Shatterproof

Chapter Two

             As you might have already guessed, my father cast the same spell the next day and created me. He went through much the same process as he did with my mother's creation, choosing my features from some sort of teen gossip magazine. After my father's workforce was finished, I was introduced to my mother. I'll never forget the way her face lit up when she saw me. Her perfect lips turned up at the corners and her eyes widened in amazement at her new daughter's beauty. Not that the beauty was truly my own.

         Having the facial features of models and teen celebrities sounds great, right? How about permanently blemish-free skin? It may surprise you, but I'd trade it all to be an average, acne-ridden teenage girl for a day. I know I must sound like some spoiled brat whining over "problems" most people would kill to have, but think about it: I can't age. I will never appear to be more than sixteen. I will never be able to keep a relationship for more than a couple years, lest I tip someone off to my less-than-human nature. For now, I can't even leave the house. No school, no friends. Only a large bird Father bought me to talk to.

            Don't get me wrong; I love my father. I know that his strict rules are only for my own protection. After all, even though I don't feel pain, I do get hurt. Imagine how you would react if you bumped someone in the hallway and their shoulder shattered into a million pieces. Not well, I'd imagine.

           Thankfully, I've found ways of keeping myself busy while holed up in the manor. I read in our massive library and I paint murals in my study. Sometimes, I listen to my mother sing or my father talk on the phone. My favorite thing to do, though, is play the piano father purchased for my eighth birthday. I was partially self-taught (with the help of numerous book from our library) and partially taught by my sisters, who had their lessons after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm pretty good at it now, but I'm still improving all the time. Sometimes, when I'm practicing the piano by the parlor window, I'll see the occasional pair of hands pressed against the glass, framing a curious face. Most of the time, I'll look up and smile, then return my attention to the keys once they hurriedly shuffle away. I've always wondered if I'll ever get to meet one of them. I hope I do.