wings

A Story by Noemi

this is a short story about what I think an aborted baby would feel if it were inside of the womb forever

Once, when I was young, I found my wings and flew into the future. At the time, nothing made sense to me. all I knew was there was this girl, and she had it all. She had passion in her hobbies, in her paintings. Although at first mediocre, the murals became so vibrant and beautiful, they were almost alive. The pieces of expression were of such impact even those who did not know art could appreciate them.

Her kindness was unparalleled, she would smile and speak to everyone, and treated all as equal. she would commit to clubs and community service to help others and contribute to the world, and everyone could see her light shining so brilliantly. all had high expectations and believed in this girl wholeheartedly. she was a girl who shared her light with others.

She had a demeanor in which made everyone around her seem to fall in love. l flew some more to get away from this girl who never seemed grateful for all she had, but no distance grew between us. Instead, I found myself getting tied in with everyone else. Her charming personality and beautiful face lured you in with the promise of something good happening. After what seemed like years, I gave up, and decided to listen.

Her loyalties were fierce and her interests were full of passion, the world was her canvas to express herself with. she stood for the weak, even though she felt that she wasn't strong. Even if everyone else was against her, she stood for what she believed was right. She found success through trial and error and learned from her mistakes.

There was always something interesting going on, so there was never a dull moment. My fascination only grew as she grew, and I came to love this distant girl. No matter how often I reached out, tried to touch the face of my gifted angel, porcelain fingers could only reach the cool surface of glass. No words have been exchanged between us, no sounds from her life reach penetrate the cold sheen of ice separating our lives.

All I'm granted to see are pictures of what goes on, little flashes or scenes from her life. Good times, or times when she's at her worst. I live my life through her, she is my only window to the vast stage that is her world. every once in a while I shout out, a hope that she knows I am with her, a hope that maybe this is a one-way mirror, in which she can hear me. but my shouts turn hoarse and fade to a whisper, and she goes on her life per usual as if I hadn't shouted anything at all. Every once in a while, when she sleeps, I can catch a glimpse of my reflection and see that I am still the same age as I was when I was conceived, and I am reminded that I can never grow to be her.