Wings

48. Alexander

I was a pacifist. Fights were never my thing. I once let Billy Saunders beat the shit out of me in eighth grade because I didn't wanna hit him back.

But, when dealing with Alexa, some moral code embedded in the fiber of my being shifted. When I asked where she was and was answered in a snicker, suddenly I didn't feel so bad beating a stranger bloody.

I never thought I'd be able to do anything like that. It didn't make me feel good, or bad, for that matter. I was too preoccupied with finding Alexa to feel anything at all.

Thanks to my bloodied fists, I found my way to where Alexa supposedly spent her free time; under a bar in fight club called the Whyte Serpent. The place practically oozed with sweat and blood. People parted for me naturally, thanks to the girth of my wings.

When I got to the main attraction, I was less than surprised to find a dirty-floored basin with a ladder leading down into it. Alexa swayed at the bottom, cracking her knuckles before adorning them with brass.

I shouted for her but the noise was drowned out by the shouting of tens of sweaty people with too much beer. Helplessly, I watched her try to fight, but get hit over and over again. My heart dropped each time.

It took exactly thirteen strikes to the ribs and face for Alexa to finally collapse on the ground and not get back up. Finally, the locked door to the ladder was opened and I ran forward to get to her. A muscular man tried to stop me, but I shoved past, adrenaline pulsing through my body.

When I reached her, people booed me. But I lifted her up with horrifying ease - she was so small, so thin. Her cheeks were even more hollowed out than normal.

I picked her up and carried her out of the club, growling like some feral animal anytime someone tried to touch her. I called an ambulance.

...

I couldn't get the memory of her ribs out of my mind. When they'd lifted her shirt to check for any injuries there, I saw her bones protruding against the thin layer of flesh over them. Her pale skin was a myriad of bruises and cuts.

Worst of all was a long, jagged scar running from her  left hip all the way up to the middle of the right side of her rib cage. It was obviously deep, and about the width of three fingers across. I could see the outline of the stitches still holding the old wound closed.

I sat beside her bed after telling the cops that she'd been jumped, looking at her face but only seeing the scar. Only imagining its origin.

My body shook with anxiety and exhaustion, but I couldn't sleep. Part of me was afraid that if I closed my eyes for too long, she'd disappear.

Yet the droning buzzes and beeps of the machines around me pulled me into sleep, only for me to be woken by her shrill cry at 2:47am.