Stories to tell. [discontinued]

Molting.

I know this feeling.
This cold,wet and vaguely fuzzy feeling in my hand.

I watched as the handful of feathers i had in my hand fell to the floor,the tips being covered in a thick cold liquid i can easily identify as my own blood.

As i stared down at the pile i had dropped i started to remember something,something that i had hoped i forgot by now,
That cold feeling of marble flooring that can be felt through even the thickest of clothing,
Warm hands grabbing at the base of my wings,desperately yanking at them in futile attempts at ripping them off,
Warm blood running through the crooks of my feathers and onto my back.

I remember these feelings as if they had just happened,and the longer I look at the pile of feathers I remember more,
The sound of mocking laughter aimed solely at me,
And the sound of a mirror being broken.

These memories came back to me even when i desperately tried to forget about them.

I slowly turned my head to look at the wings so painstakingly attached to my back,
I lifted a hand and grabbed at the base of one of them; my left wing.

I reached to the side to grab the pocket knife i had accidentally knocked off from my nightstand from my fit this morning,
I moved it to press the sharp side against the space just above my hand only to freeze up when I remembered something.

I remember this sensation.
This burning painful sensation in my wing, that mixed with the cold from my blood starting to flow.

I remember this sensation because the shattered mirror was used to harm me,
They carved their initials into my wing,and I could still feel the indentation of where they had carved them into me.

'i hate this' i told myself,having let the knife in my hand fall as i let go of my wing,moving to hug myself.

'i hate this so much..' i spoke,letting my tears mix with the small puddle of blood on my floor.