Wings

Ivan looked up at the ceiling fan, trying to focus on the white blades spinning around and around in a somewhat lazy fashion. The cool air just reached his face on the floor. Its sweet caress a welcome break from the heat of his own body. He had and hadn’t expected this. When he hit puberty, his family explained the process in fine detail, but even the elaborate visual pictures his grandmother had spun could not prepare him for the pain.

It rolled up his back from his stomach in tidal waves, ripping at his flesh like a rabid animal. He was feverish and clammy. The electric shocks were the worst if he moved too much. Sharp tingles would zip down his spine and through his legs, stopping at the ends of his toes. He tried to stay perfectly still, watching the fan, waiting for the next step of the process.

The cramps began slowly, almost like a warmup, lulling Ivan into a false sense of security before his entire back snapped up. He gritted his mouth shut, refusing to make a sound. At least the electric shocks had stopped. In a way, Ivan kind of missed them. He tried to relieve the pain by moving into a child’s pose, but this stretch did almost nothing to stop the radiating agony.

The cramps changed; now it felt like the muscles in his back were attempting to migrate away from his spine, doing their best to remove themselves from the bone all together. Ivan bit the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. It coated his tongue and brought a metallic taste to his mouth. His eyes tried to find a new distraction but failed to focus on anything of worth. His vision had become murky, washed out. He couldn’t see the foot of his bed anymore. It was a brown smudge out of the corner of his left eye.

Ivan wondered briefly what time it was now. He had originally rolled out of his bed just a little past one in the morning, awoken by a stabbing pain he could not ignore. He tried to guess how long the transition had been going on for in between the cramps. Had it only been thirty minutes? Or over an hour? Ivan was not so sure. His mind was locked in a grim war; the pain would lash out at his defences, and then his stubbornness would push back with gusto.

He had always prided himself on his pain tolerance on and off the pitch. Now he was losing to the pain. He could feel something building; the early warning signs were there. It was as if he was watching the water recede off the beach before the arrival of an oncoming tsunami. Ivan braced. His skin split and something pushed through bone and muscle to reach the surface. Ivan’s vision faded to black, and he became lost in the surreal, surrounded by bliss. Slowly, the world began to take shape again.

His sense of smell came back first, his nostrils filled with the scent of old socks and blood. Next, the bedroom came into view. He was lying on his stomach facing his bed. He tested a limb and then another, finding them weak but no longer in pain. Gingerly, he lifted himself onto his soft bed, nursing his tired legs into a comfortable position. Across from his bed lay a full-length mirror.

Ivan stretched out his new wings and shook them lightly. He let the warm blood fall off the wing's membrane and let them dry a little before he spread both wings to their full extent. He studied his new wings. They were a dark blue, speckled with drops of green and brown. They spanned from one side of his bed to the other side, yet folded up nicely behind his back, flattening to his skin like two sheets of paper. He looked at the clock on his side table and jumped in surprise. It was just past two.

Ivan tested his legs again, shaking them out before standing up. He gave himself a moment before he took his first step. Sleep wasn’t really on his mind.