New York Please Go Easy On Me

Black and white and the Greys Between

Everyone is born with wings. There's never been someone who hasn't been born with them. Only severe accidents ever rendering a human wingless and doomed to never have a mate.

It's rare. It's sad. The wingless are outcasts in the world of feathers....

There are also the doves, the most desired, most precious persons within society. You could be dirt poor but be respected for the simple fact that you are a dove. Being a Dove can get you anywhere and anything in life. You just have to be lucky enough Be be born with the right feathers.

Then there are, as always the opposite of the greater purities in life. One of these being the crows. There's nothing wrong with them. There's nothing different. It's like hating someone with green eyes just because it's an omen of evil in some cultures. It's pointless, yet even in Modernized times, the racism is at a peak. Not as horrid as in the past, but still disappointing to find in a civilized world.

Being born a crow means being born a reject, someone considered just above a Wingless human. The Crows are known for being Evil and disgusting people... no crow is born that way. Like any dove, sparrow, or hawk, a crow is born with the same pure innocence as any infant. Only society and the way it treats them makes them sour. Not all are hardened by life's hardships, but more times than not they can't resist the need to shield themselves from the hatred of the world.

Peter himself was born neither of these. Thankful not to be a demon, and content being average. He was born with beautiful pale grey wings. The long primary feathers an almost un-noticeable shade darker on color. He was proud. Even though he was just a rare (average, unimportant) color he was truly proud. From a distance, he'd been told many times he'd looked like an angel.

But he'd never imagined at nine years old that they'd be taken from him. He'd never imagined the thought of having to live his life without the precious primary feathers at the ends of his wings.

. . . .

Peter smiled at the memory of running his small hands though his own soft, delicate baby feathers. At the time he'd been too young to truly fly. He wasn't allowed to try them out after his first accident that led to breaking his wrist to the expense of his aunt and uncle who hardly had the money to pay the hospital bill.

...Yet Peter still tried, when no one was looking. He'd learned to be careful of the harsh gusts of wind that would spiral his small wings out of control.

He remembered getting stuck in the branches of a tree once by the belt loops of his pants. He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of finding a little him dangling from a tree by his pants like his uncle had. It wasn't funny at the time.

"Peter, Harry's on his way." A soft voice, his aunt calls to him before the white, wooden paneled door to his bedroom. "You almost ready?" She asked with a smile as he looked up at her from where he sat on a soft rug in the middle of his floor, wing up in front of him as he ran his fingers through the feathers.

"Yup," The young child said, folding his wings in slightly before hopping up in an aura of childish innocence as he smiled up at May.

"Make sure you have your jacket Young man," The motherly figure reminded her nephew before disappearing from the doorway, her footsteps being heard as she walked down the stairs. She was packing away a snack for the two boys. They were going to the park and she knew how much young Harry loved home cooked meals as he'd declared how much better they are then the extravagant ones he's served at home in the Osborn household.