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The Child With Wings

     The heat from the fires radiated from every angle. There was no way out. The young boy I had once adored, and cared for stood a few feet away in nothing but a white cloth, a bow along with some arrows slung over his shoulder. His flawlessness was breathtaking, but knowing he had been the cause for so many deaths frightened me. Him, a boy not younger than seven stood, with a smirk on his face as his dark wings protruded from his back, and towered over me in darkness. Even his own small stature, looked like a twig, compared to the wings he bore.
     How could such a young boy become such a monster? It was supposed to be a gift.






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