Come Morning

June 20th, 1994. 10:37pm

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. But then again, there weren’t always sirens in the polluted harbor, or fairies dwelling in heart-rotted trees. No one had actually seen one of these save the Full Blown, too strung out on anything and everything to tell the difference between reality and not. Mumbling beneath their breath at a timid passerby about how they’d seen one of the dragons. Sharp fangs, harsh, crystal eyes. Melted into the shadows where it’d been hiding all along. Only a Full Blown would believe in ancient nonsense like that. And though Angel knew that, he told the detectives anyway. Dragons took his foster family’s life. But spared him.

The air in the interrogation room turned hot. A tight jacket around his shoulders that blistered his skin. He bit his lip and picked at the insect doodles along his arms as far as the handcuffs would allow. Their cool metal clanked on his wrist bones, an indication that it wasn’t a dream. Blood residue caked beneath his short nails. Mixed with dead skin cells and prescribed rash ointments. Quit scratching. You’ll make it worse. Were his foster mother’s last words to him. She was the one who rubbed the ointment on his back every night. Still, the itching was unbearable. Even in the chair and even after all that happened, he couldn’t get over the nagging sensation along his shoulder blades. He wiggled in his seat, pressing his back against the chair to relieve the itch. But it didn't work. It made it worse. Much worse. He tried again despite it. Focused on rubbing his back against the chair instead of the reason he was there in the first place. Barefoot and still in his pajamas. Too shocked to blink or breathe in a natural rhythm. The blood on the bottom of his pants almost dried. He didn’t move for a while after the dragons had left. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Something in their eyes petrified him. How they were void of anything good, yet full of unbound passion at the same time.

June 20th, 1994. 11:41pm

“Angel. Look at me.” Bakers’ voice softened. He reached his hand across the table and touched Angel’s hand a split second before he recoiled. Bakers, a young, springy type who’d been made detective the previous year, sauntered in. He kept his eyeglasses on his head, pushing his blond hair back. On the Angel’s other side, was his seasoned partner, Wallace, who lost his youthful jubilance decades prior.

“This is very serious. I need you to tell us exactly what happened. Start from the beginning.”

“But,” Angel croaked, “I told you already–”

“I need you to tell us the truth.”

Angel tucked his dirty fingers under his palms. His eyes, lashes damp from his tears and sweat, lowered to the table. He winced, but resisted the urge to rub his back against the chair again. The rash felt tougher than it had when it first came not even a few weeks ago.

“It was the truth.”

Wallace leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He narrowed his gaze on him, focused and absolute.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fifteen.” Angel's voice was weak and wavered under the pressure of his constricting throat.

“So, you’re old enough to know the difference between reality and make believe. Am I wrong?”

Angel parted his lips to speak, but didn’t. He shifted in his seat, pressing his back against the chair to scratch. It was no longer irritating. Now, it was painful. A piercing pain that pushed through the top layers of his skin.

“You told us that dragons came into your house and murdered your entire family. Everyone. Your parents. Your little sisters. Everyone. Except you,” Bakers said.

“Foster family,” Wallace added, “they hadn’t adopted you, right?”

Angel shook his head. He mumbled something under his breath and Wallace leaned in without leaving his spot on the wall.

“What was that?”

“They were gonna.”

“Are you sure?”

Angel glared at him. Specks of gold in his eyes caught the light and glittered as rays in the moonlight.

“You keep saying it was dragons. But we all know that isn’t true, is it?” Bakers asked.

“But, they were. I mean. Kinda.”

Wallace approached him slowly. Uncrossing his arms, he circled around him and peered over his shoulder.

“Which one is it?”

“They were–I mean–they were dragons but they were people too.” Wallace caught Bakers’ eye and smirked. “They had human faces but, but these claws and these wings, and–”

“Did they breathe fire too?” Wallace sat in the chair beside him. “You understand how this sounds, don’t you?”

“Stop fidgeting,” Bakers demanded. All softness in his voice before was gone. Angel froze. His back pushed against the chair. Afraid to move. He closed his eyes. In the darkness, shards of light crept through. Bits of color from the haunting eyes that stared back at him, hovering over his bed with wings spread majestically behind them.

June 20th, 1994. 11:59pm

“Angel. You’re not making this any easier for us. We need your cooperation.”

His stomach grumbled. The last time he’d eaten was five hours earlier. The stomachache temporarily distracted him from the rash on his back, which itched and burned more with every passing second. He needed to scratch. He needed to yank his shirt off and scratch until his skin peeled off. You’ll make it worse.

“I-I need to use the bathroom,” he stammered out.

“We need you to start telling us the truth.”

“Please,” Angel begged, “I really need to, please.”

“The sooner you start telling us what really happened, the sooner we can let you go.”

“But I already told you!” he yelled. Forcing back tears of anger which inevitably fell over the rims of his eyes. Then, he inhaled sharply. The air in his lungs sucked out through an invisible vacuum. A slow trickle of sweat glided down his back and pooled at the elastic band at the top of his pajama pants.

Bakers glanced at Wallace, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Angel since he sat down beside him.

“I’ll–I’ll tell you everything, okay? I’ll tell you the truth. Really. Just, please let me go.”

Wallace cracked his pinky knuckle and rubbed it with the rest of his fingers. His wedding band scraped against his calloused palm. Angel winced. Another sharp, sudden pain left a lingering trail of sweat down his spine. He didn't want to look, but he wanted to touch it. The way one wanted to rub their tongue against a hollow space where a tooth was.

Wallace nodded at Bakers. Standing before Angel did, he lifted him up by the arm and ushered him forward. The back of his shirt stuck to his skin. Sweat stained made the dried blood appear wet and fresh.

The bathroom was lightyears away. And Bakers didn’t shuffle him fast enough. Once they reached it and after Bakers pushed him through the solid door, he rushed to the mirror. Alone, in his own quiet, he cried. Shaking, snot ran down his nose, onto his chin before he wiped it away with his cuffed hands. With his back to the mirror, he peeked over his shoulder at the growing dark stains along the outline of his shoulders. The itch was gone. But replaced with throbbing, splitting, pain.

June 21st, 1994. 12:00am

He swallowed hard. Slowly, he yanked on his shirt, pulling as much as his limited movement would allow him. He stopped. The sweat down his back wasn’t sweat at all. Strips of blood smeared all over his brown skin. He shut his eyes as he lifted his shirt higher. Afraid to look. Afraid to see how far the rash had gone. You’ll make it worse. You’ll make it worse. You’ll make it worse. When most of his back was exposed and bare to the flickering lights above him, he peeked through his eyelids. Then, his eyes widened and never shut again.

Along the edge of his shoulder blades, through the red rash all over the tops of them, deeper, harsher the closer to the bone, where pieces protruded. What he thought were his shoulder bones. But were in fact, what looked like, the beginnings of something else. The painful, humble beginnings of dragon wings.

Bakers banged on the door.

“Come on in there!”

Angel jumped, dropped his shirt over his back again. His breath shook and caught in his throat. He inched away from the door, dragging his dirty feet on the bathroom floor.