Bone and Feather

Bone and Feather -1- {Caged}

The scrape of metal against bone rung in his ears, the smell of his blood perfuming the dank, dark room. He was shaking, trembling as the rusted edge of the scalpel cut through his flesh, nudging the ridge of his spine. His curls clung their sweat-soaked ends to his forehead, tongue pricking from the salty tang of his tears that dripped down his ruddy cheeks and into his gaping mouth. A bloodstained needle pulled two folds of skin together, crisscrossed thread braiding down his spine, sealing the crevice in his flesh.

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His eyes shot open, his scarred chest grieving for oxygen. Sitting up quickly, muscles tense with shock, he slammed his head on the bars slung above. But he did not seem to notice, for the dream still plagued his mind. His spine began to ache, the inflamed skin around the spot where his wings sprouted feeling loose and raw. He hugged his knees close, attempting to fight the images away to a rural corner of his mind. But he sat there, drowning in solitary grief, for he had no one to chase the ghosts away.

He did not know why he had these sort of dreams, but they always lurked in the darker recesses of his mind. They were the sort of dreams that danced brightly behind his eyes, clear like a cloudless night. With each stroke of the scalpel that flashed through his mind, his body felt as if he was experiencing that explosion of pain, made him shake in terror from a wound that had not been opened. It made him wonder, if those sort of images were not simply dreams, but memories. Memories so grotesque that his body had taken the liberty of hiding them from his own mind.

It was not until the sun was at its highest point in the sky, that a circushand brought his first meal of the day, slipping the colorless paste between the bars of his cage and leaving without even a casual acknowledgement of a hello. He ate it quickly, against the protest of his taste buds, for he hadn't eaten in a day and at his young age, the hunger was magnified.

He waited silently in the cage, watching the sun begin to decline, surrendering its throne of the sky to the moon. Night was always when the Circus de Esmerelda opened her gates to the flood of people that wandered through the grounds, curiosity sparkling in their eyes. On most evenings, when a few folk ventured by, he huddled in the shadowed corners of his cage, hoping they'd pass by without notice. But of course, a boy with wings rarely ceases to be something unworthy of attention and tonight, was no exception.

The atmosphere felt heavy around him, the air swollen with sticky moisture, pressing into his skin and making the cramped confinements of his prison seem smaller. There was a crowd of curious spectators gathered out front of him, peering their beady eyes through the bars of his cage, urging him to crawl into the light where they could gaze upon his monstrosity. A light but prominent poke in his side from one of the circus hands told him, without any needed words, to do so and reluctantly, he crawled from the shadows and into the the line of sight of several pairs of horrified eyes. When he unfurled his wings, many took a few cautious steps back, suddenly terrified of this abomination. Most were uneducated folk, but many knew the tales of fallen angels. Their heavenly souls deteriorated into wickedness and cast down upon the imperfection of the earth to be taken under the black wing of the devil himself. To see this horror displayed in front of their very eyes would make anyone want to lift their hands towards the light and pray that mercy may be shown on their souls.

"What you see before your eyes, is exactly what you're thinking,"a man with a bellowing bass of voice stepped from behind the cage. Bouvier was a man of medium height, gray flecks scattered in his dark curling hair and wearing a patched suit of black and red. He was the sort of man who possessed an eye for smart business, but a rabid thirst for wealth and ran the Palace of Freaks with a clenched fist.

Bouvier took a backward glance, peering through his cage at the boy who cowered underneath his gaze, "This creature before you, is the demons spawn. He carries the weight of his wickedness on his shoulders, wishing to infest your minds with his darkness,"

Bouvier was not unintelligent, he new the simpleminded folk and the religious folk alike would fear such a monstrosity and when he claimed their fears to be true, their terror magnified as well as the coins in his pocket. Though, even Bouvier himself understood their terror, for a boy with large, dark wings protruding from his spine would give any sort of folk a reason to be frightened.

"Now, who dares to step forward and face it?" Bouvier grinned widely, casting his gaze upon the crowd, yearning for a few extra coins to feed his hungry family. Life in a circus was never quite easy.

The boy clenched the bars of his cage so hard, that the ridge of his knuckles began to ache. When Bouvier let the people venture near him, let them poke his sides until purple stains began to appear on the surface of his skin, his lungs seized up and his head began to feel light as if someone drained his brain from his skull. Perhaps he was not too comfortable around other people.

The majority of the crowd swooped a step back in what seemed like a synchronized movement, leaving a scattered amount of people standing alone in the trampled grass, clutching copper coins in their sweating palms, eyes sparkling with cautious curiosity.

"Come here lad," Bouvier motions towards a young man and he comes forth, depositing the coin in Bouvier's outstretched hand and then finally, turning towards the cage. The lad inches forward, arms tense like he's afraid the angel boy could somehow slip through the bars of his prison and attack him. With every cautious step, the boy in the cage takes a breath and closes his eyes. A hand brushes against his wings, wraps a few fingers around his wing and rips out a handful of the dark, satiny feathers. His eyes fly open, grimacing against the pointed pain running up his wing, watching the lad grin widely, fistful of feathers sprouting from the cracks between his fingers. He rushes back to the crowd and is enveloped in a circle of other boys his age before he disappears entirely in the mass of townsfolk.

"Who else dares to face the Fallen?" Bouvier booms, raising his beefy arms high into the air, eyes peeling the mass of spectators for any other daring folk. After a few minutes, no one dares to step forward.

Then finally, a girl steps from the tightly packed crowd.

"Ah! Here is a daring lass," Bouvier smiles, wrapping a long arm around her shoulders, relieving the coin from her grasp.

"Cora! Get back here child!" A voice rises over the crowd and the boy watches from the cage as a man with auburn hair, much like the girls, attempting to work his way through the pack of people. But it seems that the girl, Cora, has not heard the man and she takes a hesitant step towards the cage where the boy watches her carefully. Her eyes are the color of winter skies, widening as she nears him, a pale hand outstretched towards the bars of his cage. He takes another large breath, expecting her to tear more feathers from his wing, but he does not close his eyes, spellbound by her expression. For it is not one of fear, but one of awe.

He watches as her hand slips carefully through the gritty metal of his cage and finds a portion of his wings that press against the bars. Her fingers gently brush fringe of his wings for a moment, before looking into his own eyes, something that has only happened to him a few times before. Her hand then lifts from his feathers, hovering in the thick summer air, until resting lightly on his own hand.

He jerks back quickly, body slamming against the opposite side of the cage, startled by the gesture. He weaves his trembling fingers through the bars, the spot where her hand rested on his own, warm, so warm it almost burns. Breathing hard, he watches her with wide eyes. Her curiosity has fallen, leaving a somewhat hurt expression in its wake. But that is nothing compared to what happens next.

The boy watches in fear as her somber face seizes up like it has been turned to stone. Then it contorts and twists into an expression halfway a grimace and halfway confused. Her body begins to shake violently, fingers stiffening into a claw-like mold, eyelids fluttering as quick as a hummingbirds wings and after a few moments, she crumples to the ground.