She only smiled sweetly down at her little boy and threaded her fingers through his curly dark brown hair. “No, sweetheart, you’re not going to be flushed down the toilet.”

“Then why’s this happening?”

“Because, my little angel, you’re special.”

That was the first real, solid memory Blaine had of his mother.

He was five years old when his wings had begun to manifest, protruding from his back, featherless and awkward. He hurt. His back felt like it was being ripped open and he thought he was dying just like his goldfish. His mother did all she could for him, knowing instantly what was happening, and stayed in bed with him through the entire ordeal, humming soothing songs and holding him when he cried.

She explained to him as best as she knew how that some people in the world were gifted, special, just like Blaine. These special people could do things, they had abilities, that average humans couldn’t do and didn’t have. Some people could read minds, others could start fires out of thin air. The gift varied for each special person and one day Blaine would find out what his gift was.

When Blaine asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, why those things grew from his back, she simply replied that those “things” were wings and one day they would grow feathers and be beautiful. Only special people, like Blaine, had wings.

“Do you and Daddy have wings?” He looked up at her, his wide hazel eyes focusing on his mother with such curiosity that for a moment he forgot his problem.

“No, sweetheart, we don’t. Sometimes it skips a generation.” Or several. But that was something a five year old wasn’t ready to understand, so she just hugged him tight, kissing the top of his curls, and let him snuggle against her while he drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

It took a month for Blaine’s feathers to grow in — soft, beautiful brown feathers that his mother said looked like hawk’s wings — and by that time he was sure he hated his wings. They were always in the way and difficult to get used to, and he never liked going outside anymore because people (mostly other little kids) would whisper to each other and point. Of course, he would always hold tightly to his mother’s hand, stick his tongue out and tell them in no uncertain terms that it was rude to point.

His mother seemed to pay no mind to what everyone else thought of her son. She tried to tell him they stared because he was special and they were not, but when it came time to enroll him in elementary school and he cried because everyone would stare at him and laugh, she didn’t have the heart to go through with it. In the end, she decided it would be best to homeschool him.

It wasn’t long into his homeschool year that he figured out he could do something important. Because he disliked his wings so much and they were, in his five year old mind, the bane of his existence, he made a game of trying to wish away his little brown wings. He would stand in front of his full sized mirror without his t-shirt on and stare at them, scrunching his face in harsh concentration. I wish my wings would go away. I wish my wings would go away, he thought over and over.

Then one day, it worked. One second his wings were there, obvious as ever, and the next they had disappeared. His smile could have lit up the whole world. He jumped up and down, clapping, excited that it actually worked and immediately ran to find find his mother to show her what he made happen.

“I did it, Mommy! I did it!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the corner of the rug in the foyer was curled up just enough that his foot caught it and he tripped, falling to the floor, stunned. A flash of brown flickered in his periphery and he turned his head to see that his wings were back. He sulked for the rest of the day.

He didn’t give up, however, and every day after his lessons he would practice wishing his wings away. And every day he got better and better at it until it became as natural as blinking. He eventually noticed that when he wished his wings away, they didn’t really go anywhere. Instead, they just took another form as thin lines — wing-shaped and slightly darker than his skin tone — down his back.

He spent a lot of his time after that with his wings hidden from sight, only unfurling them when he went to sleep. Finally he enjoyed going outside again.

When he was eight Blaine was sent to Dalton Academy, a boarding school for winged children and teens just like him. Both his parents had driven him to Westerville and got him settled in his dorm. Mr. Anderson hugged him lightly and ruffled his hair before waiting out in the hall while his wife and son said their goodbyes. Blaine clung to his mother like a barnacle while she sniffled and whispered how much she loved him and told him to never forget how special he was. Then she left and Blaine was stuck unpacking his suitcase and hanging up his new school uniforms.

An hour later he met his roommate, a friendly boy, Jeff Sterling, who was talkative and happy, and had yellow wings like a canary. Blaine was a little reserved, at first, but with a little coaxing they hit it off nicely and Blaine had a new best friend. Maybe Dalton wouldn’t be so bad.

At age eleven Blaine got his first glimpse at what his power would be. He was outside, playing hide and seek with Jeff and a few other boys, Nick, David, and Wes. He had found a hiding place in some bushes by the treeline and grinned as David ran around looking for everyone.

After a few minutes, and no chance of his friend finding him yet, Blaine heard a crying noise not far into the trees. He’d never heard a sound like that before; it sounded awful. Painful even. But despite any misgivings he felt about that sound, he was curious what it could be and he left his hiding spot in search of the noise. He came across a small patch of grass and leaves near a brushy area, where the crying was loudest and knelt down to find a fuzzy cottontail rabbit hurt and bleeding, and clearly dying.

Stricken with sadness over such a sight, Blaine reached out to touch it, but stopped when it was apparent the poor thing was panicking. He wanted so badly to help it. It was hurt and all Blaine wanted was to make the pain go away. Scooting closer, he reached out again, the rabbit breathing fast and shivering, and pet its fur gently, trying to soothe the animal. It wasn’t really working. The rabbit just seemed more uneasy.

“I wish I could make you get better,” he whispered, to the creature. He wished it with all his might just like he did when he tried to hide his wings all those years ago. And suddenly, it seemed like the universe listened. Blaine felt a heat in his hand and somehow it felt like it was flowing all the way through him and to the rabbit. He closed his eyes and bit his lip against the feeling, and then all at once there was a white light behind his eyelids.

The next thing he knew, he woke up in the clinic and it was two days later.

He had told the teachers what had happened between him and the rabbit, and it became clear to them that Blaine was a healer. He had just used too much energy healing the animal’s injuries and, as a result, knocked himself out from the lack of it. He would soon learn to control how much energy he used and his fatigue would lessen over time.

Only it never did.

Four years later and Blaine still could not control the amount of energy he put into healing an injury, be it a simple paper cut or a broken leg.

“Blaine, think of your gift like an infinite ball of yarn,” Dr. Romano said, as she stood behind him in the clinic. He was getting ready to heal a scrape on a boy’s knee. “For this type of injury, you only need a tiny thread of it to knit the skin back together and make it as good as new.”

His brow furrowed in concentration as he placed a hand on the kid’s knee. That familiar warmth gathered and he thought, repeatedly, Just one tiny thread, that’s all I need. Just a tiny thread.
The warmth increased and he watched as his hand glowed with a golden light. It gathered in intensity until it flashed brightly and Blaine’s sight went dark as he collapsed.

He was out cold. Again.

When he came to, it was evening and he was laying on one of the clinic cots. Dr. Romano wasn’t in the room, but he could hear her clearly from her office. “Yes, I know, Headmaster, but no matter how I try to teach him to use less of his energy, it seems to make no difference. He still overdoes it. He’s still at a beginner’s level when he should be upper intermediate.” Pause. “Well, yes, of course I’ll continue trying, but at this rate I’m afraid he’ll never learn to control his power.”

She continued talking on the phone with the headmaster for ten more minutes, but Blaine had tuned her out by then. He was too busy grinding his teeth and being angry at himself for not being able to properly heal even a minor injury. Sure, he’d healed the scratch, but too much energy leaked out, just like always, and as a result his body needed to compensate. Hence his constant unconsciousness when he practiced with the doctor.

But damnit he would get it right. He could do this, he knew he could. It was just like hiding his wings, he just needed to do it enough and eventually it would work. He was sure of it. Someday soon, he would finally be able to control the amount of energy he used and he would prove that he wasn’t just a beginner level healer.