The bathroom light fixed into the ceiling glared down on him, shadowing down on the planes of Yuta's face as he blankly looked at himself in the mirror.

There was no flame in his eyes and no glow to his skin. Nothing left in him that held worth.

Skin stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw, sinking into his face from days of forgotten meals and there were dark circles under his eyes. The eyebags spawned from non-stop thoughts and sleepless nights made the emptiness in his eyes even worse. Yuta vaguely thought that he looked like those men on the streets with nothing to really call their own, but the thought passed as he almost laughed at the irony of the it.

If so, then Yuta looked exactly like them - with nothing to call his own. Not anymore.

He tapped the side of his skull and heard it make a sound and felt the dull throb, deciding then that yes, there really was nothing strong or beautiful left about him. His fingers ran down the side of his face and traced his jawline, feeling the warmth brand into his pale skin and a part of him wished his fingertips could bring forth a storm that would strike his body into nothing.

Yuta let his hand fall and then he turned his attention to the glorious arcs of feather spanning out behind him, looking at how they drooped and could barely fit into the reflection like a cropped picture. They started from in between his shoulder blades before spanning outwards, frame currently folding towards his back.

Wings, soft and faint, but there.

He ran his gaze over the wings that didn't belong on his back anymore and felt something heavy settle in his heart. They shouldn't have showed mercy. Yuta wished they'd ripped the wings out from his back, bloody and all.

Then maybe I wouldn't have to do it myself. Yuta reached out for the blade in the sink and gripped the handle, watching his own distorted reflection stare back at him.

He supposed he should have felt afraid. Afraid of the pain, afraid of what it meant to saw off his own wings. Just. So. Afraid.

But instead his heart still beat steadily and his hands were not shaking. Yuta thinks that this is what it feels like to be resigned. Is this what those who ended their own lives felt before they tipped over the edge of roofs, before they stepped off the chair with a rope around their necks? Is this what they felt before their hands plunged a razor into their wrist?

Yuta moved slowly, as if every movement would crack his body like clay, asking himself if he wanted this like they did.

I think I just wanted, He slowly arched his arm back, carefully guessing where the blade would meet the first socket where his wing met his spine. I think I just wanted to be real.

Yuta tapped the blunt side of the knife against the start of his wings - where the majestic feathered arcs melded into his back.

For a moment Yuta thought that he should pray. And the thought made his lips curl up wryly and he almost laughed, a light wheeze clogging in his throat.

Pray. Yuta thought about what it was like before, when he was great and beautiful and holy.

Pray. He thought about how he fell as large empty eyes stared at his fragile form in the mirror.

Pray. Yuta thought about when he lived with the stars. How lovely a time it was. How they'd all just left him behind and didn't feel anything. How they couldn't want and feel like he could. How he could and how all he felt now was that he was supposed to be biggerbetterbrighter.

Something burned in his chest and Yuta felt it eating up his brain and then running through his nerves, burning them along the way eveywhere, everywhere, all over.

Pray.

"Heaven doesn't mean to me." And then the metal cut into his flesh.

It was harder than Yuta thought it would be.

The blade cut into his skin that stretched across the joint and Yuta gritted his teeth, pain trickling through him. But that was only the first few layers of skin and then his hand started to move in a horrible sawing motion, up down, up down, up down, metal scissoring through his flesh.

He could hear the the metal ribboning the tender skin and feel warm blood run down his spine in rivulets. Teeth bit down on his lips until they were bleeding too.

Up down, up down, up down. (slice)

It was hard to get the right angle, so when Yuta reached the tight muscle and fat, his cuts became a little jagged. So through the pain shooting everywhere, he twisted the blade a little and a whimper choked through his trembling lips.

Metal hit bone and that was when he realised that blood was smeared all over his hands and shoulder, making his knees feel too watery. He felt his grip on the handle slip a little, digging into his a little deeper, and his body threatened to fall. A hand shot out to grab the edge of the sink and Yuta breathed, whimpering as he glanced up at his reflection.

Large watery eyes met their reflection and for a moment the seconds stretched out too far. Every breath was too loud and something roaring was filling the inside of his ears.

His eyes scraped across his reflection and Yuta realised there were tears running and streaking down his thin face, making his vision a little blurry. His other wing, intact and holding on, was red where the blood must have sprayed out in a fine mist when he sawed into his flesh.

Beads of red slid down the white feathers and plinked down to the floor, crimson and bright. And for a moment all Yuta could do was breathe.

"I hate- " The words stuck themselves in his throat and Yuta let out a choked sob, tears flowing so fast he couldn't see. His shoulders trembled, making everything hurt more and Yuta almost screamed. "I hate guh- god!"

Then, before he could regret it, Yuta pushed the tip of the knife into the wing's socket. He tried to slide the blade into the slim, slim gap of bone as cleanly as he could and his body arced at the effort.

But a few times, the blade missed and shot forwards to make shallow cuts on his back or scrape across the bone and oh god-

This time Yuta did scream, a strangled and painful sound ripping from his throat, when he pushed the blade snugly into the socket. It grated across the bone surface, making his tears and cries spill out like all the blood and Yuta couldn't remember when his throat gave out.

Was it when he twisted the blade so hard Yuta could've sworn that it had shattered within his socket?

Or maybe it was when the rounded knob of his wing popped out from the force of the knife, letting the arcing span of feathers crash to the bathroom floor?

It must have happened somewhere then because when the muffled and wet sound of the wing hitting the floor, Yuta remembered that everything had went so quiet.

For a moment, he just stood in the small bathroom and heaved, crying and heaving and just staring at himself.

With only one wing, Yuta couldn't really steady himself well as one side felt too heavy and the other too light so he swayed awkwardly on the spot. Probably the after effect of loss, Yuta figured and forced his shaking hand to let the knife fall into the sink, ignoring how slick his hands felt.

"I'm not- I duh- don't feel holy anymore," The pitiful sob made his chest hiccup and Yuta tried to wipe his tears away but only managed to smear more blood across his face. "I'm nuh- I'm not holy anymuh- anymore!"

Yuta sank to his knees, a hand still grabbing into the sink and a visible shiver ran through his body. The bathroom light above flared pitifully down on him and Yuta had never felt so lonely.

Only one wing and it already hurt so much along the spine.

Yuta let his head hand down, pressed his bloody hands to his face, and cried. Wave after wave of tears seeped in between his fingers and thick wails bounced off the ceramic walls.

With only one wing still connected and folded against his back, Yuta crumpled to the floor and cried.

We all have to do something to survive.