Wings

A Story by Chris C.

She had been looking forever, it seemed. She had searched for so long now that sometimes she forgot just what it was she was missing. Whenever the road became too dark, whenever she felt that she was losing her way, her hand would move instinctively and grasp at the note she had written so long ago. She kept it close to her no matter what. She pressed it against her skin so that she would never forget. The note in question was old and wrinkled, it was torn at the corner and yellowing with age. It was streaked with dried tears, stained by dark splotches. One was a blackened crimson, the color of old blood. On the note, written in the delicate script of a girl much younger than she, was written:

List of things to do

1) Find my wings

2) Fly away

It is said that all children are born into this world free from sin, free from worry or anger or sorrow. They are born winged and weightless. Over the years however, the world begins to weigh them down. It starts small, at first, trouble getting out of bed in the morning or a nagging suspicion in the back of the mind that perhaps the shadows are a bit longer these days. Then strange feelings and uncomfortable thoughts creep in. Flights of fancy become shorter, the burden of life more wearying, until the day comes when they must shed their wings and walk the earth forever more. These are, in truth, the lucky ones. The change is inevitable, as no one may escape the clutches of time, but the cause varies.

Sometimes the change is not so gradual. Sometimes the change is not a choice. Some have their wings ripped from them, crushed and broken, alone and fragile in the face of a cruel and monstrous destructive force. These are the ones who were not ready, who had more flying to do. They are the ones who loved, who laughed with innocence, who trusted most in the idea of inherent decency and kindness. They believed in the dream of a beautiful and caring world. These are the ones who wander now, crippled and scarred and searching.

She has been looking for so long now, moving on instinct, remembering something warm and light like a fading dream half-remembered in the dark of a winter morning. These are the kinds of thoughts that shrink when examined too closely. They scurry away from the probing mind, to hide back in the recesses of the subconscious, safe from the light of reason. Deep within the depths of her subconscious the memory of her wings resides like an open wound which she can only cover, but never heal.

So she looks everywhere. She goes out at night to the darkest corners of the city searching, desperately seeking a sign. She looks deep into angry hurtful eyes like the ones she remembers in her darkest nightmares. She searches them as they seethe at her from across smokey, darkened rooms. She looks closer still as they press themselves down, aggressive and spiteful, until she can look no longer and must turn away. They must not see her tears. Her wings are not here. The ones who steal wings do not keep them, they break them and discard them, so that the world will become a reflection of their ugliness and hate. In the silence of night, she gathers up her belongings and slips away, leaving behind some of her light, taking with her some of his darkness.

At home, soothing isolation. She peels back her own skin to examine the warm red essence that flows beneath her surface. She looks for her wings within herself, drawing long jagged lines of warm pain all over her body. She leaves scars in secret places. She tries to make the pain hers, tries to hold onto it and control it. But that this pain is manageable, that she can gather it up in her arms and hold it close to her, does not calm her like it should. The pain does not return her lover's embrace. This vague sense of control is fleeting so she looks instead to the bottle by her bed, that tiny orange thing with the white cap. Perhaps buried deep down under those little white pills, her wings lie dormant, waiting for her.

She washes some down with a bottle of wine and lies on her wrinkled sheets, still as the truth. She is too empty now to cry. Too exhausted, nearly, to breathe. All this searching through smoke and mirrors, all this longing and dreaming, begins to fade as her breath grows shallow. As she slips into unconsciousness, a glimmer of an idea flutters through her thoughts.

Grey and haunting, the morning dawns and a cold light cracks through the curtain. It creeps over the floor and slides toward the bed. It climbs the sheets and slowly, slowly illuminates pale bruised skin. Her hand stirs. Her lips twitch and an inaudible sound escapes for somewhere deep inside. One eye flutters open, and then the other, revealing themselves as two dark green emeralds sunken in an ivory setting. Crushing loneliness cannot hold a candle to the throbbing that courses through her temples. This headache is the kind of pain that negates all others. It makes thinking hard, as it drains the color out of the world.

Sitting up is a challenge, standing seems impossible. But shakily she makes her way to the sink and fills a dirty glass with water. The water helps, as does the coffee and shower. The throbbing behind her eyes becomes manageable and then fades to a dull reminder in the back of her head. Walking across the room, a singular mantra repeats in her head. She smiles faintly as she locks the door behind her and steps out into the waiting day.

This too shall pass.