Flightless

The Meeting

[A/N: Times I've accidentally typed "wongs" instead of "wings" (3). Shoutout to @FZhang, who suggested this book idea to me!]

John Watson had always loved his wings. They had been beautiful; a fluffy swirl of greys and whites. Most people's wings were only one color. But he was lucky, at least in this aspect. He loved how they would fold gently against his shoulders, protecting him from whatever danger was ahead. But, as it seems, they weren't enough.

The war had changed him. Mentally, of course, but also physically. His once beloved wings had been torn and mangled by an enemy's bullet. They had sent him home. An injured soldier was of no use to the army. They couldn't use him anymore, so he was discarded.

His wings had been his protection from people. In school, he was picked on for his old and tattered clothes, but his wings, his wings they couldn't touch. Nobody could deny their beauty, and for that, he was grateful.

Other people's wings were small and some couldn't even get more than a few feet off the ground. With his wings, John was able to soar above all the ordinary people. His wings were his escape.

But those bullets had gone and ruined things. Nothing could be the same now. What once brought him endless joy caused him pain. So much pain, that he couldn't even bring himself to turn towards a mirror now. He hated his reflection, hated what he saw there. His wings were damaged beyond repair. He would never fly again.

They were so ugly now. He couldn't manage to spread them out without sharp pain shooting throughout . His once shiny, sleek feathers were crooked and dulled. The doctors, of course, had tried to save of much of the bone fragments as possible, but there wasn't much that they could do. He was broken, he knew that. And no one would ever be able to see past that.

...

John was used to the stares. He didn't mind it as much anymore. Let people look, and see how damaged they were. No, the stares didn't bother him, but the whispers did.

It was a cool day in London. John had the day off, so he decided to go down to the park. It would give him a change in scenery. Besides, he needed to work more on a blog post. Grabbing his laptop on the way out of his small flat, he began his walk.

It wouldn't actually take him long to get there, but he still walked quickly. The faster he went, the easier it was to ignore the people around him. They didn't want to be rude, he knew, but if he was around too long, they would begin to ask questions. And he didn't like having to explain his injuries.

That's one of the reasons he loved going to the park. It was spacious enough that people had practically no excuse to be close to you. There was a small spot in particular he loved. The trees blocked out the harsh sunlight, and their bark was not rough to the touch. The ground was covered in a carpet of soft grass. John had discovered this spot a few weeks back, and he would sit there, his wings tucked away behind his back. Nobody could see them. He couldn't see them. Things were almost normal, in those moments.

Normal, as it turns out, is a fantasy. As John was making his way up a grassy slope, he could see that someone else was already there, in his spot. And this person seemed to be as far from normal as possible.

To begin with, he had a penknife out, and seemed to be carving up one of the trees. He was barefoot, and had rolled his trousers up. He had a coat, but that had been discarded onto the grass. These things combined were odd by themselves, but there was one more thing about him that was off. 

There were no wings on his back. 

///

First published Sep. 24, 2020.