things. Called her ungrateful and evil. She didn’t try to defend herself. She just stood there on the porch, trembling, her eyes bright and wet but still steady. The woman tried to attack her before the foster brothers pulled her off of the girl and back into the house.
When the front door slammed shut, she didn’t cry. She slept in the garage that night, a single paper crane clutched in her hand.
The next morning, she was gone. Transferred to another family. Just another name on another form.
The house fell silent again. The paper birds were gone from her room, every one of them taken with her. Only a few scraps of colored paper remained, scattered across the floor like feathers.
The search continues.
M.
