Answer Me, "When Can I Fly Again?"
Jul 9, 2010, 11:29 PM
This Child's Wings by *mree
There is a small child who always come to see me every now and then. She and I have a few similarities, her way of talking, attitude, even her appearance. She has a distinctive voice, with just one word from her mouth, I would be able to recall her recent reports, or rather stories. She is just a child, I would always say, Yet she tries so hard to grow older. I was once the same, no... I still am. This little girl's words, they would remind me of her previous stories. On her every visit, she would tell me something new. She once approached me with her own notebook, this time she did not speak. After a few visits, I have noticed she no longer spoke, she just wrote silently. Her first written story, I remembered very well. Even now I would look back to it, this was what made write. This was what made her stop speaking. Even now, she would not speak, she would write, though it is her smile that would make me happy. Her angelic smile, I would want to see with her angelic voice.
I woke up with a light, soft touch of a pure white feather on my right cheek. An unfamiliar environment I observed, I was down on human land. Sitting up straight rather quickly, I felt a large stinging pain on my back. Glancing past my shoulder, tears began to form from the glands of my eyes. My wings, those pure, untouched, blessed wings, destroyed and torn into pieces. What have I deserved to have fallen this hard? My bleach white feathers, now stained with pure dark red blood. It was no one else's but mine. This sight, I did not want to see, I felt sick and disgusted by myself. I could not stand the sight of my own blood. Without realizing a thing, I was staring right at the clouds. I then thought, Shouldn't I be there? That is my home. I want to be there. Just as I was about let myself bleed endlessly, a dark silhouette shadowed over me. It was a boy, his features were almost as pure as the angelic boys back home, we were around the same age.
This boy, I could not understand his face expressions, we could not converse. He brought me to a cottage nearby, he treated my wounds. His heart, I assumed was pure. I thought this until he had imprisoned me in this cottage. Every now and then, he would knock on the door, bringing food, and a bandage to replace the one he had wrapped on my wounds the day before. There were no windows in this cottage, only a door. Even though it was small, this cottage held enough appliances and furniture for one to live. He did not speak to me, nor did he smile.
During his last visit, I had tried to speak to him. He understood me, yet did not respond in any way. He locked the door gently, he did not leave. His footsteps did not echo, he must have been sitting outside, waiting for something... or someone. I stood right beside the door, pressing my body against the chilled wooden wall, waiting for him to open the door. He did not. I listened for a single motion from outside, there was none. Many hours had passed, no change had been done. I walked away from door, into the center of the room, then the lock was unlatched, the door opened. The boy had given me something unusual. It was the remains of my wings, bleached white, sewn together with a strap for my arms to go through. I took a step towards him, he moved away. I reached for his flawless face, he gripped my fragile hands, preventing a single brush.
I did not dare talk, but my heart spoke, Answer Me, "When Can I Fly Again?" The boy replied to my question, You can't. With that he had once again fled, locking me up in this lonely cottage. My fingers traced the wings he had sewn together, observing them. These feathers, they were not mine. The feathers, they were much rougher than mine, they were painted white. They did not belong to me, belong to another one like me, they were his.
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