It was a late night at the diner. My boss gave me no choice but to stay an extra three hours, since it was tourist season. At this point, I just wanted to quit. This job wasn't for me. I've been working here since my sophomore year of high school, and I just can't stand it anymore. I'm an artist, not a waitress. I should be doing something with my painting. But, these days, you can't exactly make a good wrofit off of art anymore, specifically infamous paintings. It's not the Renaisssance anymore; where art made the world go around. It's the twenty-first century; where everything is about money and sex.
It was a Saturday night, driving home from the diner. The road felt like a never-ending, black tunnel tonight. The trees mirrored each other on the sides of the road, like a fun house. It was an opstical course. I looked at the clock. 12:15AM. I just wanted to be home, where I could sleep, and ignore the world.
I sighed, and drove on. Then out of no where, something hit the wind shield. The glass cracked, and whatever it was rolled over the roof of the truck, and landed on the pavement. The truck swerved, and almost tipped the truck over on its side. I stomped on the breaks, and the wheels squealed against the pavement. I sat there for a few seconds in the complete silence. I couldn't move. Both of my hands were gripping the wheel, my eyes wide with shock.
I breathed, then looked into the rearview mirror. I had a cut on the side of my head. Then, I looked behind me, and saw a person laying on his side, in the road.
"Oh my God!" I took my eyes off of the mirror, and jumped out of the truck.
I slammed the truck door shut, and ran over to the guy. As I approached him, I began to notice the cuts all over him, and the bullet holes.
"Oh my God," I whispered to myself, again.
I knelt down a few inches away from where he lay.
"Shit, I killed him," I whispered to myself.
I put my hand on his cheek, and looked at the cuts on his face. I put my other hand on his left cheek, and moved his head. His skin was cold and sweat painted his hairline. He had long, wavy black hair that must have reached past his shoulders.
"Damn, you're attractive, too," I said to myself as if he could hear me.
Then suddenly, he rolled towards me. I jumped back, and landed on my elbows. He grunted as he tried to get to his knees. He held himself up on one arm, and his other arm cradled his ribs. I could hear that he had a hard time breathing.
I watched as he tried to move, then suddenly, I saw them. His wings.
My jaw dropped as I watched his wings extend. They must have been twelve feet long; colored a deep black with a dark green tint. They were like the wings of a raven, or a crow.
He looked over to me. His expression was filled with agony. He looked back down to the ground, again, squeezing his eyes shut, and grinding his teeth. He had a difficult time taking a steady breath. I slowly crawled over to him.
"I'm so sorry," I said, sitting in front of him with my legs crossed.
He slowly looked up to me, again. His blue eyes glowed in the night; a radiant, crystal bue. His face was friendly, but scared all at once. It was almost too obvious that the immense pain was taking over him.
"Help," he said weakly, then taking a shakey breath.
"Okay, come here," I said softly.
I got under the arm that he was holding himself up with, and got us to our feet. We slowly made our way to the truck. I got him into the back, since he couldn't fit through the passenger door with his wings. He lay down on the cool metal. I looked to him, then opened the driver's door. I took out a blanket from under the seat. I walked and stood on the back wheel of the truck, and spread the blanket over him.
