So, this is the first story I wrote for Writer's Craft, all those months ago. I'm rather fond of it, although it was the beginning of everyone thinking I was a morbid psychopath who possibly escaped from the psyche ward. Or something like that. Um...enjoy!

Lost Wings

"I am an angel."

Dr. Wilsner jots something in his book.

"Is that so?"

The boy nods solemnly.

"My mama always told me so. She said I was an angel sent from Heaven. She told me I was a blessing."

"In a non-literal sense, of course."

The boy shakes his head. "Oh, no, she meant it. I really am an angel." He tilts his head to the side. "Mama's an angel, now, too. But she's in Heaven."

"So your mother has passed away?"

Nod. "That's why she's an angel now. Just like me!" He giggles, eyes squinting.

The boy does indeed look like an angel with golden hair falling around his face and wide blue eyes. But there are no wings escaping his shoulders.

"If you were an angel, don't you think that you would have wings?" points out the therapist gently.

"I lost them," replies the boy simply. "Someday I'll find them."

"How do you plan to find them?"

He shrugs. "Does it matter?" A childish grin wreathes his face as he looks through his hair at the doctor. "But when I do, I'll be able to fly."

The pen scratches across the paper.

Delusions of being an angel. Childish personality.

"Where do you want to fly?"

A wistful look enters his eyes. "The mountains. Mama loved the mountains." Hopeful smile. "Maybe she's there, waiting for me."


He doesn't mean it. He thinks the boy is mentally unbalanced and suffering from unfortunate delusions. Perhaps medication will help.

"Do you want to fly?" the boy asks suddenly, blinking curiously. He leans forward in his crouch as he waits eagerly for the therapist's answer.

Dr. Wilsner frowns. "No. I don't like heights."

The boy nods sagely. "Mama was afraid of heights, too." A frown mars his brow as his eyes darken. "I hope she's okay. Heaven's really high."

"I'm sure she's fine."

Another lie. The therapist doesn't believe in Heaven. He thinks the boy's mother is rotting in the ground, unaware at all of the world around her. Everyone ends up food for the worms.

The boy shifts restlessly in his seat, toes linking together, fingers tapping agitatedly against the armrests. He refuses to wear shoes and is completely dwarfed in the hospital-issued clothes. Despite being a teenager, he appears no older than twelve. His slight stature and willowy limbs don't help.

"Are you alright, Michael? You seem restless." Dr. Wilsner peers at the boy through his horn-rimmed glasses, searching for some more fodder for his file.

"I'm sorry," Michael says, cheeks blushing pink. "I just don't like being in one room for so long. Especially small ones."

Possible claustrophobia.

Fake smile. "That's quite alright. We're done for the day."

Michael's pale face brightens. "Okay. Bye!"

His bare feet hit the plush blue carpet, making shushing sounds as he moves to the door. Outside, a nurse is waiting, smile friendly, eyes jaded.

"Come along, Michael. It's nearly time for bed."

The boy trails along behind her, a shadow with a troubled mind and an angelic face.

The door to his room is already open and the nurse turns on the light, smiling down at Michael.

"Now, take these pills and go to sleep."

One warm hand pushes Michael forward, while the second gives him two small red pills. He makes a face, but swallows them anyway. These aren't the ones he normally takes.

"Alright, Michael, goodnight."

The nurse makes sure he is in his bed before turning out the lights and closing the door. The door is kept unlocked, but because Michael isn't prone to destructive attacks, the nurses only check on him once an hour. There are no windows.

Strange feelings.

Michael frowns.

Lightheadedness. Something's happening.

But what?

He rubs his eyes, trying to clear his vision. What is that?

Michael sits on his bed, staring at the middle of the room. Feathers catch the nonexistent light, dazzling his wide blue eyes. Soft white fabric swirls in an invisible wind, and golden hair shines brightly, falling in delicate waves. Hands, long, pale, gentle, reach for his, pulling him from the bed. Awed, he follows, allowing them to lead him to the door. It opens and the wide expanse of the hallway welcomes him, inviting him to tread its empty length. His feet make no noise as he heads for the stairwell, pushing open the door that some forgetful orderly left unlocked. The steps are rough, but Michael doesn't mind. The angels are leading him up, up, up...

The door opens onto the roof. The night breeze blows gently, tousling Michael's golden hair. He has never been up here before. It is off-limits to patients. But the angels brought him here.

Smiling, they lead him to the edge of the roof and he gazes past the parking lot, across the trees that surround the building. It's so beautiful...

He stretches his arms to the sides, fingers splayed, enjoying the feeling of being up so high. Is this what it's like on a mountain?

Something flashes from the corner of his eye. He turns his head and gasps.

Wings. They stretch from his shoulders, filling his vision, the feathers fluttering gently.

Filled with a sense of ecstatic freedom, Michael lifts his face to the starry sky, cherubic lips stretching in a blissful smile.

His wings. He's finally found his wings. Now he can fly to the mountains. Maybe even Heaven.

Surrounded by the smiling faces of his angels, he flexes his toes and pushes forward.

Nothing can hold him now.