I remember the day I grew my wings. I was seventeen and my father was immensely proud. His face beamed at my pain reminding me that it would all be over soon. His own wings protruded from his back and about six feet out on either side. They were white most of the time although sometimes, like that day, they had faded to a dingy gray.
He stood with my mother, a mortal, a human. Her eyes were full of tears and she fell to her knees. She hoped I wouldn’t take after him. That I would be normal.
The feathers stabbed through my flesh like a thousand tiny knives were ripping me apart. I couldn’t help but try to minimize the pain. Scratching at my back and accidentally pulling out a tuft of feathers in the process. It was like an itch. An itch I couldn’t scratch or stop. I tore at the thread of my shirt. The weak strands ripped apart and my shirt lay in a pile of threads on the floor. The tips of my new wings had pushed through my skin and I blacked out before the rest popped through.
My wings were white and luckily weren’t too big or too small for my body. They were strong and allowed me to get on top of buildings with ease. But I didn’t like flying. It felt unnatural. It felt like I was falling, or compressed by gravity.
For a year I stayed in hiding, until I learned to completely hide my wings for when I went out. Cherubs had the power to make their wings invisible to the normal mortal eye. It takes practice.
I spent that year in a grimy apartment. I only went out to the cafe on the corner and to keep my sanity. I never talked to anybody but occasionally my father. He said it was necessary to spend a year in solitude to fully understand the loneliness of the world. A loneliness I was born to combat.
The room contained only a mattress, a fan, my work table, and a couple chairs. It was dimly lit most of the time. I spent most days building arrows and my bow. The arrows were of my father’s design. A gold tip in the shape of a heart. The top two curves of the heart fit snugly onto the shaft of the arrow while the pointed bottom struck the unsuspecting lover.
I practiced shooting into a spray painted target on the wall. Instead of sticking, they absorbed right into it. Perfect.
I slept during the day. The night was more romantic; the night concealed me and my work. It hid me from myself. The darkness kept me from looking into a mirror and seeing the loneliness in my eyes.
There was only one person in the world I loved. Most cherubs had many lovers, but humans, humans are different. When they meet that one person they just know. My human side took over.
I met them in my kindergarten class. They had bright eyes and messy hair. Freckles dappled their face in a random sequence. Their smile lit up the entire world. It was a little crooked, but perfect.
I hadn’t spoken to them since before I grew my wings. They were a human. So wonderfully and beautifully human. They didn’t know about half of me. They didn’t know that I wasn’t fully human, that I would one day grow wings.
I’d seen the missing posters all around the city. My face plastered on lights poles and Tube stations. It didn’t matter. Nobody would recognize me. Nobody ever saw me anymore. Except sometimes a lonely person would catch a glimpse of me. Their eyes would grow wide, their faces full of expression, but their mouths unwilling to say a word. Much like falling in love.
Once my arrows were perfected, I went out into the streets. It was winter by then. The trees were bare and the fairy lights were up in the squares. The ideal time for love. I tested it first on the vagrants. The ones of the streets, so void of love and compassion that if something went wrong, their life wouldn’t change. If anything, it would release them from their bleak lives.
I saw a boy. He was tall and gangly. His clothes were a little small and his face was gaunt. She was in worse condition. She’d been sleeping in that same alleyway for much longer than he had. Yet he still looked at her like she was the world.
I drew back my arrow. The string pulsing against my fingertips as I pulled it back to a full draw and aimed. I shot at the girl’s heart. It pierced her heart. She shifted forward and her face went blank for a moment.
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t say a word. She simply leaned forward and kissed him. Passionately and without worry. The arrows were successful.
I waited until the next night. The air was chilled as winter settled in the city. I barely felt the cold air. I set my sights on a harder target. Someone not as desperate for love.
I saw a boy and girl sat at a bus stop. Their university books in their arms and backpacks on their backs. He was her best friend. He watched her as she opened one of the books and grazed over the lines. The streetlights reflected in his glasses and her hair. He was already in love and she didn’t it. She wanted to be an engineer. I aimed my bow at her chest and before I could aim properly the arrow whizzed through the air. It didn’t matter, the arrow knew its trajectory and hit her square in the heart.
She closed the book and looked up at him. She brushed his shoulder and smirked. He looked down at her confused, but as she laid her head on his shoulder, shivers ran throughout his body. The gesture was small, but still love.
A small sense of pleasure ran down my spine. Yet, my heart still ached and soon the pleasure was gone. Why could they have love? If I could never have more than the one night stand I was born from.
I ran away. I found myself at a club. These people weren’t on my agenda, nothing was telling me to shoot them. I didn’t choose the people I shot, they called out to me, like a lonely lighthouse.
The strobe lights blinded me. My heart ached and I spun around and around. I pulled the bow up and shot as a I spun. I didn’t care who I shot, who they fell in love with, none of it mattered. I wanted to be like them. Mortal and able to have love. Even if they could see me, even if they loved me, I would outlive them and I would see the light leave their face. Nothing would hurt me more. My soul would die, but my body would keep on living, keep giving love to those who didn’t know they wanted it. I fell to the ground, my bow beside me. People continued to dance around me, stepping over me, but unaware I was there. It was all a sort of magic.
The next day I woke up on the floor. It was empty and dark. Everyone was gone. I didn’t know the damage. I didn’t want to. I probably broke up relationships, marriages, or made someone do something they regretted. The exact opposite of who I was supposed to be.
My dad always told me that human lives were grotesquely sad. They lived a mere seventy years on average and some would never find love. That’s what cherubs were supposed to fix. Every tragic and mortal human life could find love. Except me.
I was still human. Maybe only half, but that half of me ached. With every rhythmic pound of my heart, I could feel myself slowly dying. Every breath took life from me.
It was Boxing Day when I stumbled upon them for the first time in the year since I grew my wings. They were still beautiful. The way they walked and the special look in their eyes hadn’t changed. They still wore the same old tennis shoes and the watch I got them for their birthday two years before.
The muscles in my fingers trembled. My shoulder tightened and I could feel as the bow was raised. Tears streamed down my face as I pulled an arrow from my quiver and notched it against the coarse string. I tried to fight it. I tried to back away, tried to aim it at someone else. I tried to pretend they weren’t there. But none of it worked. All I could see was them.
The arrow fired and hit them square in the chest. I collapsed on the sidewalk. I didn’t feel the pain of the cement grinding into my hands and knees. I didn’t feel the chill in the air or hear the crowd of people clapping at what just happened. All I felt was my heart ripping into a billion tiny pieces.
I ran until I could no longer see or breath. I ran back to my apartment and collapsed onto the mattress, the quiver of arrows spilling out onto the floor. The tiny clangs they made as they hit the floor awoke me. It gave me an idea.
I wasn’t special. There were thousands of half human half cherub beings out there. Some lived out human lives, but most became cherubs. There were hundreds in London alone. The world wouldn’t miss one. They didn’t even know I existed.
I held the tip of the arrow to my chin. The golden glint illuminating the room as I turned it round and round. Just as the first rays of the sun came through my window, I plunged into into my skull. I fell onto my mattress. Blood stained my mattress and carpet. I closed my eyes and died.
Magical arrows only kill magical beings. My father used to repeat this to me as a child when I asked why the arrows never killed anyone. It cycled in my head for all of these years.
Someone must’ve heard me scream. Police and ambulance lights flashed on the walls. I heard people talking between rooms and a small group huddled around me.
I rolled over on my back. Something I hadn’t been able to do for months. The arrows were gone. My wings were gone. Everything once magical about me ceased to exist. I was wonderfully and beautifully human.
I opened my eyes and they were there. They were holding my hand and their eyes were full of tears.
“I found you.”
“You found me.”
Alisan Keesee 