Broken Wings

The rustling of wings jolts me from a long dream. I open my eyes. Everything is so, so… white. It blinds me. Absolute silence surrounds me, as if every sound had been scared away by the sadness clutching my throat. I cry out, telling it to let me go. My cry for help catches the attention of blurry silhouettes. They lean down towards me. I’m afraid. Cold wraps around me. I cry, scream, flail my arms in vain. An  unknown force lifts me. I feel an embrace. It is so, so… warm. I close my eyes and fall asleep.

I flutter around the room, here and there. Happily, I flap my little wings. I touch the ceiling, lean against it, beat against the hard plaster. I want to fly higher, further. The world is beautiful. I long to circle it all. Everything is so, so… colorful. My parents stand below me. I want them to fly with me, but they cannot fly. My mother’s wings are broken, and my father has only one. I descend to them, take their hands, and try to lift them up. It doesn’t work. I feel sad and begin to cry.

I flew through my childhood. My wings have grown. I cut through the air with powerful strokes, flying fast and high. Only this way can I see everything. Far, far below, I see my parents. From this height, they look so small. I keep flying higher. The world is beautiful, but small. Suddenly, I feel as if I can hear the rustling of other wings. I look around, but see nothing. The sound grows stronger, deafening me. Suddenly, an unknown force knocks me to the ground. I fall rapidly, feeling feathers slipping from my wings. I am afraid.

I wake up in my parents’ arms. They are adjusting my wings, trying to weave back the feathers that have fallen, scattered all around. I attempt to fly again. I can do it. But I stay closer to the ground now. I’m missing many feathers, and I fear I might fall again. I fly less and walk more.

I step into adulthood. The world is so vast. Black and white colors dominate it. I am very tired. My drooping wings drag along the ground. I don’t even bother counting or looking for the lost feathers anymore. I have forgotten how to fly. I find myself at a great marketplace. There are many people here, almost everyone, in fact. Every stall offers some deal. Buy three kilos of indifference, get a kilo of apathy for free. For every five kilos of envy, you get a prize of greater narrow-mindedness. Every kilo adds weight to the buyer. The most common currency is wings. At such weights, flying is impossible. I feel sad and walk away from this chatter, somewhere into the quiet. I look up and yearn to fly.

“Maybe there…,” I think, noticing a small stall. A sign proclaims it to be a "Wing Rental." The young lady at the counter is so, so… beautiful.

I fall in love. I remember flying once again.

My wife has just given birth to our son. Great pain has broken her wings. I want my son to be happy, to know the wonderful feeling of flight. So I give him one of my wings. People are born with only one wing. Angels with two.

We watch our son as he flits around the room. We are so, so… happy.