Wind

Clipping of the Wings

The weather lies. It always has and always will, or maybe my emotions are cursed to never be truthfully conveyed like the weather. According to the blue sky, shining sun, and fluffy white clouds, I should be skipping through the streets giggling like a schoolgirl. My Mother seems to think so as well. Apparently it's such an honour to be Clipped, forced to stay grounded forever, then again, I've never flown in my life. To a woman, just spreading your wings is forbidden, punishable by loss of those wings and forbidden any medical help with the aftermath.

Today, today was the day of the Clipping, today was the day I would be grounded, never to fly, never to know the feeling of wind through my feathers. Only on this day could a girl ever spread her wings, a gift for a lifetime of torture. Though these girls will never know this as torture, for they've never flown, never thought they could. I really should be grateful that the guards always thought the women of our Kingdom were too scared of the woods, but if they even checked once they would find me, flying around with my wings open wider than any other woman had dared.

"Girls, spread your wings," the Lord paused, his silence only to be replaced with rustles of feathers and grunts of pain as the girls used muscles they'd never had to. My wings spread with ease, having done this a thousand times. "I hope you girls understand what an honour it is to be Clipped."

They better make this year's Clipping fast, because it's barely even been 2 minutes and yet I see girls already struggling to hold this stance.

At the signal of the Lord 5 guards walked up the stage steps with ceremonial knives in their hands. As per traditions, they start at the left side of the stage making their way to the right, towards me, the last.

The knives glinted as each of the five guards lined them up on the girl's wings, where the skin met feathers. The Lord raised his hand, and as he dropped it so did the knives, digging about an inch into the girl's wings, hitting the muscle that deemed you flightless. They repeated this process, each drop of a hand bringing screams of pain and torture. Blood flowed down the backs of the girls and across the stage.

The feel of wet metal on the most sensitive part of my wings nearly had me in the sky. My mind wouldn't quiet down, I couldn't be grounded, and I would rather die the slowest, most painful death than be left to be tortured ground-bound.

I watched in slow motion as the Lord raised his hand, my feathers spread, ready to catch the wind. Just as the Lord moved to lower his hand I knew what I had to do, and the Mother above knew as well because she sent the wind, the wind that I would praise for the rest of my life.