The Winged Man (Part 1)

It was there, right there, on the page in front of his eyes. He strained to see in the dim light of his night torch. He crawled, book in hand. He crept closer to the window and drew the curtains. The moonlight might help him see better. He was not yet 13 years old, but he lived a hundred lives, all at that time of the night, by the light of the battery- torch. He had climbed walls, pinned down villains with his bare hands, cracked their skull with one blow, made them confess, made them repent… he had saved the day, saved the world… all by the light of that torch, he had romanced pretty blondes, broken their hearts even, all for a superior cause, a cause that was his obsession, a cause that was his all. He had done this, without moving any further than the distance between his bed and the window close by. He had done it again and again, in his head, in his soul and through what he saw on those pages. He had a copy of every single edition ever published. His personal savior ‘The Winged Man’ had won again. He was right now on the terrace of a sky scraper, his cloak flying in the moon-lit breeze, holding his enemy by the neck. His enemy was the enemy of the world. The Winger Man was doing his duty.

John had been in this relationship with The Winged Man for about a year now. Since it started, it took over his life bit by bit. First it was the waiting for every new edition, the impatience, the longing, then it became compulsive, once he got the new edition he would read till it was over, on the bus to school, in the bath, in class, in place of his home work, even while he was playing rugby. He would just be reading. Once he had read it through, he would keep thinking about it, live and re-live it in his mind. It was like a song playing in his head. Then he would dream about it, while he was sleeping and while he was not. He would add to what he had read, fill in the gaps, with his own imagination. He would make explanations for the past and predict the future.

It was that face, always in his eyes, the masked face. No one had seen The Winged Man without the mask but the boy had. For we are not born with a mask on our faces. We make one along the way. To hide the pain, the embarrassment, the insecurities. To unlock the power within, the naked animal power, the power for cruelty.

Right now, by the window, he read again, what he had read a hundred times before, on that same page. He ran his palm along the page. The feel of coarse paper sent a tingle down his back. The put his head down, the smell of print went through his nostrils to the bowels of his being. The Winged Man would never fail. He was born to win.