Teen Angst and Fireballs

My name is Steve. And I'm a dragon. Steve, the dragon--that's me. I have large, black, leathery wings, and sharp, green spikes running down my back right down to the end of my tail. I can fly and kill any living being smaller than me with a swish of my tail.

My parents found me in the forest and raised me since I was an egg--at least, that's what they used to tell me. They said that I had grown inside the most beautiful dragon egg. It had been glossy and black, with a few amber specks that seemed to glow, like tiny fires lived inside it. My mother kept a piece of it after I hatched. The day she showed it to me, I was about two years old. It rested in her hand like a delicate seashell. It fit perfectly into the curve of her palm, its fine ridges raking over the skin of her fingertips when she picked it up to hand it to me. I took it gently between two talons, inspecting it curiously. Indeed, it was a beautiful object. Its orange flecks winked at me, like a friend would when greeting a familiar face. I immediately felt a sense of deep connection to it. Living among humans, I'd never been able to feel truly at home. My parents, though they loved me unconditionally (and made sure I knew it), could never offer me any real connection to my dragon roots.

I was grateful that my mother had saved even a tiny piece of my old shell. My mother drilled a hole near the top, strung it on a long, gold chain, and gave it to me to wear. I hung it on my neck, wedging the chain securely between the scales on my back.

My life as a young dragon had been happy. My parents provided everything for me: food (consisting mostly of live chickens, though they sometimes brought home pig's blood bought from the butcher), a comfortable bed (a hard, lumpy mattress taking up most of the floor space in my room), and as much affection the soft human flesh could give against my tough dragon hide. They made sure that our house was big enough to accommodate my current size, and the size that I would eventually become. We lived in a single-storey house with ceilings that stretched high above my head, providing ample room for me to fly around.

The only difficulty of my first few years lay in our speech differences. My parents insisted I learn to speak English, but every time I tried to sound out the words they taught me, all that came out were deep rumbles and growls from the back of my throat. Trying to speak had been a painful process, and more often than not, I would get impatient and angry, and small bursts of flame would spout from my mouth and nostrils. A lot of the charred corners of tables, cabinets, and walls at home were from when I'd get frustrated during English lessons. Worst of all, not being able to speak had made me feel stupid and incompetent. I hated disappointing my parents, and it seemed all I had been able to do was just that--disappoint them.

Soon enough, I learned to sound out the words. I spoke very slowly and my throat began to hurt after talking for a long time. My parents never wanted to see me in pain, so they taught me how to write so I wouldn't have to speak, but writing English was almost as difficult as speaking it. The joints in my dragon paws just weren't meant to bend the way humans' wrists do. For a while, using a computer keyboard worked. I could press the keys easily, if a little slowly. But, at a time when I'd been angry after my parents sent me to my room (after a huge argument about keeping the bloodied up chicken parts in my bucket while I was eating, and not letting them spill all over the floor), a fireball suddenly surged from the back of my throat and brought the computer to its inevitable end. After that, the three of us settled for the reliable method of using pictures and objects to communicate. I still talked to them regularly, though, exercising my vocal cords to try and match theirs.



My childhood--between the ages of five and twelve--had been much more difficult. When I was old enough, my parents decided that it would be good for me to socialize with other kids--human kids--who were the same age as me. It had been a tremendously stupid idea from the beginning, but my parents wanted me to be happy, and this was what they thought could bring me happiness. They thought I--a huge, temperamental dragon--could actually play and hang out with very thin-skinned, very flammable human children. The first time I hurt someone was in the children's park outside our village. I accidentally scratched a little girl's cheek while trying to reach for the plastic shovel that lay next to her in the sandbox. She'd cried really loud, frightened cries, and her parents rushed over and took her away, shooting angry glances at me as they went. I heard one of them mutter, "Stupid idea, exposing a monster like that to children." That night, my parents tried to comfort me, saying that I just had to be more careful next time, that people would learn to be comfortable around me once they found out how harmless I was. Somehow, I wasn't completely convinced. The words had struck a chord somewhere inside me that made me begin to think I'd never be able to live among humans.

The second time had been much worse. It was the incident that convinced my parents that I could never mingle with other humans the way I did with them. I had been playing by myself in the wooden playground near our house when one of the small spikes near the end of my tail had caught on another boy's arm, opening a huge, bloody gash in his skin. I got nervous and upset, and fire started shooting from my nostrils in tiny bursts, which then lit the same unfortunate little kid's hair on fire. The little kid's parents--who had already been panicking--began screaming as they struggled to put the fire out. The flames spread to the monkey bars and the jungle gym. All the children ran for safety as the entire park burned to the ground. As the little boy and his parents got onto the ambulance, I heard them screaming curses at my parents, blaming them for putting the lives of their children in danger. We were never welcome in the playground again.

From then on, I mostly stayed at home, watching movies and waiting for my parents to come home after work. One day, I decided to surprise them by doing chores around the house, sweeping the yard and doing the dishes. Instead of returning to an immaculately clean house, however, my parents stepped out of their car and were greeted by a yard with large patches of grass reduced to smoldering piles of ash and, inside the house, a pile of broken plates in the kitchen. They'd never asked me to do any chores before, and they certainly weren't going to ask me to any time soon. This was one of their smarter ideas.



I reached my teen years, and there is only one word I could use to describe the time I had between ages thirteen and eighteen: bad. They were awful, terrible, a living hell. Actually, I could use a lot of horrible words to describe the things I went through. My parents told me that it was just natural for me to feel the way I had, that all teenagers went through the same seemingly hellish experiences. I couldn't help thinking they meant to say all human teenagers.

See, my teenage years were dominated mostly by long moments of deep introspection, and this introspection always led me to one conclusion: I didn't belong. I never could. Not in the human world. I began to detest my parents, hate them for ever deciding to pick me up from out of whatever forest they found me in. If only they'd left me there, maybe I'd be off somewhere flying with other dragons like me, and belonging, instead of sitting inside a huge lonely house all day, waiting for my parents to come home, and not being able to fly higher than their roof would allow.

When the angry, self-loathing thoughts started coming to me, my parents were supportive. They tried to explain to me that I would always be at home with them, and that they'd always be there for me. I believed them. For years, I thought I could always rely on my parents even if they were human and unlike me in so many ways, until my father slipped up. A slip of the tongue and it all went to hell--further into hell than it already was.

On a night when I was feeling much worse than usual, I waited all night for my parents to come home. They were both working late and had told me not to wait up, but no matter what I did, I couldn't fall asleep. I decided to read a book that I'd started a few nights before. It was about a small town set in the middle ages, and how every year they had to sacrifice a female virgin to the dragon that lived a few miles from their village so it wouldn't come to kill them all one day, devouring them one by one. I was horrified at the idea of humans seeing dragons as vicious monsters, but at the same time I was fascinated. I thought to myself perhaps this is what dragons really do. Maybe they are monsters that threaten and kill people to eat them. Maybe I was different because my parents had raised me differently. Anger and doubt built up inside me again, and I knew I had to confront my parents. I had to ask them if they knew anything about other dragons, if we really were made to eat people, and if they knew that this reputation dragons had would one day make my life in the human world unbearably miserable. As the night progressed, bitterness boiled in my chest, and when my parents finally walked through the door, I nearly burnt them to ashes in my excitement. I waited a while for my throat to cool before speaking.

"Tell me," I demanded with some difficulty, speaking slowly and thrusting the book into their hands. "Are dragons... really like how they describe them... in this book? Are people... really afraid us because... we're monsters?"

My parents glanced at each other, setting their bags down on the floor and taking off their coats before answering me. My father grasped the book in his hand and looked up at me. He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again, shaking his head.

"What?" I asked. "We are... aren't we? Come on, Mom," I urged, turning to her instead. "Please... tell me."

My mother's eyes had been trained on the floor; she'd been trying to avoid my gaze. She looked up at me and nodded slowly. "Yes, Steve. Dragons, in this world, really do eat people... and people really do consider them monsters. But not all," she added. "Not you. You're different. You're a good dragon. And we know you'd never hurt anybody."

"Yes... I am different... aren't I?" I said, sitting on the floor and curling my tail around myself. "I'm not a real... dragon. And I'm certainly... not a human. It would be... impossible for anyone to love... something so--"

"Steve," my father interjected. "Your mother and I love you. I admit, when we received you from Mr. Yorman, we weren't what you'd call ecstatic, but over the years--"

"Received... me?" I asked him. "What do you... mean? I thought... you found me and... decided to take care of me. I did find it... strange that you'd suddenly decide to... bring home a dragon, but..." I trailed off as the truth finally dawned on me. "You've been... lying to me, haven't you?" I said. My eyes grew wide, and a stab of pain bloomed in my chest. It didn't hurt nearly as much as I'd expected. Perhaps, on some level, I'd already known my parents were lying to me, and I just refused to accept it.

My mother shot an angry look at my father. "Steve--" she began, turning toward me.

"You made up that story... about finding me in the woods. That's... why you couldn't even tell me which woods exactly--because you didn't know. Because... you made it up." I stumbled to my feet, and the floor beneath shook violently. "Well?" I pressed, looking from my mother to my father.

My father sighed, giving my mother a meaningful look. "We have to tell him. I think he's old enough to know. He can handle it." I was annoyed at the way my father spoke, as if I weren't in the room. I'd always hated it when he talked like that around me.

My mother's hand was over her mouth, as if she didn't want to speak, but she nodded briefly and looked at me, crossing her arms over her chest. "Steve," she began. "A few months after your father and I got married, we got a little bit into gambling--you know, playing for money."

"I know... what gambling is."

"Yes. Yes, of course you do." My mother blinked and shook her head, as if to clear it. "Well, one night, during a poker game, your father and I lost just one too many times. We thought we could get it all back by the end of the night, but we didn't. We kept on telling Mr. Yorman and the rest of his friends to just give us one more shot, but it was late. They said they had to set out early the next morning so we had to pay them right away. But we couldn't--we didn't have the money. So..." My mother trailed off. She shut her eyes and shook her head, placing a hand lightly on my scaly shoulder.

"So Mr. Yorman offered us another way to pay him back." My father continued the story. "He said he had a 'rare artifact' he'd collected while traveling that he needed to get rid of. He said that it'd be hell having to live with it, and if we could get it off his hands, our debt would be paid in full. Our only other options were to pay off the debt for the rest of our lives, and we couldn't handle that. Sooner or later, Mr. Yorman would get impatient. He was a violent man--we were afraid he'd do something to hurt us, so we took the offer. He took a large, oddly shaped, black object from his bag set it on the table. It had these beautiful orange dots that seemed to flicker beneath its surface..."

There was a long silence. I fingered the piece of shell around my neck, inspecting it for what felt like the thousandth time: the familiar orange flecks winked at me against the sleek black surface. In the past, they'd been friendly points of color, but this time I could feel them mocking me. The silence stretched for what felt like hours.

"We thought it was a curse, honey," my mother finally said. "When he gave it to us, we thought it would make our lives a living hell, like he said, but it turned out to be you--and you've been such a great gift to us. We--"

My mother was cut short by a low growling, steadily growing louder and louder. I thought it was a motorcycle or a car's engine being revved. It was only a few moments later that I realized the sound was coming from my own throat. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster in my chest. The muscles in my legs tensed, and my wings stretched out behind me. I broke the gold chain from around my neck, the small piece of my old shell still dangling from it. As I looked at it, the shell seemed to grow a fiery red color, glowing against my green skin. Angrily, I lifted it over my shoulder and threw it across the room, where it shattered instantly against the hard concrete wall.

"You lost... a bet," I said flatly, turning to my parents. "I'm here with you... right now because you lost... a bet!" I yelled. My voice rasped horribly, and my throat felt like it was burning. Smoke began to creep from the sides of my mouth and out my nose.

"Calm down, Steve," my father pleaded, his eyebrows curving downwards. "Please listen to us. You have to know that we love you."

"Humans can't love monsters." I growled low in my throat. No matter what my parents said, I knew I would never be able to let go of the thought that I truly didn't belong anywhere. The past eighteen years of my life had been a complete lie. Here I thought that I belonged--that I was wanted--by the two people to whom I gave all my trust, but it was all fake. They didn't want me, and they only kept me because they'd lost a bet. I could see, too, that they despised me for being such a huge burden to them all these years, filling their house with broken plates and charred remains of expensive furniture.

"Of course we can, sweetheart," my mother insisted, reaching up to stroke my snout--that hard, grainy space underneath my eye that passed for a cheek. I tried to push her away, but my claws stuck deep into her arm, leaving three huge, deep gashes in her skin. She cried out in pain, clapping a hand over the cuts which filled up quickly with blood until the red liquid streamed steadily from the large openings, coating my mother's arm.

"Steve!" My father stooped next to my mother, who began crying hysterically. "What have you done?"

My mother cradled her bleeding arm to her chest, biting hard on her lip to keep from screaming in agony.

"We have to call an ambulance." My father mumbled, thinking quickly. "Get out of here, Steve!" He yelled at me.

I stood frozen in place, staring, horrified, at my mother's mangled arm. I did that, I thought. I'm a monster. My breath started coming in quick gasps, and the smoke that came out of my mouth turned a dark grey.

"Steve!" My father shouted. "If they see you, they'll know you did it. They'll try to kill you, or take you away. You have to go hide!"

I shook my head, my shoulders heaving up and down, my wings flapping behind me.

"Go to your room, Steve!"

I was high in the air, my head grazing the ceiling. I looked down at my father, holding my mother in his arms. A fire began to rise in my throat.

"I'll just... keep on hurting you." I said, shaking my head. My voice sounded like a broken radio, rough and unintelligible. "It's just... who I am. I'm... a dragon... I--" The fire made its way past my tongue, and out my mouth, a huge ball of flame aimed at my parents--the two beings forced to love me, and who were destroyed because they did.

The fire enveloped my parents, a burning red circle that melted their skin and fried their bones till they were black. The fire spread quickly, destroying the refrigerator and the wooden counters, leaping from curtain to curtain until the entire house was ablaze.

"I'm a monster... That's... just who I am."

I turned toward the ceiling, aiming for the huge sky light through which streamed the bright, pale moonlight, stabbed by the flickering orange of the fire. With a giant flap of my wings, I broke through the glass. Shards plummeted into the inferno. I heard my parents screaming as they burned. I flew high into the sky, leaving the place that had been my home for eighteen years, abandoning it as everything I loved had abandoned me.



It's been years since I left my parents' house--or the house in which the two unluckiest humans had lived with an emotional young dragon. The night I escaped, I flew till the sun began to turn the sky red as it rose in the distance. I landed in a grassy clearing amongst a thick forest of trees, and tried to sleep. But I was restless. Thoughts raced in my mind at lightning speed, and guilt and anger and loneliness mixed together in my chest. I couldn't keep still so I launched back into the air, and flew in the direction of the sun.

I spent years searching for other dragons, traveling the world, flying over planes and valleys and oceans till my wings became ragged from being overused. I never saw another dragon, or any other creature that seemed even remotely like me. Until now, I still set off everyday in search of my kind while the hope of my ever belonging somewhere grows fainter each day. Each morning, I close my eyes against the sun and see two tormented human faces etched behind my lids, encased in a ball of fire.