thefirstfallenarchangel
Michael stood with his back facing the mirror, horror in his eyes as he stared at the things growing from his back. He cursed under his breath (something he never did-- prayers and bible verses slipped from his tongue far more often than swears or insults), moving a trembling arm to try and yank at the feathers.
--Feathers. Of course he couldn't be a regular human being; he had to end up being a mutant.
(What was his father going to say? He'd be thrown out on the street, wouldn't he? He saw it in the newspapers-- disgust dripping from the typed words, spewing hatred towards those that weren't human.)
He grabbed his shirt when he heard someone approaching the door to his room, pulling it on and ignoring the uncomfortable feeling it made against his new wings. His hands were shaking even worse than before, and he knew that he'd have to try and hide this from everyone. He was supposed to be the good son-- good sons didn't grow wings, and they certainly weren't freaks.
"--Lucifer? Is that you?"
