You know I'm not really supposed to say anything...about who I am. It's always been a touchy subject and I guess it's a good thing that my mom forbid me to speak of such events. It would probably be hard for everyone in our settlement to digest anyway.
I've never really thought of talking to someone else about my 'problem', the temptation has never been that great...although, that could have something to do with the fact that no one wants to know. No one has ever asked or even seemed curious about the boy with black, tendril like tattoos covering his body and slate coloured wings, although I'm sure they are.
The people talk about me, they whisper myths and tales about why I am here. They question whether I was born the way I am or whether I was given to the world as a gift. I remember listening in on one of these tales whilst sitting under a table in a local tavern, always a common place for these tales to be told. I was about five years old and my marks were barely noticeable, my wings not nearly as plumed to the greatness they are now, and so I sat there under the table watching the local working men drink beer and smoke tobacco. They would holler old sea shanty's and wolf whistle to the pretty woman at the bar.
After they had done with their drinks and the tavern began to quieten, the men would all huddle around into a circle around the fire place, pipe in their mouths and a beer at hand, the stories would begin. I remember a man with a particularly rough voice and dark eyes, his receding hairline and lack of teeth being two of his main age give aways, despite his attempt at preserving his boyish charm and witty one liners. He had a large gut and strong, hair covered arms. He smelt like raw meet and body odor obviously masked a little by the stench of beer on his breath and when he lifted his pipe to his thin lips I noticed the size of his hands. Like frying Pan's if I remember correctly. He was a butcher...I think.
Too be continued...
