Hi.
I'd like to thank Cassandra Clare, author of City of Bones.
Your book was one of my many inspirations.
I'm also thanking everyone in my Latin class.
Without you, school would be hell.
He lay on the bed, bleeding.
What was their problem? He hadn't done anything to them. Well, at least that he was aware of.
He stood up, stifling a yell of pain. He needed to clean out the wounds.
He stumbled to his door. He leaned against the wall, gasping at that small exertion.
The door opened with a creak. There in the hall stood his father.
"How was school?" the man asked, idiotically unaware of his son's pain.
"It was fine. Now go away."
"You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."
"Yeah, Dad." As if he hadn't heard that a million times before. And whenever he tried to tell him something he wouldn't listen. The jerk.
His father sighed, and then closed the door.
The boy waited a moment, leaning there until his father was far enough away to get to the bathroom.
Using the wall as support, he limped out of his room and went down to the bathroom.
Glancing into the mirror, he flinched at the sight of his face. It was striped with bloody cuts from the stones they had thrown at him. How could that fool not notice them.
Simple. You don't notice what you don't care about.
With a moan of pain he pulled of the black hoodie he was wearing. He reached up and opened the medicine cabinet, pulling out the bottle of antiseptic. He ripped of his plain, white, blood-stained t-shirt. He ran his hands over his chest, wincing at each touch of a cut or bruise.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed his shoulder length, black, blonde streaked hair out of his eyes. Then he splashed the antiseptic over his chest.
He screamed in pain as his wounds fizzed from the clear liquid. How could they do this to him?
He turned around, looking over his shoulder into the mirror with his pale green eyes. He once again stared at the tattooed wings on his back. Where had they come from, he asked himself for the thousandth time.
Moving his eyes down his back, he glanced at the cuts on his lower back. They were bruised and battered, but he didn't have the energy to even lift the bottle.
He fell to the tiled floor. Even in his fatigue, his flame of rage had not extinguished. He remembered the looks on the murderous jocks faces as he had sprinkled the ashes of the paper, on which he had written their names.
He laughed at the thought, but it turned into a moan as pain racked his body.
Lost in the murky waters of memory once again, he recalled his macho threats and his fearless taunts. Had that been him?
And who had those men at the alley's mouth? Why hadn't they helped him?
He felt water on his cheeks. He reached up to shut of the faucet, but realized they were his own tears.
A sob racked his body, just as the pain had a moment ago. He lay there, weeping from pain and anger and suppressed fear.
After a few minutes, he fell into a deep sleep, induced by exhaustion, pain, rage, and tears.
He shifted in his slumber as something tickled his back.
The feathers of his tattoo seemed to rustle in a nonexistent breeze. The tattooed layer flesh melted away, revealing white feathers. And attached to these feathers were two long appendages. They unfolded revealing what they truly were.
Now Angel had his wings.
Thank you for reading. Please review.
I'd like to thank my reviewer duo, Dudette Kika and WofOZ.
You both are awesome.