Winged

Lane

Lane starred in the mirror, her eyes roaming over her face, body, hair, and the smokey gray wings, once white, stretched out behind her gracefully. She sniffled as it became difficult to breathe, memories flooding her head. She saw their eyes staring at her when she closed her eyes, some confused, some disgusted, some intrigued, but most horrified. Horrified at what stood in front of them. She sighed as her fingers played with the hem of her sky blue t-shirt, the soft fabric smooth against her fingertips. Slowly, she lifted the shirt up, turning around and watching as the white and red scars, as well as the skin that split painfully when she unfurled her wings, revealed themselves.

"Why am I so different?" She asked herself, reaching back with her right hand, feeling the risen skin beneath her fingers, pain radiating from the fresher wounds. "Why can't I just be like everyone else?"

Lane felt the split skin, her hands becoming wet with blood that spilled from the wounds. She winced as she pulled her hand back, seeing red covering her fingers. A disgusted expression crossed her face and she immediately reached for the sink and turned on the cold water, holding her hand under the flow and watching the water turn pink. She stared at the water, thinking of how it it was all the same, no matter where it was from. No water rejects other water or thinks of it being any different. Two droplets conform and join when encountering each other, they don't reject the other drop.

If only people were like that.

The feeling of her hand going numb with cold pulled her from her thoughts, blinking a few times before quickly pulling the hand out of the water and grabbing the nearest towel, using the forest green cloth to dry her now freezing hand. She looked up to see the picture of a swimsuit model that she had taped to the mirror. She was beautiful, long blonde hair, big blue eyes, thin body with a red bikini being the only thing covering her, and no wings behind her. She sighed and reached up, tearing it off of the glass and setting the glossy page beside her on the pastel coral counter.

"Why can't I be normal?" Lane said to herself, looking at the photo in twisted admiration. Suddenly, a sick idea struck her. "Maybe I can."

Urgently, she turned and yanked open a drawer, a loud CRACK echoing through the bathroom. She dug around in the drawer, searching desperately for the item she had thought of. She held back the urge to gasp with relief when she saw the glint of metal. Reaching in, she grabbed the blade and tugged, pulling out a pair of shiny brass scissors, old and worn with use. She took the handle and gripped the scissors, opening and closing the blades a few times before putting setting them on the counter next to the picture of the blonde.

Lane hurriedly reaches down and pulls the t-shirt the rest of the way off of her body, throwing it into the floor behind her. She glared at her stomach and chest in the mirror, the only thing covering her torso being a white bra. She watches her chest rise and fall in nauseous revulsion, her stomach turning as she saw only her flaws, what she hated. She looked over at the photo of the model once again, seeing everything she was not. She reached beside the page and gripped the scissors, lifting them up and turning where her side was visible in the mirror. She reached back, opening the blades and gently setting her wing between gingerly them, gray feathers already coming loose and floating to the floor, silently landing at her feet.

"I can be normal. I can be normal. I can be normal. I can be normal." She said to herself, repeating the phrase as she closed the scissors, pain radiating through her back as the blades cut through flesh and bone.

Snaps, cracks, clicks, and the disgusting sound of muscle and skin being cut away was all that was heard in the bathroom as Lane cut off the first wing. Tears of pain streamed down her face as she repeated, her voice shaking:

"I can be normal. I can be normal. I can be normal." The phrase a chant to keep Lane from stopping.

A hard THUD was heard as Lane's left wing fell from her body, the gray feathers softening the landing and muffling the noise.

Lane, hearing the noise, turned to see one of her wings lying on the tiled floor, blood pouring from the open wound where the scissors cut flesh from flesh. Lane covered her mouth with her hand, shaking, the tool smearing blood on her nose and lips. A shrill scream pierced the air, it didn't even sound like her own.

What had she done?