Fair Sort of Folk

When people think of the fae, yes they think of the endless hills of Scotland or muggy, fog shining woods deep across London.

Not so much the Golden Gate Bridge and beachside vacation villas of San Francisco.

"Tony we love you," Mom had assured, "you are our son."

"We didn't mean to, we should have told you," Papa agreed, tone much more unsure then he'd ever remembered hearing.

"When you were young..."

"Our son the same age, give or take..."

"They don't keep sick infants... WE hardly knew or believed it once an old friend outed it all to us!"

I ran.

Lying. They were lying, lying LIARS!

I knew I wasn't an easy child.

Then was that why?

The piercings? His lips dotted with dual silver nicks and a mess of metal across each lobe.

The black lips?

Was it easier to tell me I wasn't theirs? Wasn't even human?

Did they mean to show that to me, how bizarre I was or was being that it was easier to believe some crack story of me being-- being a fairy?

I had frozen when forced to face my own reflection in the glass of a glossy cafe sign. The menu currently absent.

Eyes blown wide, tears rimming and trailing down my cheeks and skin blotched red I must have looked a right frightmare.

***************************

Lizea was no bigger than perhaps a three year old toddler.

Toes bare and skin a translucent blue she fled as fast as those two singular feet could take her.

Wings tinkling uselessly within a tangle of thin, metallic wire.

Her palms smacked a wall, as her pursuers bared down upon her.

In time for an arrow to pierce the wall.

Spewing a screaming mist.

From it's reddish rust colored confines did a shadow glide and slice off the walls overhead. Treads of modern sneakers leaving faint imprints on concrete and the whip of butterfly silk scarves and gloves.

Both embroidered with glittering jewel beads denoting special rank.

A second and third comrade scooped up the young fae, bleeding a sludging black from a shallow cut exposing her midriff lined in the starting pattern of scales.

She sobbed an apology.

The air smelled of putrid, deathly exhaust. A suffocating smog.

What a disgusting tripe.

I wanted to wipe the smell, the decay and sickening stain off myself and my fabric.

The elders had said once long ago; "By their own hands shall the Blight fall."

And so it was written that human children were exchanged. With their rejected fairies or those punished and regressed in their cycle of everlasting, never ceasing life.

For the time being, only I had come to adulthood.

Fifteen years of age this very day, designated for the day my human life was forfeited.

*************************

Finding out that surprise, I didn't even belong in this world was not the birthday I'd expected.

Nor was a week at the beach what I had expected for a birthday trip. Not since I took up the goth aesthetic but I rolled. Didn't raise any sort of fuss.

But I didn't expect to be emotionally sucker punched and then beat black and blue on the shore.

So that's it.

No fanfare, no heartfelt note or email, I was running away.

I was going to find out what hacks had dropped me at the first human crib they'd found and whether the human with "my"-- quite the vague notion-- face was still alive or had been eaten.