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These guilty thoughts creep through my mind as I stand in front of the mirror, examining my long, dark hair that looks similar to the dark shade of a raven’s feather—midnight black, with hints of violet and blue when it catches the light. I can’t help questioning if I used to be a raven in another life. Perhaps that’s why I bring bad luck wherever I go.
“Ravenlee Wilowwynter! Get your butt down here,” my aunt Beth shouts from downstairs. “You don’t need to make everyone else late for the first day of school because you can’t get your lazy butt moving.”
My initial instinct is to throw back a snarky retort, but I know better than to do that while my uncle’s home. So, I take a deep breath before calling out, “I’m just about ready.”
She doesn’t say anything to me directly, but I hear her tell my uncle, “That damn girl is really getting on my nerves. She’s always late. And don’t even get me started on how much trouble she gets into. And the mouth on her … I don’t understand why we can’t kick her butt out when she turns eighteen. I don’t think I can put up with her crap until graduation.”
“I agreed when I took her in, Beth. She’s going to live with us until she graduates from high school, and that’s final,” my uncle Don replies in a cold tone.
He’s my dad’s brother but, where my dad was a nice, caring man, my uncle is frigid and angry all the time, especially with me. Although there are occasions when he seems almost thrilled to be around me, but that’s never a good thing.
“Now, go make me my breakfast. It’s my first day, and I’m not going to be late.”
I roll my eyes as my aunt says, “Of course, dear.”
My aunt usually does what she’s told, at least when it comes to my uncle. She stays home, where she cooks, cleans, and has dinner on the table every night when he gets home from work. I swear it’s like they still think it’s the 1950s or something. If I didn’t despise my aunt so much, I might try to encourage her not to be such a doormat. But if I tried to tell her that, not only would my aunt ground my ass, my uncle would smack me a good one.
He’s been doing that kind of shit since I moved in with them. At first, I put up a fight, trying to battle back, but a shit-ton of good that did. I quickly learned that fighting back meant more hits. So, I learned to swallow my pride and keep my mouth shut when I’m around my uncle. All bets are off, though, with everyone else.
I wish I had another choice. Wish I could turn him in. I thought about doing so when he first started smacking me around. The problem is that he’s a cop. And I’m the rebel, piece of shit niece that they so kindly took in after she did horrible things. At least, that’s how everyone sees it.
And I have a feeling things with my uncle are about to get even worse now that he’s officially the sheriff of Honeyton, the small town that we moved to.
The place is out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hills that give a sense of seclusion and friendliness. Well, that’s the bullshit my uncle told us when he announced we were moving. Personally, I’m not buying it. I took a walk around town yesterday, and the looks I got from the townspeople were less than friendly. I could practically smell the judgment and snobbery lacing the crisp fall air and feel my impending outcast title waiting for me today when I enter the hallways of my new school. I do look kind of intimidating, though.
But it’s cool. I can handle it. I can and have dealt with a lot worse. In fact, I’m used to being the outcast. I’ve been one since I moved in with my uncle, aunt, and their daughter, Dixie May.
Dixie fucking May. Though she’s my cousin and is the same age as me, we have no other similarities. If I’m a reincarnated raven, then Dixie May is probably a hawk, which I once read are supposed to be predators to ravens and can represent danger. Honestly, from what I’ve read, ravens can usually only fend off a hawk if there’s a group of them, also known as a conspiracy. I like the name conspiracy better, probably because I mentally conspire all the time to take Dixie May down. But I’ve never had any real friends, at least not long-lasting ones so, more than likely, that’s not going to happen. Not that I just let her walk all over me. I don’t at all.
Still, Dixie May is the most manipulative, fake, and devious person I’ve ever crossed paths with. She’s also very pretty and charming when she needs to be, except at home where she acts like a spoiled brat. She also has ammunition against me—knows the reason I came to live with her and her family all those years ago. And when she told everyone at our old school about it, I instantly became labeled the freak that people not only despised but feared.
“Oh my God, I’m so sick of these damn boxes,” Dixie May complains from her bedroom across the hall from mine. “I can’t find anything. And my favorite pair of shoes are missing. I bet the movers stole them.”
I roll my eyes. The movers were two big dudes who seemed nice enough, and in no way, shape, or form seemed like the kind of people who’d steal designer shoes. Not to mention, one single pair of shoes.
“I’ll call and make a complaint,” my aunt calls out to her.
“What’s a freakin’ complaint going to do?” Dixie May whines. “It won’t get me my shoes back. And they were my favorite pair.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” my aunt tells her. “If you want, we can drive over to the city this weekend and go shopping.”
“Fine. But you better buy me a couple of extra pairs in case this happens again,” Dixie May warns.
“Of course,” my aunt says. “I’ll even buy you a few new outfits if you want.”
I’d roll my eyes again, but at this point, I’m starting to worry that they’ll get stuck in my head. For reals, though. Dixie May has so many clothes that my aunt and uncle had to add an extra closet to her room before we could move into this house.
Then there’s me. My entire wardrobe fits into a bag and mostly consists of secondhand items that I purchased with money I saved up from jobs I worked here and there. But I like my clothes. They fit my personality, and when I wear them, I like to imagine who they used to belong to and what kind of life they had while they wore them.
Right now, I’m rocking a Nirvana shirt that I’m convinced someone wore to one of the band’s concerts decades ago. I also have on a pair of cut-off shorts, knee-high tights, and clunky, scuffed boots that lace up all the way over my knees. I topped off the look with a plaid overshirt and a leather jacket that used to belong to my mother. It’s one of the few items I have left of hers. I like to occasionally breathe in the scent, pretending I can still smell her perfume.
I miss her so, so much.
As tears begin to well in my eyes, I suck them back and focus on finishing getting ready, putting on a velvet choker then adding leather bands to my wrists. I always wear them to cover up the scars marking my flesh.
Like always, my dark hair is swept to the side in a wild mess of waves, and I keep my makeup minimal, consisting of kohl eyeliner and some lip gloss—I’m not really a makeup sort of girl.
“Raven! You have one more minute to get your butt down here, and then we’re leaving you!” Aunt Beth shouts, a warning ringing in her tone. “It’s not like it’s going to matter anyway. I’m sure I’ll probably get a call from the school halfway through the day, informing me that, once again, you got yourself suspended.”
