Everyone said I was seeing things. "What a freak." "I bet she doesn't even see anything." "Just an attention whore." I stared into the grey sky and heaved a small inaudible sigh. I wonder if he would visit again tonight. A buzzer sounded from inside the building. That's my cue. All of us filed back obediently into the building. It was almost as grey as the sky. I felt rough hands shove me harshly away from the group. "Back of the line, freak," someone snarled. I dipped my head and waited outside of the line until they had all gone in before padding into the building. Just another day living my life as a mental patient.
My name is Max. I am 18 years old. I wasn't given a last name. My mother and father didn't bother. They just left me outside of an orphanage. I suppose I was lucky to be dropped off where I was. At least they didn't dump me in the trash. It wouldn't have made much difference anyways. I was told that a family of three had adopted me only a few months after I had been in the orphanage. I stayed with them for seven years, and for the last two, it was hell. Yes, Cain didn't like me. But it wasn't until I was five that he started to touch me. He was 16 years old. He must've thought it was a form of power, of domination, to force a five year old into sex, to rape her and rob her of her innocence. I didn't know anything back then, all I knew was the pain. Mr. Hall wasn't much better. He loved to exert his power over his children, using belts and hands as his tools. Mrs. Hall's role was the bystander. She knew what was happening in her home, but chose not to get in their way.
By the time they had thrown me back into the orphanage, I was malnourished and scarred, both physically and mentally. I would wake up every single night drenched in cold sweat, shaking and whimpering. After only a few weeks in the orphanage, the nuns decided that nobody would want to adopt a wide-eyed and always trembling girl who would scramble away from anyone who tried to touch her. I don't blame them. I wouldn't adopt me either.
I was barely eight years old when I started living my life as a mental patient, or a "special child", as I was constantly reminded by the staff. My name is Max. I am 18 years old. And professionals say I have schizophrenia. I see things, and hear things that aren't really there. Specifically, I see a boy, who looks about the same age as me. He has olive skin, and soft black hair. He looks thin, but not scrawny. One more thing, he's got wings.
Not hook-on wings, like you see on performances by celebrities where they pretend they are angels. Real wings. I've seen them a few times already. Most of the time they're hidden underneath his clothes, but a few times I've seen them hanging behind him, like black arches of death. He always wears the same blank expression, but his eyes say everything he doesn't need to. He's never spoken to me, but he listens as he crouches on the windowsill of my single room. I suppose it's a perk I get from living here long enough. The nurses know me, and the director also knows me well enough to know that a single room for me would make everyone's life easier. For one, they wouldn't have to deal with the death threats that come from the other girls. No, the director wouldn't want a death on her hands. That wouldn't look good to future residents.
So I sit, alone, on my single bed, looking out at the greying sky. It looks like it's about to rain. I blink at the meager light filtering through the hazy window and into my room. The walls are bare, and everything in the room looks monotone, even me. I know for a fact that I don't have much colour on my face, ever. I don't ever remember liking to eat. I didn't see a point in it, really, unless I felt as though I would starve to death. Not that anybody would mind.
I don't know how long I sat on the bed, staring unconsciously at the wall across from me. The lights outside in the hallway had turned off, and it had become dark. The moon provided a bit of light in the room. There was no electrical light in my room. They wouldn't trust mental patients with those. I looked outside one last time before biting down gently on the inside of my cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. He probably wasn't coming tonight. So I slipped underneath the thin blankets and laid down. I could feel the metal springs press into my back, but by now, I had gotten used to the feeling.
I kept staring at the ceiling. I didn't want to close my eyes. I didn't want to surrender myself to the nightmares. But it was inevitable. I had already been awake for over 72 hours. Sleep would take me, one way or another. And I would wake shivering and whimpering, like I had for the past 13 years of my life. I blinked. Once. Twice. Just as my vision started to blur with exhaustion, a familiar shadow loomed into my room.
I hurriedly blinked the exhaustion out of my eyes and crawled out of bed to open the window a little, feeling a cold breeze push past me. There he was. He was perched on the tree branch that he usually sat on. It was a whole 4 feet from the edge of my window. I felt a corner of my mouth curled upwards the slightest bit into a small smile. He made everything seem okay, even when it wasn't. He said nothing, and only cocked his head the tiniest bit to the side, eyes studying my features. I drew my tongue across my parched lips to wet them before pushing the window open as far as it would go, cringing a little at the sudden chill that entered the room. I backed away from the window then, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. I pulled my knees into my chest and wrapped my thin arms around them as I watched him, wondering if he would come in this time. He blinked, dark eyes regarding me with a curiosity that I didn't comprehend. His black wings stretched out behind him, making him look like some sort of dark angel in the night.
Then with one flap of his wings, somehow, he had landed silently on the windowsill, one hand gripping the metal frame. His fingers were long and graceful. Everything about him was graceful, even when he dropped into the room without a sound. He closed the window behind him, shutting out any more cold air that wanted to come inside.
I stared at him, taking in how much he looked like an angel, how each move he made was so graceful. He stared back at me, never taking his eyes off me. They were dark, curious, and held some sort of wariness that I couldn't quite understand. He took a step towards me, the move slow and deliberate, then stopped. The corner of my mouth curved upwards in that small smile that nobody else saw. "Hi," I said, my voice sounding hoarse and scratchy to my ears. I hadn't spoken in days, or had it been weeks? I never spoke unless it was with him. And it had been 23 days since he last visited. He blinked in response to my greeting, coming closer and then crouching on the floor opposite me, just a few inches from me. I felt myself relax for the first time in 23 days. His wings brushed the floor, and he shifted them, as though he could feel my eyes studying them.
I unwrapped my arms from my knees and stretched one hand out slowly and tentatively. "C-Can I..." My voice caught in my throat. It was difficult for me to even say the word 'touch'. Regardless, I kept my hand hovering in the air, only shaking a little. The tremors never really left my body, not even after so many years, and it was only when he was there that they subsided a little. His eyes searched mine, before coming to rest on my trembling fingertips. He made no move to come closer nor any move to leave, but I could see the wariness in his eyes as he watched me. So I just twisted my mouth into that small smile and lowered my hand to wrap around my knees again.
It didn't hurt me, not really. The first time I had tried to touch him, he had leapt backwards and vanished for months. Maybe he didn't like being touched either. And I understood those particular boundaries better than anyone. I pulled my knees closer. I had just wanted to feel him there, to reassure myself that this was indeed real, and that I hadn't fallen asleep yet. That this wasn't just another twisted dream.
He looked a little guilty, almost a little regretful. I only shook my head a little before swallowing, "How are you?" I ask, my voice barely carrying over to him. He dipped his head once before lifting it again. The corner of my lip curves in that small smile. A nod meant something positive, or a yes. A shake meant the opposite. It was something that I had figured out a long time ago. It had been years since the first time he visited, and I had learned how to read his silences and translate them into basic words and phrases. "That's good."
His blank expression seemed set in stone, but his eyes softened a little, the darkness in them sparkling a little in the moonlight. There was a question in his eyes. How have you been? My smile widened fractionally and I unwrapped my arms again to cross my legs and lay my mildly trembling hands in them. "I've been okay. It could be better. But it could also been worse." A shiver crawled down my back and my arms twitched in the cold. My breath came out in small mists, and the pajamas that the hospital gave us provided no warmth. His eyes were tinted with concern as he tilted his head to the side, eyes moving from me to my bed and back again. It's warmer there. I nodded and padded silently to the bed, sliding under the covers once again and pulling the thin blanket to rest under my chin. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep his distance from me. I'm not sure if it was for his sake or mine.
My eyes became droopy despite the freezing temperature of the room. It comforted me to know that he was there, standing guard over me as I slept. He had done this countless of times, watching me as I slept, always at the edge of the bed, the slight dip of the mattress chasing away my nightmares for the night. In the morning, he would always be gone, a figment of my imagination, if it wasn't for one thing. He would always leave behind a feather on the pillow, next to my head. "Thank you," I manage to murmur, my drooping eyes focusing for a moment on him. His eyes soften and he nods, another dip of his head. Sleep. Perhaps it's because I haven't slept in over 72 hours. Perhaps it's because I feel warm all of a sudden, but my eyes close obediently and I lose consciousness almost immediately. The last thought in my mind before I drift off is that there is a term people use to describe those who watch over and protect them. In my mind, I smile. Guardian Angel.
I open my eyes somewhat unwillingly. He's gone. He always is in the morning. I've slept well, the first time in 23 days. No nightmares, no dreams. I turn my head, and the small smile washes over my face again when I see a single black feather lying on my pillow. I expose one trembling hand to the coldness that invades my room to pick up the feather gently, as though it might crumble away into dust. It doesn't. I close my eyes for a moment more before slipping off the bed and into the coldness that surrounds my room. The window is closed; he must've closed it after he left. There is no sign of life outside of my room door, so I admire the feather for a few more minutes, running a few shaking fingertips along it before opening the bottom drawer in my bedside table and reluctantly dropping it behind the back panel. As much as I would have loved to keep it with me, it wouldn't do to have any of the nurses find it.
