It stills gets to you, sometimes.
Sure, it’s kind of neat, having wings; a lot of times you like to just lie in bed and play with them, run your fingers through silvery, fluffy-ish feathers (but not too deep; if there’s one thing you weren’t expecting was touching the skin underneath them to be a giant turn-on), appreciating the sensations.
And then there’s the fact that you’re learning to fly, which is also pretty neat, even though you’ve never had any particular desire to before you died. But you know a lot of people would be envious of you (the flying part, not the dead part, although being dead like this isn’t so bad; it’s actually pretty great), and you want to learn, figuring there’s no point to having wings if you can’t fly.
And they like your wings, like messing with them and raking fingers through your feathers when you let them out during sex (that’s another thing you haven’t figured out, that’s weird—where the heck do they go when you make them vanish?), which is an enormous turn-on and that turns you into a shuddering vocal puddle of goo, but somehow you keep wondering if it’s a good idea, if it emphasizes and brings up the distance between you, of two years spent as an angel wandering around with no memory whatsoever, if it reminds them—reminds him—of your death.
So it gets to you, sometimes.
Waking up in the middle of the night, sitting up and feeling things attached to your back, shoulders, moving as you do and muscles in tandem and it feels so wrong, like they shouldn’t be there, they should be gone and the only they’re there is because you’re an angel, now (and it’s not like you ever gave much thought to the afterlife even though you were fighting for your life on a regular basis); so you make them disappear. Always. Vanish away into some space inside your back, but that’s only creepier—it doesn’t make sense, but at least you can’t feel them like that.
You can’t keep them hidden away inside forever, but at least they’re out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that how the saying goes? Something like that. You don’t remember.
You have a hard time remembering things, sometimes; your memory’s returned, yes, but you still forget things often. Things like having wings, even though you wear your halo around your neck. It’s become almost—almost—like another piece of jewelry now, another one of those necklaces.
I didn’t want to die… and life’s good—death’s good—right now, but sometimes it just feels like… ‘Hey, Jervin, doofus, you’re dead.’
I never said I was smart, I never said I was good with remembering things or realizing things or feelings or anything—
Soft. Silvery. Attached to your back, spreading out behind you—
So very wrong.