Entwined. Her arms around his neck, his hands in her hair, both pressing against eachother. I would have felt more guilty about seeing this if it weren't happening in my home, my kitchen, with my boyfriend. There was a loud crash as the bowl in my hands flew across the kitchen and hit the wall next to them. She gasped as she turned around to see me. I didn't watch him. I was already running upstairs, throwing clothes and belongings into a lime green tote bag, not bothering to shut anything, I just tore it all out. Last I picked up the box. It was still sitting next to the bed, I ran down the stairs, charging at the front door. He was already standing there. I stopped, the box's edges digging into my hand. He stared into my eyes, arms crossed, she was trembling in the door of the kitchen, eyes wide. I walked to the front door, pushing him out of the way. He hand closed around my wrist, barely touching it before letting it go. I opened the door and walked out. I turned for a fraction of a second, and was momentarily satisfied was the breaking glass and resulting shriek. The box had broken the window, leaving a hole about the size of baseball surrounded by spiderweb cracks. I continued walking and was halfway into my car when the rest of the window fell. I really didn't care, I really friggin' didn't. I sped to the Center at what felt like 5 miles an hour but was more like 90. I was going, as a matter of fact, I was gone.
For a while, existence hurt, not much, and yet a lot. The emotional pain I left behind, most of it anyway. I needed more pain meds though, the wings were killing me. In fact, my whole body was killing me. I was a prime canidate for what the Center needed though. It'd been eight months since I'd physically moved, eight months since they put me in a chamber that kept my body alive, and my brain from realizing how much pain I was going through. I was healed, techically, in fact my body looked perfect. Intense surgery and an extreme lack of movement however, made me feel like I was on fire. Every movement killed, even with meds. I looked at myself in one of the full length mirrors in the hall. A crutch under each arm, it looked odd. My legs weren't bent, my muscles had been preserved, they hadn't shrank, they looked healthy, slender, tan, like the rest of me. The last reminder of the summer left on my body. My hair had grown, coming far down my back in erratic waves and curls. I was almost the same person. Same skin, enhanced to be more resiliant, maybe, same hair, dark brown, longer from my stay, still unmanagable, same brown eyes. No, I contradicted myself even now. My eyelashes had been lengthened, my features surgically perfected, I had friggin' wings sticking out of my back, the most shock probably came when they had me step on the scale for my check up. I weighed a whopping eighty-six pounds. I was five foot eight, and not stick skinny, though not really curvy either. The eighty-six pounds was thanks to the doctors. If I had wings, I should have bird bones too, right? They were strengthened, like my skin, like my vision had been enhanced, and my hearing and my sense of smell. The last was interesting, I knew exactly what was in the hospital's mystery meat. I could feel more too, but I didn't know if that was intended or not.