This is assuming such a thing could be possible and that you don’t die from the incredible stresses on your body to begin with.
6:30 Am. The buzz of a clock, Over and over.
Maximillian groaned and pulled himself painfully up to his hands and knees on his bed while shutting off the alarm clock. As he sat up on the edge of the bed he tried to massage his sore neck, but lying all night, every night, on his stomach made his neck muscles sore and tired. But, he thought ruefully, he had no other choice.
A noise from one side of the room startled him and as he turned to face it he realized his mistake as the feathered edge of his wing swept the wind-up alarm clock off the small table and onto the floor where it shattered. His stomach rumbled loudly, and Max sighed. He was starving, and cold. Sometime during the night his fire had went cold in the fireplace and there was a thin crust of ice on the pan of water under the leak in the roof.
Wings. Useless things, and he cursed the day he set out to achieve such a thing. When his back began to deform his parents had taken him to the hospital where he had been x-rayed. Those x-rays showed a massive bone growth from his shoulder blades and though the growths were not cancerous, multiple surgeries had been unable to remove the growths which returned time after time. The hospital costs had skyrocketed, and his parents had exhausted their meager savings first, and sold the house next, relocating to a smaller apartment.
He had been placed in a new school but soon had to be removed because of the constant and unmerciful torture from his new classmates, who called him names, talked about him behind his back, stole his things, and the bigger ones took every chance to physically abuse him whenever possible. Even the teachers whispered about him, as rumors circulated about the strange malformation that was causing his back to grow misshapen and strange.
His family had been ostracized from all social functions, and all their friends and relatives had disavowed them as well. Then his father lost his job. Several of his co-workers had been making cruel jokes about him and his father had had enough. The police had been called to break up the fight, and while his father was in jail the pink slip had been sent to the house.
The co-worker sued for damages, and soon the family was completely ruined. His father was sent to prison and the Child Advocacy Office had became aware of Max soon after, when his mother could no longer afford to take him for his surgical appointments. They had removed Max from her care and had placed him in a State-run home, but the majority of the others there were violent, terminally ill, or handicapped. None of them fit in anywhere else or had anyone to take responsibility for them. As his deformity increased he realized he had to get out, and unlike the others he was still mobile enough to jump the fence and run for it.
He had made his way back home, but his mother was gone and the house was long empty. Several times local children spotted him and chased him away, calling him freak and worse. He was hungry and tired, and had no money to buy any food. He made his way out of the city and into the mountains, barely dodging policemen who were obviously looking for him. Max began rummaging through dumpsters late at night, eating whatever scraps he could find and moving only at night, sleeping in overgrown lots, abandoned buildings, under bridges – anywhere where there was no one around.
He stole too, from any house he could find unlocked, taking food from the refrigerators and any money left in sight. After a month of this he had made his way into the mountains and had came across a run-down hunting cabin and had moved in. His wings were in full growth by this point, feathered and large. Extended all the way they were thirty feet across from tip to tip, and when folded they were four feet over his head and dragged the ground to either side. He could no longer walk through any door, but had to bend far over and turn slightly sideways. The weight of the wings was causing him incredible back pain and he was unable to extend them for very long.
He was unable to walk for long periods of time now, as his heartrate went sky high from the exertion and he became dizzy. Once, soon after he had found the cabin and his wings had grown all the way, he tried to fly with them, running into the wind to gain lift and flapping his wings as hard as he could. It had worked – for about three seconds. His feet had lifted from the ground, but the shape of his body did not allow him to point into the wind. Instead, his wings acted as large kites and he was pushed backwards through the air. His legs dangled downwards uselessly, creating drag. The increased air resistance caused him to stall, and the wind pushed him completely over, slamming him hard to the ground on top of his wings, which were still flapping vainly as he hit, and he felt a rib go as he crumpled.
It took almost a month before he could breathe without pain, and he was lucky he had enough food, mostly jerky and crackers, but the forced inactivity had weakened him and he rose now to view the last three pieces of dry beef and the last six crackers with a hungry eye. The rain started again, and the pan on the floor was overflowing. Max shuffled over to the fireplace and threw in the last few pieces of wood he had scrounged. He had broken his only knife trying to cut bigger branches from dead trees, and now he couldn’t even whittle down wood for firestarters. The lighter he had was almost out of fuel, and went completely dry as he lit the new fire with difficulty.
Cold wind whistled down the chimney and through the old walls, threatening to put out the fire with merciless cruelty. October had arrived, and the leaves were turning. The days were still warm, but the nights were getting chilly and the rain had the bite of winter on the way. Maximillian’s stomach rumbled again and he carefully pulled out two crackers and dipped a beat-up tin can in the pan of half-frozen water and sipped it slowly. He shivered, and he collapsed weakly to the floor beside the fire, dragging the single blanket he had off the bed and around his shoulders. There would be snow soon – the skies were a leaden grey.
Soon he would have to go out in the cold rain to look for more wood, but everything was wet and he knew that if he didn’t go soon there would be no starting a new fire. Soon. But first he needed to rest for just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. 1 week ago