Misshapen

Chapter 1

   Those with tainted bloodlines have been given a stereotype.   It's widely believed that they have neither empathy nor feelings.  Human parents somehow force into their children's heads that the "monsters" will attack without reason, and will tear frail, innocent human flesh limb-from-limb. 

Bitch, since when?

I skulk past the groups of brown-haired, polo-shirted guys who find it necessary to block the entrances with their preppy selves every morning.  My own hair is brown, too, my eyes an unassuming blue - I still don't have the courage to externally defy the hordes of sharp-jawlined peer pressure.   Ten seconds later, though, I'm emerging into the halls with a wave of bright red hair crashing over a black base. My usual form - pale, wiry, and tall - makes me feel much more settled, and I stroll over to my group without glancing at the other students, who are undoubtedly staring.  Klyde is the first to greet me.

"Pakkie!" she cries happily, latching onto my arm. "Your hair looks so good today!"

"Thanks," I say, letting her cling to my black flannel.  Nobody else in the group will let her touch them because we've learned to be detached, and we're afraid to let our guards down.  Even bubbly Klyde, whose very name - Klydem - is a remix of "little demon" in her mother's language, is not to be fully trusted.

"Did you spend a lot of time on it?" Uchie asks, slamming her locker shut.  She knows that it takes me a while to perfect facial features, and that includes hair.   Last night, for example, I spent two hours trying to get the glitches out of this 'do.  The ends kept curling upwards, even though I imagined them flat about seven times.  I was too tired to study afterwards, but it was worth it.

"It took a decent amount of time, yeah.  Azazel, what do you think of it?"

Azazel, the "silent type" in our group (and that's saying a lot),  raises his head and gazes at my hair.  I can't help but swallow painfully under his anguished eyes.  Azazel is the son of a demon straight from Hell; he's no eighth-blood demon like Klyde, or even the offspring of a half-blood.  No, Azazel's mother is a full-blood demon, which resulted in Azazel being born with horns on his head and silver in his veins.  The horns are almost as big as his arms now, and they curve like a goat's or a ram's.   One time, Azazel admitted to me that they're awfully heavy and his neck always hurts.  I treasured that evening; it was the first and only time he got personal with me. 

"It's not like my hair," Azazel says, as usual.  It always annoys me when he says that - just because my favorite form looks like him doesn't mean we have to be twinsies or something. 

"No shit, Sherlock.  I wouldn't want a greasy nest on top of this nice face," I retort.  My face is my favorite sculpture - my magnum opus, you could say.

"Watch it, Shifty," he snarls a little too loudly.  Klyde's eyes barely have time to widen before a pinched-looking hall monitor pounces on our group.

"Do not cause disturbances! ID's, please," the monitor snaps. As we hand them over, he doesn't bother to whisper as he says to Uchie, Klyde, and me, "It's really not good for your welfare to hang out with someone like him."  He gestures to Azazel, who's looking on with his horns bending his neck at what must be an uncomfortable angle.
All three of us don't answer and watch the monitor with straight faces as he reads our ID's.

Uchell, age 16. Grade 10. Half-blood harpy.
Klydem, age 14. Grade 9. Eighth-blood demon.
And mine:
Pakeisti, age 17. Grade 11. Full-blood shapeshifter.

The monitor doesn't bother hiding his shock at our bloodlines. He quickly redistributes the ID's, glaring, and warns us again to "keep the peace". Klyde disappears into the crowd, and Uchie slouches away, wrapping her cloak more closely around her feathered shoulders. Azazel is just standing there.