In this dream I was about thirteen or fourteen years old. I lived with my parents and three older brothers (Dream character's only. I wasn't like my waking self, nor was my family like my real family.)
We lived in a big beautiful house in the hills. The large window in my bedroom overlooked the back garden, just past which was a steep drop into the valley below. It was a beautiful view.
Each member of my family was able to fly. (Superman/peter pan style). It was not an uncommon talent in this dream's world -it was about as common as having red hair. It was usually passed on genetically. Everyone in our family had this ability. Everyone but me.
My parents told me it was ok to be different. They were almost completely able to hide their disappointment. My mother even insisted that flight might still come to me. It was generally known, however, that the flight gene starts manifesting at the age of five or six.
If my family wanted to do any activities that involved flight, I had to be carried by my father. That was ok when I was a child, but I was thirteen now, and no longer wanted to be carried. I stayed behind more and more often.
My brothers were, of course, ruthless about it. They teased me endlessly for my flightlessness. They would hold things just out of my reach, and play keep-away in the air. Sometimes two of them would grab me from behind and fly me out to the steep drop past the garden. Twice they let me fall several meters before catching me again. It was common in my household to hear my mother shout from the window: "Boys! PUT YOUR SISTER DOWN!"
One day, my family and I were out in the back garden. The sun was starting to set and I sat with my parents watching my brothers play air tag. The wind started to pick up, so my mother called us all to go inside. I hadn't been feeling quite right for most of the day. my body ached as it did sometimes before a bad flu.
As I brought up the rear on the way into the house, I was suddenly struck with tremendous pain. It felt like my muscles were ripping apart, especially along my back. I doubled over and fell forward onto my hands and knees. I was screaming and didn't notice my family running back to me, surrounding me with concern.
Slowly, excruciatingly, the muscles along my upper back seared open. Something was extracting itself from my body as my family stared in open-mouthed horror. The twisted thing coming out of my back grew bigger until it was almost the size of my entire body. It slowly unfurled itself.
They were wings. Giant black wings. They were shaped like elongated bat wings, but had giant black feathers like a crow. I fell forward into unconsciousness.
I awoke confused. The pain was still there, but had dulled somewhat. I was lying on my stomach, my back felt torn and bruised. I sat up as well as I could and looked around. It took me several minutes to recognize that I was in the guest bedroom of my house.
The door opened, and my father came in.
"Oh! You're awake! Thank God!" he said.
"Dad...what happened?"
"Everything is going to be ok. We have been on the phone for two days with doctors, specialists, even historians! They told us not to panic. We have the world's foremost authority coming on Tuesday. He will take care of everything."
While he rambled nervously, my thoughts came into sharper focus. Why was I in the guest room? Were those bars on the window? I could see my mom's silhouette in the hallway. She looked like she was crying. Why didn't she come in?
I started to feel sensation in my wings. My dad cut off his rant sharply when I unfolded them. They hurt terribly. Most of all, they itched.
Realization slowly dawned on me as I watched my father's expression mix with fear, worry, disgust, and even hatred as he looked at my wings. I remembered the stories my grandmother used to tell us when we were young children. Stories about the dark children, born to ravens and demons. They flew not in the civilized way, oh no, but by black wings made of beast and brimstone.
Beware the black wings, she'd tell us. Beware the dark children.
"The doctor said he should be able to remove them with only some permanent nerve damage sweetheart." My father didn't' quite meet my eye.
I stared at him. "...Remove? What do you mean? You can't remove them!"
"Of course we will remove them honey. You're not supposed to have wi- those things. The specialist we called is very capable."
"I don't care if he's a wizard dad." I stood up. "You're not cutting off my wings. They hurt, but they also feel...right. I'm supposed to have these. I just need to stretch them. Let me go outside."
I moved for the door. My father scrambled backwards.
"No!" he yelled, panic in his voice. "You don't know what you're saying. Everything will go back to normal after Tuesday. This is for your own good, honey."
He slammed the door. I heard the sound of a very heavy deadbolt being scraped into place.
Over the next few days, I raged against my guestroom imprisonment. I threw the furniture against the door and windows, but to no effect. I screamed at my parents, furious, hysterical, pleading. My wings hurt more each day, but I knew somehow that the pain would go away if I could get them outside into the open air. I felt an extreme sense of claustrophobia and helplessness.
On the third evening of being in that room, a storm started outside. I watched as the wind grew stronger and the rain began to pound on the roof harder than I'd ever heard. I knew it was a hurricane. They were rare in this part of the country, but my parents had told us when we were children to go down to the basement if anything like this happened.
I waited to see if they would come for me, to take me with them to the shelter of the basement. They didn't come. They knew as well as I did that if they opened that door, I would be free of them.
I was startled suddenly by something hitting the window of my room. The glass shattered and part of the windowsill had broken off and had been swept away into the raging storm. Was that space large enough for me to fit through? My excruciating, itchy restlessness became altogether unbearable at that moment. I threw myself at the opening as rain hammered into the room through bars and broken glass.
It took a lifetime to get my body and my wings through that space. My new wings scraped painfully on the bars and splintered wood and I screamed more than once in frustration and pain.
Then suddenly I was free. I soared . All my pain left me, and I knew this was why I was alive. I had been an incomplete person before this moment.
Then the storm took me and blew me across the world.
I woke up saying that last sentence aloud. It took me a while to remember the dream and why I was saying out loud that I was blown across the world. As usual it look almost 24 hours to remember the details.
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