Roger Edwards lay in his makeshift hospital bed with a glowing heart. He had been brought in yesterday, with a bullet wound in his right arm, a broken leg, and the jubilant cries of his mates in the squadron. His father had come in a few minutes back, burning with pride, and with good reason. His son had almost single handedly won the battle. The enemy surrendered and a treaty was signed. The hospital he was currently housed in was a little dingy, but it was just temporary. Tomorrow he would be moved to a much better place. One fit for the hero that he was.

From all the other men in the ward came various groans and cries of anguish. Even though the ward was overcrowded, special preference was given to the lieutenant—the man of the hour. The nurses called him Britain’s saving angel. His bed was separated from the others’ by a thin cotton bedsheet, patterned with violets. The privacy was superficial, however, since he could hear every word and cry on the other side distinctly. A temporary measure, He reminded himself. This time tomorrow he would have his own room and be attended by the best doctors. His leg hurt. The glow in his heart faded a little, although it still acted as enough of an anesthetic to keep him from crying out. Somewhere, a creaky old boom box began to play a muffled song. He could not make out the words.

From the bed next to his came a loud groan. The man howled like he was dying. He had been carried in about an hour ago, and was clearly in bad condition. His groans and cries had been persistent in the last hour, and Roger was beset with alternating twinges of pity and annoyance. This time, It was the latter. Men in that condition should go straight to the morgue, not be sent here to disturb our rest. He decided he would sort that as soon as he had the power. After his triumph, it couldn’t be long in coming.

He pictured himself once more, standing off to the edge of his battalion, unnoticed. He felt the dirt and the grime in the air, the sound of war thundering in his ears. He moved his lips once again, made silently the word “Go”. He saw in his minds eye himself, leading his troops around the defense, far around the battlefield. They advanced on the enemy from behind.

At this point there was a commotion in the ward. It seemed like the ward boy had discovered the little boom box, and had taken it away from the man who owned it.

“You devil!” came the shrill voice of the man, carried through the curtains. The accent was clearly french. Ha, serves the villian right, ran Roger’s internal monologue.

“This is mine now.” the ward boy sneered. There was the sound of a bed creaking. “What, old man, will you fight me?” A thud. The man had fallen back into the bed. They can’t possibly house these french scum next to us, Roger concluded. No wonder there’s trouble in the wards. The noise died down.

The lieutenant returned to his pleasant memories. The wind whipping in his face. The march. The terrified faces of his enemies as they slowly realized all was lost.

The music moved closer towards him. He recognized the tune. A children’s song, one his sister would play relentlessly in their youth. Something about bells, from a movie about a hunchback. But the lyrics had haunted him through the house, running in his head over and over, driving his childish brain to a frenzy.

A high pitched shriek rang in the hall. A woman’s. She was shouting desperately, but her voice was determined.

“I will see my husband right now! And if you, y-you hag try to stop me, god save me I will tear you into pieces!” The ward went silent, the only noise made by the boom box, still playing the weird sequence that passed for a song. Roger wrinkled his nose at the woman’s disgusting tongue and loud, manly voice. He had to learn french if he wanted to advance in the army, but it was a studied he had undertaken with revulsion and disdain. Anything that was associated with those demons was vile to him.Unfortunately, he could now understand their words. Try as he might, he could not help paying attention to the drama taking place in his surroundings.

The door flew open, the sound reverberating in the still room. A shuffle of feet. A sob. The woman had children with her, two, from the sound of it. They went directly to the bed of the man next to the lieutenant. The boom bax played. The half-forgotten words came rushing back to Roger. To the big bells as loud as the thunder.

“My Lord! What've I came to! Me husband dead, and me two poor children left with no one but their ma to fend for 'em! Oh lord! How will I live!”

“I’m not dead yet, Marie”

“Ye are too, for much good it’ll do us how you look. Oh, my children”

Here the nurse, frightened and unable to deal with this desperate, rather strong countrywoman, as her speech clearly showed her to be, was heard calling out for help in the hall.

“Tell me who did it you, I will tear ’em bit from bit!”

“Please, Marie, don’t say that—” The man launched into a violent coughing fit. He continued after a minute. “ Please. Take care of the children. I have some money laid by, in my bureau, and in the bank. Take the key from my coat. You know, the coat I would wear when it was mighty cold, and--and, you know which one. There should be enough to keep you. If they rob you , Marie, if the rascals take everything you have, you must trust—” Here he paused to recover himself— “ You must trust to the lord to take care of you. I have done badly by you, I have. Forgive me, and tell my old mother that she needn’t despair—her son died in battle.”

“Oh my husband! Lord! My life!”

And they gazed up in fear and alarm. Roger could not help feeling a little pity for the couple. He checked himself. These scum deserve no better. But the pity stayed.

“Oh what will I do? What will I do? Oh monsters, to reduce me to this pain, oh monsters! John, please come back, come back please. Please.”

The music of the boom box played, starting to rise in pitch and volume. The strain of the woman's voice matched with the chords for a moment, and Roger felt his heart swell with compassion. His reason was completely overtaken, as is the case when music and pain combine. Though ambitious, Roger was not a hard hearted fellow. His traitorous heart now swelled with compassion for the demon. He was angry, nay furious, at the man who brought this family so low. To purge the world, Of vice and sin.

“Oh lord! Ye are good as dead. Me ’as never asked ye for much,b-but I ask ye now, tell me who did this to ye!” Roger seconded the wish in his heart. Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla.

The coughing fit subsiding, the man answered “Very well. It was the devil who crept up behind us, the coward. Quartered our men, he did. I was lucky, me mates were not so much. They were dead ’fore he left off them—” Here he fell into another rib-wracking bout of coughing. The help had now come, and his wife was pulled from him, along with the children. Roger could hear them struggle. He felt himself grow cold. I am guiltless. Or not.

“Britain’s angel they’re calling him—the devil more like.” He shouted after his wife, racked with cough. “I would’ve cut open the devil myself, like an honourable man no less, for I’s no coward myself I ain’t. I ain’t.” The man sighed. “I ain’t no coward” he whispered, and was silent. Too silent. He slept, and slept eternally.

A frost went over Roger's heart. The boom box played loud and clear now–it played the very lines that had haunted him as a child—

Now here is a riddle to guess if you can, he whispered, hoping that the next line would be changed, while knowing in his heart it wouldn’t.

Who is the monster and who is the man?

Who indeed?

I’m sorry but the winds are calling me,

I’m sorry but I have to leave

I’m sorry but my heart is all afire,

I’m sorry but the beast is free

“I know, my darling, but there’s work to do.”

“I know, kind sir, but the little cuckoo—

It’s whispering in my ear,

It says 'Listen to me my dear,

say you’re sorry but the winds are calling you

and the skies their screaming your name

You tell them that the stars elixer brewed,

and they've sent it to fuel the flame.

“So I’m sorry but the ah, the rain is pouring

and my parched soul is supple and light.

The storm is strong and the call is howling,

shattering the windows of my heart,

The world is mine and the stars are shining

daring me to ever make my start

I’m sorry but the faeries are dancing on the vines

asking me to join in their mystic rhyme

I’m sorry but the thunder is ringing in my mind

I cannot stay, now, I must fly.

I must go, away away, where mystery mountains breathe,

I must go away away, to fire and love and dreams.

I must ask the wind once more to take

the reins of my heart

I must follow the distant star

Through mud and brick and tar

Must follow the distant star

Away away on till the day I find myself there,

On the shores of my prayers

So I’m sory but the winds are calling me

I’m sorry but I must leave.

I’m sorry but the skies are all awake

I’m sorry but the beast is free.

“Let brilliance be not a privilege but a necessity.”- me

“If you are a dreamer come in

If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar

A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer

If youre a pretender com sit by my fire

For we have some flax golden tales to spin

Come in!

Come in!”- Shel Silverstein

“If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:”- Rudyard Kipling

I turn over, deep in sleep, oblivious to the world around me. Gently, the light caresses my eyelids and I enter the realm of the living. Something feels uncomfortable. My back. Something’s wrong with it. I start at the thought of some disgusting lizard on my back and jump up, turning round and round, trying to get the thing off my back. It doesn’t work, but with every jerk, I feel a force on an unfamiliar muscle. Once I’m assured it’s not a creepy-crawly, the fear abates and sleep returns. Maybe I can deal with this tomorrow, or today, or whenever. Just sleep now. Go back to bed.

“mwhhwhhh...whhaahtt?” My best friend, woken up by my crazy jerky dance on the bed, opens half an eye, unable to form any words. I watch as her one eye opens completely in shock, and then the other. She gets up and rubs her eyes, and, quite uncharacteristically, actually manages to speak clearly at seven in the morning.

“What the hell? What the absolute hell have you done?”

“What have I done?”

“You oblivious idiot. Look at your back."

I turn to look. Two magnificent white wings sprawl out over the covers, the delicate feathers in sharp contrast with the black sheets. I get out of bed, stretch my arms and back, and crack my neck.

“Ouch. Don’t do that” Sasha is looking at me with wide, fearful eyes.

“What?”

“The cracking. Also, the complete and creepy silence on discovering you have two fucking wings.” She emphasises the curse word.

My shoulder blades are now painfully sore, and I try to rest my wings on the bed. They seem to have muscles, but ones I can’t seem to command. I pick them up with my hands, but the soft feathers slip out of my tenuous grip. No surprise, given that I’m trying to reach behind my back. I finally sit down on the bed. Sasha is still staring. I get the sense that I need to react to this new body part that I seem to have acquired, but I don’t panicked. I feel strangely calm. I am sure this is just a new weird biological development, and my dad will be able to take care of it. That’s what doctors do, after all.

“Are you fucking serious? You’re just going to sit there? You just got wings! Fucking wings. Say something.”

“I like them.” I voice, softly, and in that moment, I realize that yes, indeed, I do like them a lot. The muscles are limp and out of my control, but there is still a little sensation in them. The feathers, silken and even, range from my shoulder blades to the V-shaped tip of each wing. I do like them.

“Well duh. But what are you going to do? And how did this happen? And what will we tell everyone else?” Reality starts to sink in with every word of hers. I wake up suddenly, uncourteously wrenched from my peaceful state. My mind brims with questions, my heart with fear, and I realize what this might mean.

I catch Sasha’s eye. She seems to be thinking the same thing. We both stare at each other.

“I have wings.” I say, and we burst out laughing. “I have wings. Wings.”

“Yes, wings.”

“Wings.”

“Wings. I know.”

“That is at once the coolest and most dramatic thing that will ever happen to me.” I feel calm again. No, Not calm, I’m delirious, and strangely complete. I don’t think of the future, but only of the present.

We sit on the bed. Saying nothing, both in our own thoughts. Wondering how we can possibly explain to her parents how I miraculously gained wings at our sleepover.

Then Sasha’s eyes go wide, her mouth hangs open and she tilts her head back. She seems to be rendered speechless, but nevertheless in extreme pain. I rush over to her side, awkwardly balanced because of the two new appendages. Her fists are clenched, long nails digging into skin. I try to hold her, but there is an energy around her that burns my fingertips. I watch in horror as, just where her shoulder blades seem to meet, a darkness grows and assembles, slowly becoming bigger and splitting into two. It convulses, currents of black move and assemble into a clear and familiar shape.

Her wings are exactly like mine. But jet black.

She doubles over, panting, for a moment. I whisper softly to her, telling her it’s okay, it’s over. She then looks up, and into my eyes. She is pained no longer, but her eyes send a clear message.

We both know it’s not over. And we can both feel the trouble brewing.