Wingless

1. Escape

Note: This book does not intend to body shame, demean, or target anyone. It's told from the perspective of someone who's been bullied because of her body shape. My intention is not to hurt or offend, but to shed light on how cruel societal standards can be. I have personally experienced the agony of being compared to others, and I am staunchly opposed to it. Every person carries their own unique beauty, and that deserves to be celebrated. Please remember: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Enjoy the journey. <3

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Ximara Lyris Adler peered into the broken mirror in her bedroom. Her reflection was fractured like a dream falling apart under pressure. The tight dress her mother had chosen for her hugged every curve of her body, with seams straining at her hips and chest. She tugged on the fabric, her fingers trembling in frustration.

This wasn't just another night at her parents' house. This was a reckoning.

Voices came floating up through the floorboards from downstairs: her mother, Carin, bartering with a wealthy gray-haired suitor, whose hungry gaze had made Ximara's skin crawl earlier that afternoon. Her father Ryan laughed as well, a forced laugh, bartering her future like livestock at an auction.

“You’re lucky he’ll take you, looking like that,” Carin had sneered earlier, her words slicing deeper than any blade.

Ximara's jaws tightened. She clutched the crumpled paper in her hand, a sketch of soaring walls and open windows, a building she envisioned as her sanctuary. Her designs had always been her rebellion against their cruelty, her shield against the world’s impossible standards. But sketches were no longer enough.

Tonight, she planned to act.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her duffel bag from the closet. She moved fast, heart pounding, stuffing clothes, papers, and her sketchbook of dreams into the bag. The zipper grated loudly in the stillness.

She glanced at the window. The humid North Carolina night pressed against the glass, as though urging her to step through. She pushed the sash open, swung one leg over the sill, and dropped softly onto the damp grass below.

______________

Carin sat stiffly on the floral sofa, facing Remus Hargrove. His silver hair glistened under the chandelier as he sipped his bourbon, his thin lips curling into a smirk.

"She's got a good head on her shoulders," Carin said sweetly, her voice concealing steel. "Also talented. She has an incredible talent for drawing building interiors. She'd make an excellent wife, keeping your home in order and providing you with a family."

Remus’s gaze sharpened. "I'm sure she's... nice," he said slowly, the condescension dripping from his voice. “A sturdy girl like that ought to hold up well.”

Ryan forced a laugh, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “She’s a gem, alright. "She just needs the right man to polish her up."

Carin’s smile thinned. To her, Ximara's body was not her daughter's to own; it was a problem to be solved, a bargaining chip for comfort and silence from the neighbors.

When she rushed upstairs to get her daughter, her heels clicked like gunfire on the hardwood. She shoved the bedroom door open.

“Ximara!”

The room was empty. The curtains fluttered mockingly in the open window.

Her eyes narrowed. “That ungrateful little—”

She stormed back downstairs, hissing to Ryan, “She’s gone. Packed up and ran away like a fool!"

Ryan pressed a hand to his temple. "She will crawl back when she realizes what she has thrown away."

But Ximara wasn’t coming back.

______________

The train station smelled of diesel and damp concrete. Flickering lights cast shadows on Ximara, who sat on a cold metal bench, clutching her duffel to her chest. She waited for the train that would take her to New York, an escape she had long desired.

A prickling sensation spread up her neck, as if unseen eyes were on her. She scanned the platform: a half-asleep ticket clerk, a lone traveler buried in a newspaper. It was just nerves, she told herself.

Her parents had hammered away at her self-esteem for years, until shame had settled deep within her chest. Her curves and softness had become their favorite weapon. They ignored a rare medical condition that made losing weight dangerous. She was an unwelcome burden, a flaw in their eyes.

They wanted her to shrink. She decided to live.

The train horn broke through the silence. She hurried aboard, her heart racing, and settled into a window seat. Pines and shadows blurred past as the train lurched forward, carrying her away from the house that had never been a home.

Her sketchbook sat heavy in her lap, reminding her that she wasn't just running; she was chasing a future she'd created for herself.

For years, she had admired Arthur Vance, the world-famous racer whose posters once adorned her walls. She may have had a silly crush, but he had demonstrated that passion could overcome any obstacle. His success stories inspired her to achieve fame at a young age, and as a result, she grew to admire him and eventually developed a crush.

She whispered a vow to herself: if she couldn’t have Arthur, she would build a life with his courage at its core. She knew she was way out of Arthur's league, but she admired him nonetheless, and if she could find love in the future, she was sure it would be someone like Arthur Vance.

She rested her head against the glass as the train's rhythmic clatter soothed her nerves. For the first time in her life, the chains were not around her wrists.

They were behind her now, rusting and forgotten, and she would never wear them again.

___________________

2. Safe Place

My hands trembled as I hesitated between pressing the doorbell and turning around. Will he accept me? I knew he loved me dearly, but he loved Mom more. What if he supported her? What if I had simply traded one battlefield for another?

Taking a shaky breath, I finally mustered the courage to press the glowing button. The sound echoed faintly inside, accompanied by shuffling footsteps. My heart raced as the lock clicked. When the door opened, relief washed over me, releasing the tension in my shoulders.

There he was, the one person who never made me feel like I was too much or not enough.

"God, I've missed you so much," I said, wrapping my arms around my grandfather, Alistair.

Alistair was more than just my paternal grandfather; he was my anchor and secret ally. He was in his seventies, but he still had broad shoulders and sharp eyes, and he carried himself with the same confidence that must have defined his youth. So