One and then Two

An eight year old girl got wings. Now she's fifteen, flying at night for the thrill of it and convinced there's another like her doing the same. On her quest to find them, she must be careful not to reveal what she is.

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1. Eight Years Old

The first time I saw my wings I was eight years old. 

I plodded into my room, drying my chestnut coloured hair with a towel, my small feet crunching my carpet beneath me. I had just been in the shower, washing myself after going swimming, when I felt the dull ache in my back that had been plaguing me for the past few weeks. When the ache had started I hadn't thought much of it but as time went on, it became more and more annoying. 

I reached round to the area just below my shoulder blades and noticed small, very shallow indents that I had never noticed before. My skin was soft and damp from the shower but I could feel a slight irritation around the indents, as though the skin was itching to fly off. I arched my back to try to ease the ache when a searing pain ran up my spine, causing me to wince and bite my tongue. Blood filled my mouth and the sharp metallic taste made me squish up my face even more. Something in the back of my mind stopped me from calling out to my parents, and I have always been glad of that. 

Because at that exact moment in time, a pair of wings pierced through my skin and unfurled right there in my bedroom. I stood there, completely shocked and a little afraid to move. I didn't know what they were until I angled my head a little to see. Feathers were stretching out, almost toughing the edges of the room. Eventually I realised I had to do something and touched one of the feathers. It was soft, and fragile, much like a baby's skin; it was new. I quickly realised that no one could ever know about these, that no one could ever possess that knowledge. 

At that moment, the thing I wanted most was to see them, all of them splayed out behind me. I wasn't stupid at eight so I grabbed the towel I had discarded on my bedroom floor and wrapped it tight around me. My wings were squeezed to my body and screamed to be released but I was adamant, no one was to know. The towel was scratching me and so I marched like only an eight year old can to my bathroom, only releasing the towel once the door was safely locked.

I gasped when I looked in the mirror, shocked at what I was seeing. My small, slender frame was unchanged, my shoulder length hair still hung in soft waves but behind all of that, like a background to a painting, was a pair of wings.

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