When Wings Are Broken

"They aren't like you," the voice echoes through my ears, leaving a dull ache in my head. I hold tightly to the rails, trying to ignore the ice cold feeling against my fingertips.

"And I'm not like you," I say back.

Despite my shaky breathing, my voice is still strong. I don't look at the beast, I won't let his bloodshot golden soul meet my own beat down spirit face to face. The dark forest green in my eyes reveals nothing but a thick wall of thorns, too stubborn to be torn apart or taken down.

"I don't have wings," I tell him. I can't fly away whenever something is difficult. I can't drown out my worries with fire, or fake laughter, or pillars of smoke reaching into the air and intertwining with the breath of other beasts like he can.

Instead I have to feel the cold.

Up here, I've been alone for so long. I breathe in the sharp air, watching as a trail of smoke dances in front of my open mouth. I can hear him tap-tapping on the railing behind me. His long, unkept claws scrape against the metal drowning out the wind.

He doesn't know me, or he would remember that I was offered wings when I was young. A simple "you can take them" tempting my every reason. A soft "don't be so broken," reminding me that everyone around me hadn't turned the offer away. But I knew that only the broken would give in.

I thought I was stronger, maybe even living beyond my years. I couldn't have known all that I would be giving up. Every wall I built between me and those who flew. Those I could so quickly judge for their jagged claws and sharp breath. Maybe I couldn't fly, but I was so sure I could run.

I used to love running. But he doesn't know me, so I get to lie. Isn't that we're all doing here? Here, by this tower I've learned to call home. Here in this frozen cold weather, where the beasts could sit on cold cobblestone and take flight in the dead, foggy air surrounding us.

We all pretend the winter season doesn't last as long as it does, stealing time from a bright warm summer. Up in my tower, I get to pretend that I am any different than he is, any less lost.

"Very well," he growls. "Then I propose a barter."

I try to respond but instead I cough on my own breath, shrinking beneath the pain of the cold air trapping itself in my lungs. My fingers are turning numb, but I only hold on tighter to the railing in front of me. I shudder another breath. The cold is deep to my bones... but it's okay. Ever since I gave up my wings, my bones have been frozen.

He takes to the air and circles in front of me, forcing me to meet his fiery gaze.

"You can have my wings," he grimaces. "Since it's so easy for you, how could I miss them."

I stare at him, giving him nothing.

"But, my dear," he goes on. "I would need something in exchange."

A wind sweeps by, sticking my hair to my face. I would say no, I would've always said no. I'm better, I would tell myself. This doesn't matter to me.

But I've learned that "different" is just another word for "alone." I've always ended up alone.

I drop his gaze, wondering how I even got stuck up in this tower in the first place. There's a small door down below, right where the tower meets the ground. Then, a spiral staircase, leading up. And then there's a room. A little room, with little windows. That's where I spend every day, sleeping through any hinted rays from the sun. And then when night comes, I come out to the railing. A small stretch on one side of the room that's open, reaching out to the clouds and vulnerable to the cold, treacherous wind that calls this empty valley home.

It's here that I watch all of those below me. Some of them are new, not quite as tall as the other ones. Not yet as hunched over. Still a little bit of light in their eyes. But before long, they end up just like the rest. Blowing out the same pillar of smoke. The same dull, angry glisten in their gaze.

How long has it been? I look down, asking myself if anything has changed. From up here, the beasts don't look so big. They all have the same ashy wings, torn at the edges like wads of drifting cobweb. And although they are just as bitter about the harsh weather and sunken valley we are all sworn to, I know that they don't really feel the cold. It doesn't touch their skin like it used to.

I know, because, when I had wings, the cold began to disappear. Distractions were laid before me, and with each new day the cold would begin to fade off my skin, becoming replaced with ghostly scales and blackened scars. My once colored eyes took on a different hue, a mix of red and gold. And my hands - once pale and small, become longer, ugly looking weapons.

Even my mouth began to betray me. And if I try to forget... I can nearly fool myself into believing that my thoughts, those outspoken murmurs, didn't betray me most of all. Not that it matters what you say to these beasts. They forget it the next day, and besides, they've said worse.

Years ago, I had dreamed of beautiful wings.

I imagined being high enough to touch the clouds, the very own sun and moon wandering down the skyline to meet me. I thought of what it would be like to become a star... a glowing, bright white star among millions just like it. Eventually I learned that even the stars have their end.

The very same clouds I dreamed of sleeping against, hoping to find comfort in, became the ones I find myself trapped in now. A thick fog, stealing your breath and blocking your view of anything out past this barren valley.

Sometimes, birds will fly past the tower. But even they don't notice me here. It seems that they don't notice the beasts, either, even those that fly among them.

These birds from another world. Somewhere without snow, without an escape just moments away, if you could only reach it. Somewhere where the open door was already behind you.

I wonder if their wings are any different than ours. I try not to wonder if having the wings of a beast would make me any closer to being a bird than where I stand now, completely alone with only a beaten down hope to ever fly away from here.

"So, what will it be?" The beast asks me, motioning down to the others below us.

They grumble quietly, and they pat each others backs as if to congratulate each other. Sometimes I can pick up small pieces of what they are saying. And sometimes, on days when the wind is a little stronger, I catch hints of their wretched breath, reminding me that there is no difference between being torn in pieces and being torn apart. There is only being broken.

He snaps my attention back with a click of his tongue.

"What?" I sneer up at him.

"We're tired of you, you know." He says, his gravelly voice keeping a steady tone. "We can see you up here, from all the way down there."

"So, what?"

"Your skin reflects the little bit of sun we get around here. It's blinding us."

I take a breath and tell him it's strange, that no one has even looked at me since I came up here.

"You want me to be one of you?" I ask.

"Would you put out a fire so you stop getting burned?"

I clench my fists tighter. Of course they never missed me.

Even I know, the higher you soar, the farther you have to fall. Come spring, there will be more birds flying past us, and the air won't be so cold. If I dream long enough, maybe a bird would catch a glimpse of me, my wild hair and hopeful gaze. I would learn to replace my solemn stare with an entire garden. Flowers, no longer wilted away to nothing but dried dust. A cherry tree, strong enough to stand in a heavy storm. The ruby red cherries, a taste of warmth and freedom.

One day, a bird would offer me their wings.

"Up here, it isn't so bad." I tell the beast. "After a while, you get used to the cold."

"Nonsense," he says. "I see those scars on your arms. You're not different than me,"

It's true, I do have scars. To get him off my back, I let out a soft breath. Finally, I'll speak.

"I am numb, just like you are. Only instead of turning to smoke, I let the wind take out its sword on my fragile skin. It isn't brave, turning to the wind. Just because I still have the color in my eyes doesn't mean that they aren't jaded. A once burning heart has faded to a sunken stone. While you turn to your heights, I'm already trapped up in the clouds. But I would rather be alone up here, where I can see the edge of the valley, than be lost among the crowd where you are, trapped within the walls."

He growls at me, too far gone for me to reach him. His wings beat against the wind, becoming louder with each passing second. A storm is coming.

"Your final answer?" He asks. "You get my wings, and in exchange, the others will leave me be."

"I already told you," I look up, watching as the clouds grow darker. "I think I'll wait for spring."