The two scars between Orion’s shoulder blades burned again.
They always did at night, when the house was silent and the shadows on his walls seem to stretch too far. He turns onto his side silently hoping the pain will stop.
But it never did.
He didn’t know where the scars had come from. They'd always been there. Even when he was five, when the school nurse first saw them and asked if he'd been in an accident, his father just laughed and said, "If you call him being an idiot an accident.”
She never asked again.
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The pain flared sharper. Like something was twisting inside his spine. Orion curled into himself tighter, fists clenched in the sheets, a dull familiar ache could be felt on both his arms, tracing the purple and white scars that line them. He didn’t need to look at them to know exactly where they were.
The pain was worse tonight, groans threaten to escape his lips, His father's room was down the hall, and if he made any noise, screamed or cried, it would be worse than the pain he felt right now.
Much worse.
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He couldn’t tell where the pain began. On his back, in his chest or beneath his ribs.
He’d lived with the scars on his back since he was returned. He’d only been two years old when he disappeared, and two months later, he came back. No one knew who took him. No one ever found out. But his mother. His mother never stopped crying.
She didn’t make it, Orion was told that she committed suicide from the grief of losing her beloved child.
His father blamed Orion for that. For her tears. For her grave. For the silence that filled their home like smoke after a fire.
And Orion, he never remembered what happened during those two months. But the scars were proof that something did.
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He didn’t sleep at all the night before. By the time the sun rays bled through the open blinds, the pain has lessened from a burning sensation to a throb. He rolled out of bed slowly, quietly. His long sleeve shirt clung to his back with dried blood. It had soaked through during the night. He peeled it off and threw it into his laundry basket. He winced at the movement, the scars were angry, raised, inflamed and red. He reached behind him and ran his hand over one, it pulsed under his touch. Withdrawing his hand from his shoulders he made his way into his bathroom.
The bathroom was cold as he opened the door, the air hitting him, spreading goosebumps across his body. He grabs a towel from the rack next to the toilet and places it next to the shower, he takes the rest of his clothes off and tosses them into the growing pile in the corner. Reaching into the shower, he turned the dial and cold water spluttered out of the shower head. He stood away from the waters reach, waiting for the temperature to increase to a comfortable heat.
After a scalding hot shower, he steps out of the stall. Steam wafting from his body because of the hot water. Grabbing the towel that was tucked beside the glass wall, he starts to dry himself off. Wrapping the towel around his waist he walks over to the mirror.
Standing in front of the mirror he looked at himself; he looked like hell. Pale, with sunken eyes, blonde curls wet and sticking to his forehead.
His gaze drifts to his arms.
He didn’t look at them often. They made him sick. But today, he couldn’t help it. The purple and white scars that covered his arms vary in age, some a couple years old, others only a week. His fingers traced the raised marks, all the way from his shoulders to the end of his wrists. They reminded him of the nights where pain was all he felt, not from his back, but from his heart. Nights where he just needed it to stop, even for a second. He glared at the scars, hoping that they would magically disappear.
He sighed as he looked away from his reflection, disgusted with what he saw. He grips the bathroom sink and hung his head down low. His breath coming out in soft, laboured gasps, his eyes becoming glossy as he struggles to stop the shaking in his hands. The sudden panic comes randomly. He gasps for air as he feels like his lungs are collapsing from inside him. His shaking hands grip tighter around the basin for a sort of relief.
Minutes pass and he soon comes out of his panicked state. He wipes his eyes and grabs some clothes on the counter and swiftly dresses himself.
He walks back into his bedroom just as he hears a sharp, rough knock coming from his bedroom door. His heart hammers in his chest at the sound.
“You alive in there?” His father barked from the other side.
“Yeah”
“Then get your ass downstairs. Don’t make me come in and drag you myself.” His father grumbled as he headed back downstairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls.
He tugged on a hoodie, zipped it up and headed out of his room.
The kitchen was cold, the light above flickering. His father stood at the counter, cigarette hung from his fingers, a can of beer already opened next to a plate of stale toast. Orion walked over to the fridge and pulled out a small bottle of orange juice.
“You look like a bloody corpse, are you sick?” His father sneered as he looked up from his food.
“I’m fine.” Orion mutters, his heart beating fast in his chest, like it always does when he’s near his father.
He wasn’t fine. He never was. But saying that wouldn’t help. He reached over and grabbed an apple and slipped out the door before his dad could say anymore.
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The air outside was sharp and dry, the sky was streaked with faint orange from the fleeting sunrise only half an hour ago. Orion walked to school the long way, through the woods behind the houses. It took longer, but it was quiet. No people to bother him.
His back flared up again, a burning pain shooting through his shoulders. He gritted his teeth as he clutched his bag straps. His body felt wrong, like something was pushing from the inside. He reached school and quickly entered his first period classroom. Throughout the class, he could barley focus on the formulas on the whiteboard, the burning in his back making his mind fuzzy.
As he entered second period, his teacher noticed the sunken look and sent him to the nurse to rest. When he reached the infirmary, the nurse looked at him sympathetically.
“Hey hon, from the looks of it you’re going to have to head home.” The nurse said as she reached for the office phone.
“Oh uh, you don’t have to call my dad. He’s at work now so I’ll probably walk home,” Orion said quickly, scared of how his father will react to getting a phone call from the school.
“Okay sweetie,” She said softly, “Be safe on your way home.”
Orion nodded as he heads out of the school. His back flared up again, a sharp and burning pain spreading over his shoulder blades. He stifles a gasp as he clenches his fists. This time he took the quicker route home, no trees, no bushes, only cars speeding past him, the air making his hair flick into his face. As his house comes into view, he becomes relieved, his pace quickening.
He opens the door and quietly slips into the lounge room; his father wasn’t home. He swiftly enters his room, and the pain becomes more unbearable every passing minute.
The pain flared sharper. Like something was grinding in his shoulders, he clenched his eyes shut as his breath is taken from his lungs. He reached up and touched the now wet hoodie, soaked with his blood. He rips the hoodie off and chucks it onto the floor, it makes a wet slap noise as it makes contacts with the ground.
Suddenly a sharp crack, like a gunshot echo’s in Orion's bedroom as he doubled over, choking on his own scream. His spine arches unnaturally, tendons straining under his skin as something shifts under his skin. He clawed at the wall.
Then it began.
His shoulder blades budged grotesquely, as if something was clawing itself out. The skin stretched thin, his veins webbing across like cracked glass. He could feel his bones splitting, reshaping and grinding together with wet nauseating pops. The pain wasn't small; it was overwhelming and suffocating, sending a shock wave of pain through his body.
With a wet tearing sound, his skin finally gave way.
Two jagged spires of bone jutted outward, shredding through muscle and sinew. Blood poured out like a waterfall, it soaked the carpet beneath him. Strips of flesh and tissue hung limply from the protruding bones. Then feathers, dark and covered in gore, sprouted in uneven tuffs around the bones.
Orion screamed again, raw and primal, as the wings continued to grow, dragging nerves and pain with every centimetre. They stretched wide, unfurling like a flower. Ligaments stitched themselves to the newly formed limbs with a sickening snap, forcing the unnatural appendages to twitch, flex and move.
He collapsed forward, gasping, hands trembling in a pool of blood that reflected his pained face.
And behind him, which was once bare, two wings, massive and grotesque, quivered in the light of his room.
He attempted to lift himself from the floor, but his arms give way, and he lands with a thud back onto the ground. Groaning in pain and exhaustion, he drags himself over to his bed and lifts himself onto the covers. The warmth of the blanket slightly sooths the pain in his back, the twitching start to stop as he drifts in and out of consciences. He allows himself to fall asleep, the skin around his newly formed wings start to slowly mend together. The skin starts to stitch itself together, leaving nothing but cracked, dried blood. His wings fold together as he relaxes, they cover him like a blanket, the stiff feathers gently brushing against his body. His chest rises in a steady pace, his breath steady as he sleeps.
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