Brief synopsis:

A man is visited by a strange but familiar guest

Anxiety attack

The windows needed cleaning. There was absolutely no doubt in Charles' mind regarding the time when this task was to be accomplished - not the near future. He looked out the window. Her arrival was in no way notable, apart from the fact that an old black carriage, dragged by exhausted horses, with about a month left until their retirement, pulled into the parking lot utterly unnoticed. Lady A. stepped out hastily, didn't look around, and wasn't greeted with open arms. Instead, she rushed down the street, tightly clutching her chape over her chest, fighting November cold. She held her head down, but Charles could tell that her modesty was put on. Her gaze gave her away. Charles couldn't recall how many times he had stared in these very eyes trying to reach the thoughts that let those gazes blossom. She turned to the third house on the street, checked the list of names and rang Charles' bell. He started panickily cleaning the room.

Charles opened the door, as soon as he heard the steps. Lady A. was standing in the doorway. Charles wondered how she managed to squeeze her old but expensive dress through the door downstairs. The small pearls sewn around its waist added grace to her already aristocratic appearance. The black silk chape thrown on her slim shoulders didn't protect her from cold but underlined her strong elegance. She no longer kept her head down, on the contrary, the angle at which she held her chin screamed of her well-bred nature. Lady A. was around twenty years of age with a face of rough features, the harmony of which, rewarded her with an unexpectant beauty. The royal pride flickered off her light posture, that even the tight corset did not seem to hinder. Smiling, she greeted Charles with a little nod.

"Can I come in?" she asked more to induce movements than ask for permission. Charles moved aside gesturing her in. Her voice ringed in his ears flooding his head with memories. She walked around his room for a short while, choosing a place to sit and settling, not without a slight disgust, on his bed.

"Not a castle, huh?" she asked after a moment. Charles nodded.

The uncomfortable silence grew between them as Charles leaned on the table, restlessly stomping his foot. She was certainly no stranger to him. He was expecting her from the moment he moved into this apartment. He tried to keep the thoughts of her stuffed in the back of his mind as a trophy to signify the beginning of what others would call a "New life". She, on the other hand, must have been eager to meet again. Not something easily seen as she was now genuinely interested in an old clock on the wall. Charles felt the cold worry climbing up his spine, his hands becoming soft and boneless to the point where he had to put them behind his back. She gave him a soft but not distressing smile with the corner of her mouth.

"How did you get here?" asked Charles, hoping to distract her from the clock.

"Was not easy, but I managed to ask around."

"I hope it wasn't a bother! I meant to send you an invite at some point," he was terrible at lying.

"I see," she said, finally getting up and approaching the clock, "So Charles, how do you find your new job?"

"I believe it is alright, the tasks are interesting and somewhat easy, the pay is decent, the only setback is having to contact a lot of new people."

"Hmm," she looked suspicious, "You were never good with people."

"I know," he brushed her off, "This is different though. Here the people actually want to talk to me, I am most helpful, I think, I mean, I hope at least."

She could not help laughing under her breath, supposedly at his blabbering. Charles trembled. Now his feet were giving up on him. He climbed the table with great effort and sat swinging his legs. After a short inspection, she opened the glass separating her from the hands of the clock, softly touched the beautifully carved roman numbers and turned to Charles. The second's hand froze, as did the cars outside.

"Tell me, without transparent act of withholding information, do you like your life here?"

Charles opened his mouth to answer when a pulsating pain in his throat made him flinch. He gripped his neck as if she tried to strangle him from the opposite side of the room. Charles jumped off the table trying to catch his breath. She walked over to him and looked directly into his large cartoonish eyes that were a cage for a scream he held back.

"Talk to me already!" she yelled. He tried to turn around bending in half instead. The pain in his stomach was one step away from unbearable. The small white glowing ball appeared right before his face. He tried to grab it, but she flew it around the room. Panting, he crossed the room again and again...and again.

"Talk to me, Charles," she pleaded, yawning like an impatient child caught amidst being lectured.

Charles' trembling body was now exhausted from all the unnecessary walking. Standing straight stopped being an option long ago.

"Alright, A.! I will," said he, in a barely audible voice. She smiled freezing the glowing ball mid-air.

"Honestly, okay?" her voice was melodic and sweet, the one you would use when accepting the long-awaited confession. But Charles offered no love to her. He stood with his head in his hands, face crossed with a forfeit.

"I don't," he mumbled under his nose, "I can't, that is not the job I wanted but the one I could get."

"And?" she asked throwing back the strand of curly hair.

"The only one I deserve."

"Right," she nodded. The glowing ball hit Charles in the head, shattering into million pieces that landed on his face. Charles exhaled and fell on his side. He closed his eyes and sank into the darkness. He didn't feel like moving. She ran her hand through his tangled hair.

"It is alright," she said, "Not the first time."

The phrase gave no relief but was enough for him to get up.

"When was the last time you used a hairbrush?" asked Lady A wiping her oily hand on the rim of her dress, "And shampoo."

"Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded. Lady A. leaned her head sideways. Her posture and face radiated innocence and childish curiosity. It was hard to believe that she nearly choked a man.

The silence hung between them like a rotting corpse of a rebel too opinionated to engage into meaningful relationships. Charles, still trembling, reinforced his legs to stare her straight in the eyes. Lady A. found the ceiling more appealing. Finally, as if just realizing the question, she shrugged, "I don't. You do it to yourself, don't you?"

His shoulders sunk under the weight of realization.

"I do."

"We are not at the altar, Charles, what is all this panic about?" Lady A. smirked. Charles chose not to answer. Or look at her, for this matter.

"Alright, I know you hate my humour. Alright, why do you descend into this state?"

The vomit of words rose to Charles' throat. All those worries, fears, thoughts that he had been avoiding since the move now poisoned his young mind.

"Because I lose," he hissed, "Because I can't. I am anything but good. I am selfish, ignorant, weak. No one can love me, and I cannot love anyone. I shouldn't have moved or changed jobs, but I couldn't have stayed there either. There is so much that I could have done but I didn't because I am lazy."

"Exactly."

Another wave of silence covered the room. Lady A., with the perfect posture and a naïve smile, and Charles, on his knees, desperately trying to protect his shivering body from cold froze in time. Finally, she kneeled and touched his chin.

"Now that the questions are over, shall we continue?"

It was a rhetorical question, really, and Charles knew that perfectly well. Lady A. waved her hand and a white glowing ball reappeared. Charles barely moved. She only heard his heavy half-breaths and the tingling of the white ball, that grew bigger with her every touch. Charles closed his eyes in his last attempt to capture his fear.

"The last time was easier," he whispered.

"It was, but there you had a privilege of hope."

Charles remembered her last visit. It was the week before the move. The arrangements were nearly complete, although the phone wouldn't stop ringing. Agent, moving company, neighbours, friends and seemingly every other person capable of starting the engine of the train of negative thoughts. A. arrived, as usual, in her carriage but didn't hesitate to enter without his permission. She had spare keys. It didn't take her long that day to come to business - just a few minutes of playing with the cat. That day the white glowing ball was the only source of light in the house, due to an unpaid electric bill. It grew larger and larger with every breath he lost, until he saw the stack of papers on the counter - the registration of the apartment, flight tickets, bunch of maps. He didn't exactly squeeze a smile on his face, but the dark thoughts seemed to take a step back. Since then, Charles lived off an anticipation of change. This time was different - there was no promising stack of papers on the counter, just a long shopping list Charles could not afford to complete.

"Should I finish what we started years ago?" Lady A. asked. Just then Charles realized that he couldn't speak. His voice cords must have given up on his constant mumbling and dried off. Defeated, he nodded.

Time dragged. The street was quiet, as was the apartment. Lady A. lost interest in Charles and was now looking through his social media account. Every now and then the room filled with the laughter from the videos that played. Charles sat on the floor leaning on his bed, the glowing ball swirling above his head. From time to time he tensed every muscle in his body. Rarely, bright thoughts popped in his head like hallucinogenic mushrooms in the backyard. But he couldn't voice them anyway. He couldn't ask her to stop or admit that he was wrong.

"You don't have a say anymore," she said as if reading his thoughts. Nothing changed, and it was hard to tell time - the clock was still frozen.

Some minutes or hours later, Lady A. closed the lid of the computer and grabbed the glowing ball. Charles lifted his head from the floor to see what will happen. The shivers down his spine turned into sharp pain around his shoulder blades. He felt the skin stretch and crack. White feathers pocked from his flesh, growing longer and longer. It was not exactly a relieving pain, that you get when pulling a thorn out of the skin. The feathers kept growing until Charles felt a new pair of limbs on his back. Lady A. raised her eyebrows. The white ball, now resting in her hand, flinched towards Charles.

He opened his eyes. What he was supposed to do with a pair of wings, stayed a mystery. The calming warmth filled his veins.

Lady A. continued to nurture the glowing ball gently touching it with the tips of her fingers. There was no way for Charles to speak or to object to what he said several minutes ago, he was too weak. Charles reached out to touch his wings. They were soft and elastic as you would expect plumage to be. He ran his fingers through the feathers. Suddenly, with a sharp movement, he plucked out one of them. He gritted his teeth from pain. The blood dripped from the wound, slowly dying his wing red. He stood in complete silence fiddling with the feather in his hand. A small puddle of blood formed near him.

Lady A. was now studying him with sincere curiosity. It was a dubious scene - a boy on his knees with pale white wings half covered in blood holding his own feather. He dipped the feather into the pool of blood and raised his head.

She stretched her arm towards him. He gently held her hand. Her skin was smooth and warm. In the many years of knowing each other, they have never really touched. What a shame, they might have as well been good friends by now. Or lovers, especially considering his longing for her in the depths of the darkest nights. On her skin, he wrote "Stop, please. I have not given up just yet". His blood dripped off her hand, he was no good in writing with a quill after years of typing quick messages. She touched his chest. The glowing ball slowly disappeared between under his flesh.

"Thank you," he said. Lady A. chuckled making her way towards the door. She took her chape from the counter and turned to Charles.

"Would you mind if I took the quill? I have needed one for a while."

Yeah," he answered.

"Thank you. Maybe I will use it to write you letters," she gave him a bright smile, "It is time for me to go now."

The loud ticking filled the room. She must have fixed the clock.

"Farewell, Charles."

"Bye."

She looked at the quill in her hand.

"Give writing a try, Charles, quills don't appear without a reason."

A. closed the door behind her. Out of the dirty window, Charles saw her hastily crossing the street and climbing into the carriage. He threw his hand back and touched his back - scars. He must have scratched it somewhere.