I screamed in agony as giant white wings exploded from my back.  They were big enough to cover my whole queen-sized bed in a soft, feathery blanket.  I tugged at one of the feathers, wincing as pain shot through my back, jerking tears to my eyes.  I barely heard when my mother shouted, “Kailie, are you okay?” from the kitchen.  I closed my eyes and counted to three.  1… 2… 3… “And OPEN!” I whispered, my eyes whipping open lightning fast.  The wings were still there.  Maybe, if I counted to ten, my mind would finally drag me out of this nightmare world where wings erupted from ordinary teenagers’ backs.  How do you know you are ordinary?  whispered that nagging little voice in the back of my head.  Counting wouldn’t work.  It would never work.  Only then did a sudden realisation sink in.  I couldn’t be dreaming, because if it were a dream, I wouldn’t have experienced such extreme pain.  It was real.  I had wings.  I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection in my bedside mirror.  I was an angel.  A seraphim.

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