I am, for obvious reasons, not very attentive of my physical condition. Anything to speed up my exit from this wretched existence would be a blessing, so I've a mind to ignore it. I do not, therefore, know how long I have possessed wings.
It was no shock, really. Paris had been wrapped in a bizarre dream-like state, like a mirror to some strange wonderland. The landscape had not changed, no terrors of the night prowled the streets. What did happen, however, was that many citizens had begun to sprout wings. The change was slow at first, affecting a mere few who were mobbed by frightened neighbors. After a few weeks, the changes had started to affect everyone. I have no knowledge of the world beyond, due to an utter lack of care. At first I thought insanity had finally descended on me entirely, but the shock of the entire city could not be explained by that theory. Impossible as it was, I merely accepted the fact that humans were becoming something more (not that it affected their nature).
Many explained this phenomenon as a message from God. The flaw I see in that theory is the amusing variety of the new wings. Many people, bland as they are, bore the feathers of common pigeons or morning doves. Quite dull for an angel! There were more exotic varieties, though, and I once saw an enthusiastic child showing off his acquisition of a hummingbird's wings. Carlotta had taken to strutting more often than usual, fanning her peacock feathers as if they were trophies.
As much as I hate to admit it, I often found myself wondering if I would gain wings myself. What kind of bird would I disgrace the name of? Surely some dead old crow! How amusing it would be to have only bones to fly! I had often laughed to myself when I thought of what en excellent addition to my fame this would be. The ballet rats would huddle together, sharing tales of the Opera Ghost and his skeletal wings. You can imagine my confusion, then, when I saw that I had not been given ghastly wings at all. Upon my back, instead, were broad white wings, spanning past my fingers. These were not the wings of an earthbound bird. These truly were the wings of an angel! I frowned in disappointment. A ghost with white wings? What a damnable inconvenience! It is rather difficult, you see, to posses the stealth of a tiger when any fool can see white in the shadows.
Christine had white wings too. They suited her much more, reflecting the purity of her soul. Her wings were small, however, delicate with a span only slightly past her elbow. These wings were a testament to how fragile she was, how easily her heart was bruised. I found her in a state of pain once to often, and could not bare to leave her with no comfort. "What is wrong, my child?" I said through the mirror, stopping her beautiful, trembling voice in the middle of a song. "Did… did I do something wrong?" she gasped, horrified at the concept of disappointing her Angel of Music. "Of course not," I said more quickly than I intended, "but any fool can see that you are upset. What is troubling you so?" Christine's face flushed, "O-oh, is it that obvious?" she stammered, "I am very sorry! I should not waste your time so!"
"It is no waste to eliminate an obstacle," I said carefully. She bowed her head gratefully, "I suppose not…"
"Then I will ask again. What is troubling you?"
Christine laughed nervously, "I-it's nothing, really. I shouldn't let Carlotta get to me so…" I bristled at the mention of that name. That wretched woman was the cause of more heartache to Christine than anything! "She said that my voice was like my wings… small, frail, and insignificant." I bit my lip to control my anger, desperately wanting to wring that woman's neck. "Maybe you shouldn't waste your time on a mouse like me…"
"And what does Carlotta know?" I snapped, and I watched her flinch, suddenly ashamed that I let my temper get the best of me. "Your wings are beautiful and… pure," I said hesitantly. "But you cannot let Carlotta's jibes hurt you so. Don't you know that only male peacocks have those garish feathers? What does that tell you about Carlotta?" Christine laughed quietly and wiped her tears away. "You have wings too, don't you?" she asked unexpectedly. "Of course," I replied, and she smiled a little wider. "Oh, what are they like, Angel? I bet they are beautiful!" I was taken aback by her question, but I could see the wonder in her eyes as she pictured what I must look like. "Yes… they are white, like yours, and longer than a man's arm."
That was the first and only time that I told her the truth.