I guess I haven’t talked about my wings, right?
I don’t know if you’ve seen them yet, I suppose. I don’t usually flaunt them when I’m wandering the house, and most of the time when I’m outside I hide them because they can cause trouble. It’s not really easy to fit in with two large green wings sticking out at all times.
And before you ask: Yes, yes I can fly with them.
I only really mastered it recently, though. Just like you have to learn to walk and crawl, little baby me had to figure out how to use these big wings of hers. Luckily, the rest of my family has them too. My father helped me get off the ground, and my siblings taught me from there. It isn’t as hard as it sounds, the only reason it took so long is because I needed to grow old enough to actually control myself. Our wings don’t grow with the rest of the body, they’re at full size when we’re born.
Yeah…father showed me pictures. Just imagine me, shorter than your lower leg, with wings spanning out almost as far as a grown adult’s arm span. Cute, maybe, but I stumbled quite a bit. Anytime I let them out it’d end with a broken vase and a trail of feathers leading to my room.
I always wondered why my wings left feathers. When you’re looking at them, they glow as if a bright light was shining through glass. The light’s edge fades to a blue as the edges of the wings seem almost transparent. They look almost like a moving sculpture, one solid crystal spreading out behind me and moving like flowing water. There’s an outline of feathers, as if imitating a bird’s wing, but they were hidden under the emanating light. Despite this, I find that I leave a trail of green feathers that fall off my wings when I fly. Each holds a faint glow of light that shines from my wings, dim as if fading away.
There were more complications when I was young. Growing up, I even found them taking different shapes. As a kid I remember once looking in the mirror and seeing a pair or massive fairy wings as opposed to the bird-like wings that usually stretched out from behind me. As it turns out, our wings aren’t a set shape. My father had to explain that our wings change shapes in an effort to find a pair that best suit the owner. In that way, they’re almost like a sentient partner that’s permanently strapped to our backs. Because my family only knew how to fly with one pair of wings, those were the ones I was trained with. However, that didn’t stop me from pulling out other wings when I was playing around in my room.
The more I think about it, the more the properties of my wings seem unnatural. No matter their shape, they have the pattern of a butterfly’s. And, despite their smooth and almost crystalline look, they’re incredibly soft and warm. I remember whenever I hugged my father, he’d spread his wings and wrap me in them. My sister did the same, always sheltering me when we’d sit underneath the tree to rest. In addition, while they’re rather heavy they’re also incredibly fragile. I recall accidentally leaning on one when I stumbled onto a wall, and feeling as if it crumpled like a piece of paper. It also got hurt in…other ways.
One time that I went out I got into some trouble. I went through the door in the basement as I always do when I’m looking to get some fresh air and feel some sense of freedom. The world opened up to tall buildings and slick machinery, a technologically advanced society with mathematical beauty. The night sky was black in contrast with the colorful skyscrapers and busy streets, who’s glow outcast the dull nature that surrounded the town. I tried to walk around and learn about the town, but it wasn’t that simple. People somehow recognized I didn’t belong—people began to stare and I got stopped by a group of officers. With no words to defend myself and the increasing concern of those around me, I tried to fly away. I quickly spread my wings, running off and away from their shouting as I lifted off into the air. Opening up into the open sky, I retreated from the city that pierced the night. Just as I thought I had escaped into the night, a piercing pain shot through my spine and I could feel my right wing scream out in agony. Suddenly, I began dropping back down to the ground. I tried harder and harder to rise, but each movement shot a stinging pain through my body as it felt like a needle was stabbing through my wing. In a confusing mess of feathers and leaves, I fell down through treetops to a cliffside in the outskirts of town.
When I woke up again, I was lying in a bed of grass surrounded by feathers and leaves. With a pained groan, I lifted myself up and tried to hold my head to somehow soothe my splitting headache. I looked down at myself, trying to wipe off some of the dirt and other debris that I collected while falling. Wiping off some of the blood from my cuts, I remembered the pain that shot me out of the sky. I took a few deep breaths, then looked over to my right wing to see what had happened.
There was a hole in my wing.
My eyes widened as I pulled my wing in closer to see. I sucked a quick breath of air through my teeth as I tapped it lightly with a finger, trying to stroke some of the searing pain away. The hole was large enough for a golf ball to fit through it. The edges were shining an aggressive and blinding green as if burning away, light leaking out of the wound. The rest of the light from the wing was dull and darker, as if threatening to flicker out like an old light bulb. There was no blood flowing out or anything. There was just a missing part of my body.
I slowly got up as the pain started to shift from an intense burn to an overwhelming soreness, limping to the edge of the cliffside to look out at the blinding lights radiating from the city below. At that moment, I was convinced that my power of flight had been taken away from me. I was certain that my wings would never work again. It was the first time that I felt such a strong sense of fear.
There weren’t many dangers in our little world. I was safe with my family, and there was no serious pain or stress I had to deal with. It was always fun and games—low stakes and with plenty of failsafes. But this time, I lost something dear to me outside the safety of my home. I looked once more at the hole in my wing, feeling my heart sink as I could feel air blow through it.
For what felt like hours, I stood on the cliffside watching the city lights clash with the night sky. Anger, sadness, regret, fear—all these emotions swirled inside me like a storm, but all I could do was stare in silence at the city that robbed me of flight.
Later, after going home, my sister and brother helped take care of it. They were too worried to scold me for going out and being so reckless—I came back with a mess of hair and cuts all over, refusing to look them in the eyes. When their anger faded into worry and they asked what happened, I unfurled my wings and let them see the injury. Sister helped clean up the bruises and other injuries I had while my brother carefully wrapped a dark cloth around it to keep the wound covered. They told me it would heal with time, and brought me to a bed before I passed out from pain and exhaustion.
Sometime later, the hole was gone, replaced with the same flowing butterfly texture as if there was never a break in it. For a couple of days I refused to try flying again. I was scared of that feeling of falling like I experienced when I was first shot down. It was like drowning, constantly reaching for life while falling faster and faster away from it. Despite coming home, that fear I felt didn’t leave me. Not for a while, at least.
Eventually, I climbed to the roof of our house and spread my wings. With my sister ready to catch me, I let myself tip off the edge and closed my eyes. I felt the air get caught under my wings, and when I opened my eyes I was gliding down to the tree, and I heard my sister cheering through the air that I was flying thorough. My wings worked fine, albeit my flying skill was worse after how long I went without any practice.
Despite knowing my wounds could heal without much issue, I never lost that fear. Flying wasn’t just a tool for me, it was an escape. It was a free feeling of the wind in my hair, excitement as long as there was no roof. I had to learn the hard way that I couldn’t take it for granted.
But I kept flying anyway. I was just a little more careful when I left the house. After all, there’s no point in protecting it by keeping to the ground. If I was going to keep my wings hidden all my life, then what was the point of having them?