“Wings”
	Writen by Kelly Clark



I wake to the sound of a train passing nearby, to find myself sitting 
upright in bed. I’m panting. Another dream. Did the train really wake me, or 
was it just an excuse for my psyche to tear me from that hellish nightmare? 
Guess I’ll never know.
My cheeks feel moist… sticky. I reach a tentative hand to trace my 
jaw-line. Something wet touches my fingertips. Water? No… tears. I run my 
tongue over my upper lip. Stubble scratches the tip of my tongue. It tastes salty.
How many days has it been since I’ve shaved? Four? At least.
I look at the clock resting on the nightstand. The dim red LCD face 
reads three-forty-two. I wonder why I even have an alarm clock anymore, since 
I have no use to wake anymore… not since… Lying on the nightstand is a plain 
wooden frame. Face down. I reach for it with a shaky, hesitant hand.
The deep mahogany of the frame looks blueish-grey in the pale light of the city 
that’s filtering in through the window. Off-white venetian blinds used to block 
that light… now they lay on the floor, torn, mutilated.
My eyes focus on the picture. A girl standing next to a much different 
me. At least I think it’s me… it’s hard for me to even compare us these days.
My fingers stroke the girl’s face, almost feeling the warmth of her skin again. 
She’s beautiful… her long auburn hair hangs around her shoulders like a 
mantle a slightly curled lock covering the side of her beautiful hazel eyes. The 
picture was taken just two days before she…
I barely notice how badly I’m trembling. The frame falls from my 
hands onto the nightstand, the glass splintering and cracking as it hits. I shriek 
and reach for it fiercely, the glass shredding the skin of my hands as I clutch it. 
Blood runs down my forearms in slow, steady steams. I don’t notice though, all 
that matters is her. Frantically, I check the picture.
She’s all right… the glass didn’t touch her. Relief spreads its welcome 
warmth through me and I clutch the picture to my bare chest, cold tears 
dripping onto my hands.
I don’t make a noise as the glass cuts the flesh on my chest. 
Carefully, like a mother holding borne child, I set the frame on the 
stand, my other hand unthinkingly picking at the shards of glass in my skin. 
Smiling through tears, I lay down, eyes locked on hers, and after a time manage 
to cry myself back to sleep, the once white sheets slowly being dyed scarlet.

*	*	*

	Her name is… was Carolyn. She was, and always will be the greatest 
thing that to happen to me. I believe in my heart that my entire pitiful life until 
then had been just a preparation for meeting her. Nothing else mattered. 
Nothing.
She was my angel, my divine intervention on the street outside of the old 
Pawtucket Deli.
We had met as two dates of opposite people on a double. Needless to 
say, it didn’t take, and by the next date, it was just the two of us. That was two 
years ago December.
It’s January now. Carolyn’s dead. 
In a way, so am I. She died three weeks ago. Drunk Driver. She was 
waiting at a bus stop. If I hadn’t been working the late shift, I would have 
picked her up instead.
Why was I working late? Heh. Under her picture is a drawer. Inside 
it… is a small box. I’ll let you take it from there. I was going to give it to her 
on New Year’s Eve. Big Millenium thing, you know.
The bastard that killed her… he survived without much of a scratch. 
He’s in court tomorrow, as a mater of fact. Manslaughter charges. I’ve heard 
he’s a big name on Wall Street. Alcohol is good stress relief I guess.
I hope he burns in hell.

		*	*	*	

Something is ringing. 
An almost forgotten part of me quickly asks myself if I’ve overslept, 
and if that’s work on the phone. I then remember that work hasn’t bothered 
trying to call in to weeks. The only people that call anymore are telemarketers 
and my family. Thank God for answering machines.
The message plays out and the caller starts to speak. Well then, I 
guess it’s not a telemarketer. The phone is in the kitchen, so I can only hear a 
garbled voice in the distance. With a hoarse sigh, I roll over in an attempt to 
return to my last solace. Pain dully throbs in my chest.  The cuts…
Whether I want to be now or not, I’m awake. I could cry. Heh… 
starting a few minutes earlier than my schedule normally allows wouldn’t hurt 
much. I pull myself to a sitting position and look down at my chest. 
I almost wince.
The blood matted my chest hair down, turning the dark blonde to near 
black. A thin trickle of blood runs down my side. It tickles.
One of the larger cuts didn’t clot. With a front, I pull myself 
to my feet. My legs are shaky. I haven’t left the bed in what… two 
days? Three?
I walk to the living room. Carolyn’s picture is in my hand. I 
don’t go anywhere without it anymore. Ever.
The living room is bright. I must have forgot to close the 
curtains, silly me. I close my eyes and the kitchen tile is under my 
feet. The smooth, icy cold feel makes me open my eyes.
I set Carolyn down on the counter and run the sink’s cold 
tap. Reaching across the counter, I grab a few paper towels and soak 
them under the running water.
The answering machine’s light blinks a dull, constant red in 
the corner of my eye. Not thinking much of it, I press the play button. 
One message.
I gently clean the wounds on my chest. The sting, but I 
don’t wince. I’m on autopilot though, so I don’t do much of 
anything.
My brother’s voice comes over the speaker. 
Correction…her brother. The tone snaps me back to attention 
slightly.
“Hey Jer… it’s Patrick. I’m outside the court room.” A 
heartbeat. “He got off. I don’t know what to tell you…” he was 
crying now, “But we’re not going to let that fuck get away with it! 
We’ll file an appeal… pickup the phone, please? …Jeremy? I know 
you’re home…” he sighed. “Call me when you get this.” The sound 
of the receiver hanging up, then silence.
Appeal? …What a laugh. He had gotten away. They would 
never get him now. I could feel myself sobbing, but it was hazy, like 
a dream.
I dropped to my knees, my eyes searching upward. They 
caught on her photo.
Once, I had been told that when it was your time to die, God 
gave you wings to fly to his side. I wonder if Carolyn was flying 
right now… I choked on my tears. “Carolyn… Oh God.” I managed, 
it coming out as a hoarse whisper.
Forcing myself to look upwards, blinded by my tears, I 
pleaded, “Please…please just let me die, God.”
But there was no response. There never was.
Pulling myself to my feet with forced determination, I 
pulled open one of the drawers. My hand fumbled around nervelessly 
inside until my fingers wrapped around a familiar handle. I pulled my 
hand from the drawer, a small, serrated butcher’s knife in it. With the 
back of my hand I pushed the drawer closed. Tidy tidy, spick and 
span.
Looking down at Carolyn’s picture, I could almost see her 
flying among the clouds.
I pressed the knife to my wrist and smiled.
If God wouldn’t take me to her, I would give myself wings 
to fly to her side.
I drew the knife across my wrist.
And waited to soar through the heavens with my love.