Black Wings

Sixteen

It took Hawks mere seconds to realize where he was.

It was not recognized by the scene around him, not by any sounds or smells, but something that was beyond the typical human sensory compass. It was a terrible feeling in his gut, in his wings, that he recognized. And with that, he knew exactly where he was.

He wished with all of his existence that this was not real.

This place, this dreamland, this black and empty void he knew very well. And along with it, he knew that something else was here. He turned around, looked for it, squinted and glared, looking for it. And finally, he saw something, a faint flicker in the distance.

He ran towards it, eyes growing wider and wider with every footstep he took. The dot got ever clearer, ever closer, and when he finally arrived to see it, he stopped. What had been excitement, happiness, or even faith was now gone, transformed into such a feeling of horror he had to resist the urge to vomit.

In front of him was the girl, laying down on an operating table. She, who had been haunting his dreams for weeks, who had been trapped in his mind. But this was not the same girl, not by any means.

Her frame was a mere fraction of what it had been before, bones sticking out of her deathly paling skin. Her hair was longer, more matted, her nails ridden with dirt and grime. Long, dark purple bruises covered her from head to foot, her hollow eye-sockets shut and not even flicking. But as he watched this husk of a girl breathe, ever so shallowly, in front of him, the thing that Hawks couldn't pull his eyes away from was what mortified him the most.

Two pale bones erupted from her shoulders, two spidery trees growing from her skin. Blood grouped around the bases, dried and purple, almost as if the structures were barely hanging on. The digits of her wings looked as delicate as icicles, he was afraid that if he even went to touch them, they would break off and fall.

And as he observed this, he heard voices from behind. Mens' voices, somewhat obscured, as if they were speaking through a broken radio.

"You disgusting, disrespectful bitch..."

"Look at this... you're no more than an animal now."

"...stop struggling. Or I'll tell the old man to go after you again."

"Why exactly are we doing this again?"

"...it will make her behave."

"Ah yes... this is so satisfying. Need the forceps..."

"You're sick..."

"But isn't it beautiful?"

Hawks recognized one of the voices, his lips quivering and his hands trembling. He needed to wake up. But he also needed to stay. There was always a supernatural voice inside his head, telling him what to do, but now, in this moment, it was silent. His next actions were completely unprompted, but almost as if by instinct he extended his hand. He started to reach down to the body, towards the limp creature laying in front of him. His better judgment was waking now, and it was yelling at him to stop, begging him to run the other way. But, for some reason, he did not; he could not.

His fingertips landed right above her shoulder blades, then his hand. Her skin was cold, her pulse just a fraction of what should have been normal. He could feel her spine, every part hard and distinct. And as he laid his hand upon her, these final words echoed in his head.

"...What will she remember?"

"Nothing."

And as those words faded away, so did his image of her. She dissipated like mist under his watch, her frame fizzling out into a non-existent breeze. He tried to reach for the particles of that image, trying to capture it, but they washed through his hand into infinity. And soon, Hawks was left all alone in this black oblivion, the little bit of cold from her body still on his hand.

He looked at it, almost as if he wished it hard enough, she would return. But it never happened.

As he observed every callus and crevice on his palm, he tried to steady his breathing, process it all.

The whole time, he had been expecting to hear her voice. He had been expecting her to scream. He thought that when he laid his hand on her, she would've moved, even twitched, reacted some way. But she did not; there was no movement, no acknowledgment, and no voice. That was what truly scared him, what caused silent tears to trail down his cheeks.

Even when he woke up later, those rivers of saltwater flowed next to the newfound silence.