• I put my head down against my fluffy, plushy pillow, and fall into chaos. The support of my bed, my cloud, evaporates into nothing as I fall into the night of shadows. Gently, I fall with a sense of awe. A blizzard of little white doves surround me, still in midair, waiting for my touch, for then they are free to dance to the earth as snow. As I reach the ground, I am by a lake, a lake I know too well, my lake of tears. While I walk to this pond of misery, I pass by two cherry trees, one with pink petals, my memories in each frozen petal, suspended in time before I reach out to grasp them, another white with red butterflies, my hopes instilled in those pearly, ivory treasures, and my dreams, flitting in the silence of my mentality. Around my feet lays a layer of undying mist, filled with the questions of my mind, one more curious then the last.
    When I reach the lake, a light sheen of ice shines with the light of the shattered crescent moon above. But when I reach out my hand over the pond, for something unseen, a hand from beneath, fractures the frost and grasps my arm. I shift my eyes and see an entity known only to me. For it is me, inverted, so that his skin is of black tar and his eyes a blank, uncaring white. His arm is that of a claw of that which sears the flesh with his touch, an unforgiving, burning cold. His voice is not a voice, but a raucous, throaty whisper. This I know, but don’t, for what he says, I can not hear. All I can listen to is my shrill, screech of terror as I, no; he pulls me into the lake.
    I brace myself, expecting the chilly shock of water, but instead, I feel the warm rush of air as I fall, not into water, but into a chamber, its bottom which I cannot see. And I scream, and scream, and scream my lungs out, my chest aching with the absence of air. I wish for something, anything to help me, save me, let me fly. And that’s what I get. A shearing pain rips through my back, while I am suddenly suspended, like the momentary stillness you get while swinging, right before you sent propelling backward. But instead, I hear a flapping behind me, while I spin slowly toward the bottom. As I turn around, my eyes widen at the sight of what my wish had granted. One tattered, worn black wing, kept me from falling from an imminent, painful experience. Then, I left myself drop, letting myself listen to the piercing pitch of the rushing air, or to be more precise, me falling. Then I lightly let my knees meet the ground, not my feet, for I am too shaken to stand. I lay there, fearful of nothing, but something.
    That’s when I feel something warm and wet rolling down my face. But when I stare at my palms, I don’t see tears splashing below, but drops of blood, dark, sweet blood. But as they splatter onto the ground, scarlet roses burst from the ground, blooming with desire. Now, I’m trying to fly out of this dark, deserted prison, but my wing refuses to rise. I yelp as I watch each crimson petal falls to the ground and decays to a crinkly black. Soon, these rotten petals are up to my ankles, as I’m desperately trying to soar. As they reach my knees, those fallen thorns are slashing my legs. At waist level, I have given up on that pathetic, black appendage. Now, more then ever, I cry for a savior, a hero, wishing I had never went to the lake, never cried those tears, and never let myself fall. These putrid petals are now at my neck, and I’ve resigned myself to my looming fate. My eyes cannot open anymore, for I’m scared not of the pain, but what I’ll see. My throat now feels a tremendous amount of pressure, and I cannot breathe, and I listen to that tiny, quiet voice saying to me, don’t give up. And so, I reach out, for something, anything, anyone.
    That’s when I feel it. A hand, a grasp, and a pulling force, forcing me out of my silent asylum. I look up and gasp, for I see my friends, each and every one of them. I stare because I’m not the only one with wings. One of them had the wings of a Monarch Butterfly, bright orange and black contrasting each other, while another had the minty green wings of the Luna Moth, delicate yet strong. Yet another friend twirls and circles around me with the wings of a Swift, the tip of her wings gently bending in the wind. And I realize that I am not being carried by one person, but by all. Even the friends with the ladybug wings, dove feathers, and the hawk wings. And then they tell me to let go, to fly. But I tell them that I cannot fly, desperately wanting them to hold on. Turn around, they say trying to hide their laughter. So I do, to find that my tattered crow wing had been replaced with a pair of glossy, metallic raven wings, ready to fly. And with one last tear, I let go, and spread my wings. I smile, for the first time in what seems like ages, because I realize that I, we are never alone. So we fly, out of the lake, past the trees, and toward that one bright light. And as we get closer, I hear us, laughing together as friends. Then all was silent, except for the clear chime of little bells and a question asked by no one, as my vision faded into black. I then pondered this question as I got out of bed.