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Darkness

I sat in darkness. I'm used to that though. My world has been dark for years. Sight is just something I dimly remember. A happy memory from my childhood. Not that my childhood was happy.

I scuffed my feet on the carpet which I couldn't see. I wondered what colour it was, I'm fairly sure the rooms not all babyish anymore my "parents" moved in a load of furniture to make me feel "comfortable" (man, I got to stop using quotes) and this is for a guy that's never even seen a bed, but I don't think they've had time to do major redecorating. The bunny rabbit molding was cute though. Maybe I could have lived here. Once. But things had changed since "Mum" and "Dad" had lost a son called James.

I'm not James for a start. I have this image of James, who he'd be if they hadn't taken me; probably just some average kid, no wings, no danger and able to see. I envied him slightly, wished I could be him. But I wasn't. I was Iggy, a poor little blind birdie but with a chance at happiness at long last. I have to make this work, there isn't going to be another chance; they're my parents despite their faults, I know they are and they know it too. And they do love me.

They don't care that I'm blind. They help me when I need it and they've just got the point that I don't need constant help, like say a guide to go to the bathroom. I haven't mentioned cooking though and I've had to restrain myself to stop from wining at scrabble, just one step at a time, but I should never have told them about the wings. At least they didn't go all freak of nature on me, they sounded very shocked though and I'm not sure they fully believed my story about the lab. I even left out the really unbelievable parts and the ones that have an adult rating. They didn't question, they just listened in dumb silence, then got the professional questioners.

The doorbell rang, the sound reverberating around the house. Oh, and that would be them now. I hate journalists and I hate their cameramen; the first one was nice, a young sounding girl from one of the minor papers who seemed genuinely interested. But the others; don't get me started. Brash self-important men who always acted like this was the third angel story this month and didn't believe a word of it, they even managed to keep this up after they met me, the current record's five minutes but he was from a conspiracy paper. Personally I think I would have preferred the Spanish inquisition, they would have been friendlier, the whole burning me for being a freak of nature may have been a problem but they probably had more heart.

"Mrs Griffiths? I'm Mr Parkinson from the network," an oily mans voice said as an introduction. I took an immediate dislike to him and my instinct is usually a fairly good measure of people.

"Yes, you called ahead," my mum said, also taking a dislike to him.

"So this is the house of the angel," he said, slamming the door behind him and taking three steps into the hall, which meant he didn't even bother to wipe his feet.

"My son," my mum cut in, her annoyance apparent in her voice. Well, she had invited him, she'd invited all of them, it was her own damn fault. She needn't have gone public; we could have just gone our whole lives without anyone ever knowing. I could have gone flying back to Anne's occasionally, seen the flock, of course flying on my own would be difficult but you can kind of feel where the disturbances in the air are if you're trying. It wouldn't happen though; it was just another wonderful fantasy in a long string of broken dreams.

"Of course, Mrs Griffiths," the journalist said soothingly, placating, exactly the same tone as the Erasers when they're trying to win someone over. Not an Eraser, he didn't have that gravely undertone. An Eraser would be easier to deal with though, I'd be working from experience there, but humans, well they're still a total mystery. "Now where is he? The network is willing to bid a substantial sum if you can prove he truly has wings."

Bid? The others hadn't mentioned anything about a bid, or had they? My mum had had private words with all of them, I didn't listen in, that wouldn't have been polite, besides I'd trusted her, she was my mum, if you can't trust your parents who can you trust?

"He has wings I can assure you," my mum said hurriedly, apparently fully aware of "a bid". They'd sold me out I realised in horror. They hadn't even bothered to ask me what I wanted. Whatever happened to never letting me go? What was I? A sideshow freak?

Don't answer that.

"So where is he," the journalist demanded, still trying to sound friendly.

"In his room," my "mum" said leading him towards the stairs. I leapt up off my bed, I don't know when I'd made the decision but I was going. Back to my real family, the only family I've ever had. I went over to my desk, I don't know why I had a desk, what was I going to do at it, write? Well, yes actually.

I found a pen and fumbled around for some paper, I couldn't find any. I bit down a swear word as I heard footsteps on the stairs and just wrote on the desk. I can't write well, I'd never learnt, I couldn't see the words anyway. But I could remember letters, and I couldn't just leave without a word.

Sorry I wrote simply. It meant a lot though; I was sorry for leaving, sorry for being kidnapped, sorry for having wings, sorry for not being their perfect James. I don't know whether they ever understood, I don't know if my writing was even legible.

I signed it Iggy, then opened the window and leapt into the sky. Off to rejoin my family, my real family; leaving my parents, again.

My choice this time.