Chapter Text
I fall through the sky, colliding with below freezing clouds. Hail and Ice bruise my skin, until I'm a mess of black and blue. I slowly lose all feeling within my fingers and toes, and exhaustion is consuming me whole. Colorful lights emitting from buildings become a blurry mess. What did I do? I fell from the heavens. Correction, I was pushed off. Mother's harp and bow gave me warmth. Or at least I think they do. Bricks scrape off flesh on my back and wings. My wing and ribs crash into a fire escape. A sharp, agonizing pain shoots up my chest and wings, accompanied by a deafening crack. It wasn't a yell or a scream, the sound that I let out was a horrific cry. Breathing becomes harder by the second as my chest tightens. Moving is agonizing. My wing is limp and covered in crimson. Blood spatters over my torn shirt. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. Someone's here. I can-I can hear him. I'm drowning in my own blood. I can't...do anything...about it. I feel myself slipping away. The clatter of my harp and archery set alerts someone. Brittle pavement sends a freezing shock up my spine. Ha. What a run in life.
“Oh crap. Oh my lord. How? There’s so much blood. You have wings! YOU HAVE WINGS! I should call 911”. He frantically fumbled around with his device, dialing 911. He comes closer, checking out my injuries and the bloody mess that surrounds me.
“The ambulance is coming okay. Hang in there. You are going to survive.” His voice quavered. Another surge of pain shoots up my body as his trembling hands touch my wing. It's like scorching knives penetrate it. He rambles to the person on the other line, failing to mention my wings. He drops the glowing thing. His voice quavered as his hand grasped mine. The warmth of it. I want to let go. But I can’t. Why would a human go through.. Go through…This? The crimson blood trickles down my mouth. My... Chest... It burns. His heart… It’s beating rapidly. If I die here will I still be remembered? Will I be grieved like mother? Sirens ring in the background.
“They’re here. Over here! He’s over here!” He yelled. Paramedics rush over towards us. Yelling and talking about something. I think about mother. Father always said I look like her. I hope I can still play the harp. I want my mom. The stretcher is cold. I cough up more blood. My breaths… they’re shallow. My chest…It aches.. I can’t feel… Wing or leg… He’s… Next to me. Still… holding… my hand. This is nice.
A long tube is in my arm. WHY IS THERE A FUCKING TUBE IN MY ARM? I can’t move my left leg. The light isn’t warm. It’s not real. It's not the sun. It's too bright. Too blurry. Machinery surrounds the room. They beep constantly. Where am I? I tug the bandages around my wings. It’s weighing me down. I feel weighed down. Like I’m made of cinder blocks. Mom. Mom. Where’s her harp? Where is her bow? No. No. No. I can’t lose it. I need to leave immediately. What did they do to me? My throat it’s dry. I’m unable to sit up without stiffness in my chest. But I need to get my mother's harp and bow. Without it, who am I? How will anyone remember mother? How will I remember mom? I try ripping out the tube after finally being able to fall off the bed. Stupid bandages restricting my movement. I stop moving as soon as the pain comes back. A tall, curly haired, caramel skinned man walked into the room.
“Where’s my bow and harp?” I hiss, gripping onto the long pole that connects to the tube in my arm. He comes closer, holding out his hand. I slap it away from me.
“You’re going to open your wounds. Calm down.”
“You’re… in my… way.” I huff. My grip tightens around the pole. Don’t tell me to ‘calm down’ Who does he think he is? He doesn’t know jackshit.
“I have your harp and bow. It’s okay.” Who is he? His voice is familiar.
“Then show me. Show me my harp.” I’m backed into a corner. The cold floor and wall are sending shivers down my spine. My wings are folded in. He doesn’t come closer. He just sits down. I flinch as he reaches into a bag. When I look back up he has mother’s harp in his hands. I snatch it away from him, holding it tightly against my chest. “Where’s my bow?”
“In my car. They wouldn’t allow me to bring it.” He scoots closer to me, handing me a small chocolate. “My name is Oliver. What’s yours?”
“How many people know about my wings? And how long do I have to stay?” He pauses, then replies.
“No one knows about your wings. I think. They just disappear when someone comes. And around a week or two. Maybe less with the amount of time you’ve been here and the rate you’re healing.” I tried to speak once more but I was unable to. Everything was blending together, becoming a blurry mess of colors. Exhaustion takes over again.
It’s him again. The warmth of his hand reminds me of mother. I open my eyes to find Oliver beside me talking to a man in scrubs. They’re talking about me. What are they going to do? The tube is back in my arm.
“What’s your name?” the man asked. Why should I tell him? I look away, staring at a blank wall instead.
“Can you tell me your name? We need to know so we can do the paperwork.” This time Oliver is the one to ask.
“Valentino.” I mutter. Oliver has this stupid smile on his face. After the doctor leaves Oliver turns to me. His hand is still holding mine. Why is it so warm? Why can't I let go?
“That’s a nice name. Valentino.” He said my name so softly, like it meant something.
“Thanks. Your name reminds me of olive oil.” Oliver lets out a chuckle.
“Olive Oil? Dude. Is that supposed to be a compliment?” He said in a semi-sarcastic tone. It was supposed to be a compliment. He doesn’t need to know that though. I take mother’s harp and my hand from him in retaliation.
“What are you though? I assumed you were an Angel but… Actually, don't answer that question.” Fine with me. He hands me a box of food I've never seen before. This looks appetizing.
“I don’t know what you like, but you could never go wrong with tacos and katsu.” Mother used to make tacos, I remember. But I’ve never heard of ka-tsu.
“Is it poisoned? What’s a kah-tsu?” I sniff the food. It smells good. He breaks apart two wooden sticks, and begins poking at the ka-tsu.
“These are chopsticks,” he says slowly as if I wouldn’t understand what he’s saying. “You use them like this.”
“I’m not an incompetent fool. I know how to use chopsticks.” I snatched the pair from his hand. “Also what is this ka-tsu?”
“ It's breaded, fried chicken. I’m pretty sure that it originated from Japan.” I hold the meat up to my mouth. One small bite wouldn’t hurt. Would it? My eyes go wide and a smile creeps up my face. What in the holy heavens had just blessed my taste buds. I let out a squeal of delight.
“Is there more of this ka-tsu? It's delicious!”