bitterdiva

Fettered Wings

Every fallen angel has one imperfection to display their humanity and it is a reminder to the self that they are no longer infallible. This imperfection, or scar, is only noticeable with a bare back. It is located below the shoulder blades where their wings were once and upon wakening they have no immediate knowledge of their former beneficent life. It is only through blindness from the sun when the memories rush back and the realization of their new humanity occurs. This is Sloan’s story.

The sun’s radiance was slowly creeping in between the two houses as it approached its apex in the sky. It was nearing afternoon and the light fell upon his window sidling through the space between the semi-shut blinds. It created a pattern on the bed as if headlights were shining through a picket fence. The light beyond his eyelids burned red against the thin membrane stinging them as he became further aware of the glowing orb. The corners of the room still lay in shadow as the gradient from light to dark diffused out from the window. The sunlight wasn’t strong enough to invade every corner of the room, only Sloan’s bed.

He warily awoke; his tongue was unfavorably adhering to the roof of his mouth. A metallic bitterness penetrated throughout his mouth, he thought for a moment that a small rodent had perished there. He attempted to open his eyes but they were fastened shut by the dried mucous on his eyelids and lashes. He coarsely rubbed them with his left hand feeling the crust flake onto his nose and cheeks, which he then brushed off onto the bed. Haze still clouded his eyesight and found some slime and crust that were wedged in the corners of his eyes. He picked at it with the fingernail on his index finger until he felt it give and his eyes became moistened from the free-flowing duct.

He winced as he propped his head up, turning towards the source of light. A bass drum was pounding inside his cranium matching the beating rhythm of his heart which he heard echoing throughout his ears. “Hangovers,” he thought, “this incessant hurting must be what they’re referring to.” He closed his eyes again and relaxed the straining muscles in his neck, returning his head to the comforts of his soft, down pillow.

Inhaling was laborious; it felt as though he had spent the last hours of his slumber underwater, breathing in and choking on fluid. He tried suppressing a cough but to no avail, a thick wad of phlegm caught itself on the edge of his throat and esophagus causing a chain reaction of more coughing until it was dislodged. “Good lord, did I have my mouth permanently affixed to the exhaust of a diesel engine?” Another spasm erupted from his chest constricting his diaphragm and abdominal muscles, against his will, pushing him into an upright position. More phlegm was yanked from his drowned lungs. A thick, black globule caught flight and landed on the bed sheet, greatly contrasting against its white, coruscating colour. He sighed profoundly questioning the existence and purpose of such a repulsive bodily fluid.

He collapsed back against the mattress savouring the way it contoured and molded to his frame lessening the discomfort that was enveloping him. Mentally taking note of each extremity, he wiggled his toes and fingers, flexed the muscles in his calves, thighs, buttocks, forearms and upper arms. His body was awakening; a burning sensation flared up from his hands as all the nerves began to tingle from the release in pressure when he change positions during the coughing fit.

His mind continued to transition from the dream state to complete consciousness. It was quite apparent that this morning he was not a very well man. He rummaged through his memory, trying to conjure up images of the previous night’s events in search of any explanation for his decrepit physical state. There was none. He couldn’t recall being out at a bar, nor being at a party. He searched for something earlier in the night, perhaps television or dinner, or of the slight chance a phone call, but there remained nothing.

His stomach pained, a drawn out twinge screaming for some nourishment. He draped his left arm over his abdomen, feeling the taut skin and ripples from the perfectly formed muscles underneath. His eyes fixated on a splotch of black on the plaster ceiling located directly above his chest. For a moment he thought it altered shape but as clarity returned it looked like a sliver of plumage. A shiver ran down his spine.

He craned his neck up in the direction towards the nightstand and his vertebral joints cracked as he twisted further to the left. The green LED’s of the clock glowed a bright 11:39. Grunting, he pulled himself upright facing his wooden closet door. His neck ached from the tension and the cracking of joints. He massaged the muscles with his thumb and forefinger, digging into his sinewy flesh. He moved his head side to side inspecting its attachment to the spinal column, further cracking and grating ensued. “This is a rather inauspicious way to begin any day,” he said out loud to the four walls that encased him in his chambers.

His back throbbed dully; he outstretched his arms and lifted up his chest aligning himself. A sequence of cracks migrated down his column as he arched backward. He exhaled in relief and slumped forward cupping his hands over his eyes. Bright blue and green spots danced in front of them. He pushed his head further in his hands allowing them to travel upward meeting his hair. The fingers grasped onto the oily shoulder length mane and glided backwards until he was clinging onto the rear of his neck. His hands moved further down his neck, down his vertebrae, feeling each bump and space in between them.

He reached for the plastic cylindrical piece to increase the space between the vertical blinds but they were slightly out of arms reach. He opted to go for the quick method, a yank on the cord for instant sunlight. He faced away from the window so that he would not receive the sun’s full potency. Yank. The room was instantly transformed into pure blinding light that had no walls, or ceiling, or floor. Sloan slammed his eyes shut and dropped his hand from the cord. The blinds fell to the sill and the room was once again in shadow.

Sloan slowly re-opened his eyes. He became aware of his nakedness and began to cry. He remembered what happened the night before. In a moment of pure jealousy he renounced everything he believed in, stating injustices for lack of experiences. No one has a choice; it’s either eternal happiness without temporal constraints or banishment to ponder and accept one’s mortality. He couldn’t perceive what made him desire humanity; it was only a moment of languor and a fleeting fancy to experience sexuality. An elongated sigh escaped his lungs and he suppressed another cough.

He reached behind his back with his right hand, below his shoulder blades, and found the scar. He wiped away the tears with his left hand and leaned over the edge of the bed. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he felt light-headed. The floor was covered with hundreds of black feathers. He picked one up and held it in the palm of his hand; he closed his eyes, made a wish, and blew on the feather. He sank back against soft mattress and went back to sleep.

03:53 PM

Comments

Posted by: goo at December 5, 2002 09:12 AM

Posted by: bitterdiva at December 5, 2002 07:20 PM

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