On Black Wings

by Storm, Sylvia

  I turn towards the men, wanting to know why, what happened to me, and why they did this to me. They stand, facing me, black and eyeless, weapons in their hands, flies crawling out of the sockets where their eyes once sat.

  They open their mouths as one, and howl an unearthly scream. It is so deep and harrowing it hurts my ears, a sound so low and base it feels like it could break bones. The screams feel like they will crush my skull. I hold my ears.

  It’s noise. It’s just noise to distract me.

  The dogs are set free, and splash into the river. I’m too weak, they will rip the limbs from my body, they will tear the feathers from my wings.

  My wings?

  My wings.

  I run, my feet coming back from numbness and the rocks of the shore sticking into them and feeling like a million needles rasping on my flesh. It hurts, but I have to run. I pump my legs harder, harder than they will ever go, and push my stumbling body towards the trees.

  The bullets sail by me, and bullet after bullet smacking into trees. The air snaps as the slugs pass by, and I feel chills run down my spine.

  Why God, why?

  The eyeless hunters keep firing, the bullets impacting the rocks around me, the terror as I hear the hypersonic cracks whip into my ears and send bone chilling fear down my spine. I drag my useless wings behind me like a burden, huge wet mops dragging along the stones.

  I run, and I hear the splashing of the dogs stop, and their feet hit the rocks on this side.

  I’m not outrunning the dogs, they will be on me soon.

  More bullets, the snaps and cracks of the air just inches from my flesh, they are shooting at me, their guns not stopping, the hail of pops and rat-a-tat-tats behind me not letting up. Shotguns blast, and I feel like some sort of black duckling scared out of a pond and flying into a hail of buckshot.

  They want to kill me.

  The trees.

  I need to get deeper into the trees.

  Bark flies off the trees as the bullets mulch the wood, a shotgun blast stripping a tree bare right next to my arm, other bullets making bark explode. Splinters cover my body as bullets crack past me and slam into the wood.

  I feel the dogs chasing me, they are getting close, my limp wings dragging through the forest, collecting leaves, twigs, and all sorts of garbage from the ground. The hunters keep firing, honing in on me, but I weave between trees and feel the trunks shake and explode behind me.

  Maybe I’m making it.

  If not for the dogs.

  I scream, running, my feet pushing leaves and twigs away in a cloud behind me, my fear of being ripped apart by the eyeless dogs driving me on.

  The men, I hear them laughing. It sounds like a backwards chant, yelping and gulping large gasps of air, a perverse laugh of hatred and bile. The sound of it, I know the sound of it will haunt me. It’s the wicked laughs of murderers.

  Feet pounding, right behind me. The dogs, I hear them close on me.

  I turn, trying to grab my last spike in my left hand, screaming, crying and readying myself for their brutal jaws. I skid to a stop in the brush, and the two eyeless dogs beat their way to me with little effort, foam hanging from their mouths.

  I tense, preparing myself for the final battle.

  I feel powerful muscles ripple through my body, steeling themselves to incredible hardness. It feels like a weight is being lifted from my back, and my entire spine seizes up and strengthens. My back, I feel tendons ripple and pulse under the skin of my back. It feels like raw power emanating from within.

  The dogs stop dead in their tracks as my black wings lift themselves up and flare out like a raven’s. The long black feathers steel and shine, and point down like a thousand daggers.

  Their hollow eyes widen, the flies buzz and crawl out, and they begin to growl at me warily. One backs up a step, his teeth bared.

  I bare mine. I growl back.

  One dog leaps, and I recoil, raising my arms in defense, holding my last rusty spike. My wing shields me with the blackest wall of night, and I don’t want the eyeless animal ripping into it, so I try to move it, but can’t. Instead, I prepare myself, tensing up, and feeling my wings stiffen as well. The dog impacts with the steel-hard feathers of my wing with a thud, bones snapping, the lifeless carcass of the animal dropping to the ground.

  My wing surrounds me like a solid wall of blackness. I reach out to touch it, and it’s hard as black diamonds, each feather still textured, but unmoving and solid like a piece of glass. I relax, and the feathers soften, and return to their suppleness.

  My wings.

  I hear the other dog bark ferociously, and I bring my wing down, peering over it at the raging beast. It snaps and growls, trying to get a position on me for an attack.

  The other dog lies dead.

  I flex, harden, and sweep my wing as fast as it can go towards the eyeless monster. Three trees are cut cleanly in half like butter before the sword-like edge of my wing slices the soulless dog in half like a sword to a rotten piece of fruit.

  The cut trees fall away from me in a splintering racket, landing in a semi-circle outward around me, the top branches landing with a whoosh. I un-tense, let go, and soften my wing, letting it float gently behind me.

  Amazing. I just did not do that.

  But I did.

  These are not ordinary wings.

  They are like giant swords when I need them. They turn as solid as steel when I want them to.

  I reach out and touch my wing. The muscles inside me, the ones supporting them, they are so strong my black feathered wings feel weightless upon me. I feel this strength ripple through me, grasping onto my spine and my ribs, the tendons pulling on the rest of me, my normal balance returning.

  I fit them on my back, folding them along the roots, and settle them into my shoulder blades. They compact quite nicely, sitting behind me and slightly over my head like a cloak, resting fierce behind me like the wings of an angel of death.

  I walk back towards the camp.

  I stop.

  I turn and walk away.

  CHAPTER IV:

  Tears Well Up in My Eyes

  I find a quiet place to cry.

  I am somewhere in the forest, far away where no one can find me. I walked over hills, through woods, by bone-white birch trees, through nestled thickets, dead brush, and tangled walls of saplings. I walked until my feet hurt, wearing my cheap sneakers with no socks on my feet, long since dry, my gray cotton shorts, and my pink shirt with the number 17 on the chest.

  I tried my cell phone, it was dead.

  I have the black feathers from my wing in my hand, and I’m stroking them as I sit here far away from anyone who would hurt me. They are so soft, shiny, and slick. Black feathers are my only comfort.

  I find shelter between two large rocks, my dark little place in a world I no longer know. I stare at the ghost-white trees, miles of them stretching away from my view. I nestle farther into the soft comfort of my black wings, the feathers keeping me warm and dry, my body getting used to their presence. I rub my cheek against them, using them as my black pillow to hug and comfort myself against the waning day.

  It begins to rain.

  The soft hiss of rain echoes through the forest, drops spattering near me, the chill winds rustling the very tops of the trees. A wet blanket of gray descends on my world, the rain wet and flowing down every tree in rivers of sadness. It’s peaceful, cold, and covers the land like death itself.

  My children. My husband. The ones I never had.

  I’m so young now, and so stupid. I think about seeing my older self curled up in ball by my front door as my family never-to-be burns away to ashes and soot. The ones from inside me, the man I never loved - gone forever and never to be.

  Why God? Did I do wrong?

  Are you telling me I have to start again?

  I remember dropping the kids off to school just the other morning. Going to work and having Brad pick them up on his way home. My kids. My flesh and blood. Gone.


  I was never a good mother.

  I never felt I was good enough, never cooking a home-cooked meal, taking them out to fast food places all the time, dropping them off at daycare, letting them stay at my sister’s instead of being home with us, getting them prepackaged lunches instead of making them myself, and letting them sit in front of the television for hours.

  Maybe God took them away from me because I was never a good mother.

  I cry as I’m curled up in a ball, feeling the tears hitting my knees and running down my legs. But I loved them, God. I loved my children, Clarissa and Timothy. No matter how bad of a mother I was, I gave them everything I had.

  I would die for them.

  But now…

  I suck in a snot-filled gasp of air and cry. If I think about them, I’m not going to have the will to live. But I can’t stop thinking about them. Why God, why did you take them away from me?

  Nothing makes sense. I’m a child myself now, well, just my stupid teenage self. I hated being a teenager, I did so many stupid things, and just wasted my youth. I was so dumb, I never took advantage of vacations, friends, or even bettered myself at school. I look back at those years and just think, what a waste.

  I wished I could have done so much more when I was this age.

  Why, God, why? Did I waste my life? Is this some sort of hell I am doomed to live all eternity in? Am I cursed to live as a stupid girl, to remember her dead family as she lives in some rotting place of un-death and hatred?

  Am I some sort of demon now?

  There has to be some sort of explanation. I’m sure that’s what the stunned survivors of a town that a tornado wipes out say when they come out of the basement and their world is gone. There must be an explanation for this senseless death and destruction.

  Maybe we live in a world where God is too overwhelmed to care.

  Have we put too much faith in God? The constant praying to him to solve our smallest problems, the cliques and petty social circles in church, the holier than thou attitudes we have, and the thinking one face of God is better than the others. The wars in his name, the hatred we spread, and the death we inflict on each other because we think it pleases Him.

  If God made us in his image, we ended up making him an image of us.

  I rest my chin on my arms and look out into the forest. Despite those trying to kill me, it’s pretty peaceful here right now. The soft hiss and drum of the rain, the bone-white birch trees, the pastoral forest, the feeling of being at home in nature.

  The day still haunts me. Was it something about the day? I remember waiting for the clock to run out at work, watching it on the wall as the last 10 minutes never seemed to move. That last email at 5:01pm that kept me an extra 15 minutes and I thought I would never get out of there.

  Walking out the door and wishing everyone a nice weekend.

  Spending a mad 20 minutes on the expressway coming home, everyone was in such a rush on a Friday afternoon. Seeing the gray clouds over the hills before I pulled in our driveway and wondering if it was going to rain.

  The clouds turned out to be the ashes of everyone I ever knew.

  I let out a long breath through my nose, the warmth from my body making a slight fog. I’m cold. My throat is dry. I’m hungry. I’m young again. Why God am I young again?

  Something I’ve always wished for, but not like this.

  Not like this.

  I’m so hungry I’m tired, clammy, and losing energy fast. I never had breakfast. I rest my forehead on my knees and try to sort my head together. Am I one person or two? It’s so confusing, I can’t make sense of it all.

  In one life, I was partying the night before, talking on the phone to my girlfriends, and looking at the stuff I got at the mall. I woke up to a nightmare. In another life, I came home from work, thought about dinner, kissed my husband, and watched everyone I know die.

  Who am I? I beat my forehead against my bare knees trying to sort out the two lives I’m living. I wrap myself in black wings.

  Make that three lives.

  Why the wings? Why did those men, those eyeless hateful men, why did they tie me to the riverbed and wait for me to drown? Why did they have no eyes? Did they have no souls? Why did the black flies crawl from their bodies?

  I harden a feather to my touch, it feels cold and hard, just like steel. Why can I do this? I killed those dogs with these wings, and cut down trees with just a flick. I avoid touching the razor-sharp edge of the feather, and instead stroke the steel hardness before I let it go soft in my touch. Despite my ability to harden my wings, the rest of me is soft and vulnerable.

  I have no way to harden my flesh or my heart.

  I cry.

  I look up, blinking tears away.

  Where is the black horse?

  I hear them, footsteps approaching.

  Men.

  Hunters? They are walking towards me. They must know. I harden myself, narrowing my eyes, the water running off me like tears.

  I stand as I see them. There’s no hiding from them. White horses? The clatter and clank of metal on metal? Helmets, white tunics, red crosses, and iron greaves? Men in medieval plate armor? There must be a hundred of them, men in old-fashioned armor like I see on the Thrones of Thorns show on cable. They walk horses behind them, and carry swords. Bare metal swords, ready in their hands, ready to strike.

  They have eyes. They are alive.

  I smile.

  They approach, staring at me, eyes wary, swords at the ready, some behind shields bearing crosses, others with chain hoods and holding loaded crossbows. They begin to speak, but in rapid Latin, and I do not understand them. I hold my hands towards them, letting them know they have nothing to fear from me, I mean them no harm.

  “Hello?” I say, lowering my shoulders, letting my wings fall behind me like a cloak of blackness. “I mean you no harm. Please, I’m hungry and thirsty. Do you have water?”

  More rapid-fire Latin, and they keep their swords ready, the fear in their eyes palatable, edging towards me through the debris of the forest floor.

  Their faces? I blink, moving closer. They back away as one in fear. They are all old men, ancient in fact, the lines around their eyes deeply etched, their skin pallid and marked with spots, white hairs and unshaven beards, worn faces and tired hearts.

  “Who are you?”

  A man lands on my back, yanking a burlap bag over my head. I struggle, my wings hardening, trying to throw him off. I thrash around, and I hear men fall. I pull on the hood, but the man’s arm wraps around my neck. They scream and rush me, beating me, kicking me, and landing blows with wooden batons on the bag. It hurts, it hurts so bad. Every blow brings my body new pains.

  I’m so hungry, so weak, I can’t fight. They grab me and hold me down, strong hands pinning me to wet leaves and damp twigs. I scream again.

  Why, God?

  I scream as I fall flat, and a strong blow to the back of my head sends me into darkness.

  CHAPTER V:

  My Head Hurts

  “Wake up sleepy-head.”

  He kissed me on the lips.

  I’m sore, I’m cold, and I had to pee.

  I pulled the comforter up over myself. He pulled it away. I opened my eyes.

  Unshaven, hair muffed, and his good-boy looks.

  Brad.

  Oh God, thank you! I kissed him and rolled on top, and pressed him into the pillows.

  “Whoa!” He laughed. “Hold your horses girl!” He smacked my lips again with his. “Good morning to you too.”

  I kissed him again, and ran my fingers through his hair.

  “Oh God, it’s good to see you.” I hugged him and pressed against him. “I had such a vivid nightmare. Oh God, it was terrible.”

  “That’s the last time we go out for margaritas at Jose’s on a Thursday.” He laughed, my cheek pressed into his chest. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “No.” I snuggled. “Well, yes, maybe.”

  “Come on,” he said as he messed with my hair, �
��it will make you feel better.”

  “Terrible things happened,” I sniffed, “we were home from work, the kids from school, and this thing happened, it started raining ash.”

  I left out the parts I couldn’t imagine.

  “We don’t live near an active volcano, hun,” he said, as his fingers combed my hair, “what else happened?”

  “There was this horse at the back window. I got on him and fell asleep. I dreamed these hunters tied me down in a river, they were so mean.”

  “Tied you down in a river? Jesus.” He laughed, his chest pressed against my ear. “What is that supposed to mean? They say dreams have meanings in real life.”

  “I don’t know. It was horrible. I was tied down, and the water was rising, and…and I had these wings. Beautiful wings. Like an angel’s.”

  “Well, I could sure see you with some of those.” He smiled, rubbing my back. “Were they pretty?”

  “They were black.”

  He was quiet.

  “Black?” He laughed again. “Black wings. Now I know you had too much. Could you fly?”

  “I…I don’t know.” I snuggled. “I never tried. I was too tired. The hunters were chasing me. They, I don’t know, they were like zombies? And then these other men came and took me, they looked like House Easterhaven from that show we watch.”

  “You weren’t going to sleep with Prince Goldhard? I can tell you like that actor.”

  “No,” I said as I sat up, and I leaned over the bed in a haze. My head pounded, Jesus, I had a headache. “Trust me, I’d never get along with those Hollywood types. But he does have a nice butt.”

  “Well, last day this week,” Brad said as he slid off the bed, “I gotta get in early, can you drop the kids off? I can pick them up if I get in before eight.”

  I saw myself in the closet mirror, my hair a mess, my eyes bloodshot, I looked like I’ve woken from the dead.

  My pink number seventeen body shirt still on.

  Jesus! I tore it off and threw it on the floor, retreating to the bed and hyperventilating. I stared at it like it was some sort of monster, a key into a world I never wanted to return to ever again. I sat there, wide-eyed in my bra, locked in abject horror at the garment.