August 11th, 1984

Dear Helena, 

I’m writing to you because I met you in the cemetery, and you said you’d listen to me. You said you’d never seen a boy with wings before, and you said you didn’t care that I was bleeding out of my knee. I don’t know if it’s weird that I remember that entire conversation, but I know that every time I close my eyes I see the flames of your auburn hair. Again, I don’t know if this makes me weird, but I hope it doesn’t.

Because I remember how confused you seemed, I realize that I failed to properly introduce myself. Hello, my name is Ala. I’m writing to you because I need someone to hear my cries of anguish, and to hopefully allow someone out there to understand the misery I feel every day. 

To put it simply, I’ve been in the same hospital for four years. It’s not a normal hospital, I know that for a fact, but I don’t quite know how it’s different because I’ve never been to a normal hospital. I really do hope that normal hospitals are better. To put it simply, at the hospital that I go to, we’re experimented on. Chemicals are put into our backs, and we grow wings. Well, not all of us grow wings. My best friend is a spider. 

A few months ago, back when I was eleven, my Mother and I attempted to escape. Because I was transported via van from my house to the hospital, it was the first time I had seen the outside in years. It was nighttime. Around, say, 2 A.M., maybe? Yeah, 2 A.M. sounds right. And we were running. In my arms, was my baby sister, gasping for air. 

An experiment had gone wrong, leaving her at the cusp of death. Now, experiments failing was nothing new, most of my siblings were dead, but what was virtually unheard of was experiments escaping. There had been rumors, every couple of years, among me and my peers that so-and-so escaped. Just last year, “Brutus” told me all about how he heard that Poseidon, the guy who got assassinated a couple years ago, escaped and it took them that long to track him down. I don’t know how true that is, especially because he was thirty nine years old and the vice president. I think they would’ve found him sooner. But that’s just me. 

While we were running, I thought about how I could be a superhero when I escaped. I mean, my wings were getting bigger every day! In just a couple of years, I’ll be sixteen. I thought about joining the Olympians, trying to find out which god I could play as. Maybe I could be Icarus… or Apollo? The possibilities were boundless. I reached for the sky above the barbed wire fence, my wings flapping in the night sky. My Mother looked up at me, with awe. I knew that I’d come back for her someday. And in that moment, when the entire world felt possible- I came tumbling down. My exposed arms fell down against the dirt, scuffing them. 

The guards that were chasing us down like hounds caught up to us, and in a matter of minutes me and my siblings were back in the dormitory. The same moldy, old, dreary dormitory. A dorm with colors so dull, and barren you can walk in and pretend you’re color blind if it wasn’t for the poser of “Zeus, Lord of the Sky,” hung up next to my bunk.

 The baby I was holding was torn from my hands, and I’m not sure I ever saw her again. Most of the youngers one cried. The second oldest, Angelo, sat next to me. He looked a lot more like our Mom. His eyes were that green-blue color Momma had, while I had my Father’s brown. His hair was straighter, and parted better, while my curly hair was all over the place. 

“Ala?” He asked. 

I nodded. 

“What’s gonna happen to us?” He asked. 

I didn’t quite have an answer to that question. And Angelo knew better than to expect one out of me. So we sat in silence for a moment that felt like hours, before the door swung open. 

Immediately, my brothers and sisters (some were crying, some were trying to sleep) all sat to attention, and froze. Just like they’d been trained to do. Angelo had a little bit of a harder time staying still, and I… couldn’t. I learned pretty quickly that I didn’t have to do all that I was told. I guarantee that if I was like my brothers and sisters, you would not be reading this letter. 

My Father walked in. I could tell he was drunk, not because he couldn’t walk a straight line. Strangely, when my Father was drunk, he could walk perfectly fine. It was his arms. When he was sober, my Father’s shoulders were always broad. Like he was propping himself up. But when the booze got to him, his shoulders were slumped. In a way, he seemed more relaxed. My Mother came in, crying. 

My Father had many inconsistencies, that much I’ll say. Every dinner, or at least every other dinner, he’d claim he was trying. Liquor overflowing from his bottle, he’d beg for me, as well as my Mother, to forgive him for all of his mistakes. The next morning, he’d find all of our stolen books and, blind with rage, he’d tear them into shreds and pin it all on our Mother. This having gone on for four years, he’s gotten a bit predictable. 

This particular night, he noticed I hadn’t responded to his presence. My Mother took a seat on one of the beds, while my Father walked up towards me. The bottle was still in his hands, and his glazed eyes went in opposite directions, “Ala- Ala…” he asked, slurring his words, “Can I ask you a question, Ala?” 

I gritted my teeth, as I had learned to do. I knew he hated it, andI was never going to let him win.

He blinked. 

“Ala?” He asked again, his words still slurred. 

“What do you want?” I asked, putting as much venom in my voice as I could. But clearly, I hadn’t laced it in tight enough, because he laid down between me and Angelo. Angelo tried his hardest to remain still, and at attention, but he was shivering so much that he was shaking the bed. 

“I just wanna know- I just wanna know one thing, Ala… Ala… I just wanna know one thing, Ala. Why? Why did you run away?” 

Was he crying? I couldn’t quite tell. 

“I- I never… I never hurt you!” 

He was definitely crying. 

“Ala… Ala, when did I hurt you?” 

Of course, I had an answer. He had hurt me, my brothers, my sisters… my Mother, every day. I mean… the man was a scientist! He was supposed to be a hero, he was supposed to be someone brave. When I was growing up (homeschooled, of course) I looked up to scientists. It disgusted me to even be related to him. I was even more disgusted to look like him. But I could never, ever tell him that. He got off the bed, tripping over his own feet and tumbling forward before awkwardly spinning around and gripping my shoulders so tightly that they bled. He held my face so close to his that I was forced to stare beyond his aviator glasses, and meet his rageful eyes. 

“Look me in the $%^@ing eye, Ala… Have I ever hurt you?” 

You know that gut feeling you get? When nothing bad is happening, but you know something’s about to? That was me the week before my Mother died. I remember the last conversation we had, it was that same night we tried to run away. A bit after, of course. And what made me mad, more than anything, was that the last thing she ever told me was in his defense. Saying about how maybe he’s not a bad guy… and that he just didn’t want to be alone again. 

When Angelo caught the news, and spread it among us brothers, some of us cried. Most of us were silent. I just stared. I laid down for what felt like days, and in those days I didn’t speak. I didn’t eat. I had to force myself to breathe. The one person who took care of me, who cared about me was just… gone. Just like that. And in her wake was a whole in my heart. 

But something didn’t add up. She would never- she would never leave me like that. No! That wasn’t possible. 

I think you know where this story goes from here, but it’s late, and I’m getting tired, so I’m going to go bed. 

Love always, 

Ala

August 14th, 1984

Dear Helena, 

I wanted to talk a little bit more about our conversation, at the cemetery. That one time we hung out, you know? When we were there, you asked me how my Mother died, and I’m sure she was murdered. I’m absolutely positive of it. And the reason you saw me in that funny little outfit, was because I was trying to look like a superhero. 

I like superheroes. I think you know that, though. When my Mother died, I think I could’ve used a superhero. I would often dream of that night me and my Mother and my brothers and my sisters tried to run away, and I imagine how different it would’ve been if Zeus swooped down and picked me up. If all of the Olympians were to pick us up and send us flying away and into the clouds! 

When you see these letters, I want to know. What is America like? What is it like to live among those heroes? I HAVE to know, dear Helena! I’m sorry, I’m rambling. 

I’ve had a very long week. 

I had managed to sneak out yesterday, while my Father was at church. I ran around the forests like I was Artemis, and I searched for finger prints like I was Hades. While I was rooting through the forests, I spotted  bird. It was small, and delicate, like my brother. I followed it around, and noticed… blood! It was sick. 

I chased after it, but it hopped and hopped around. I was so close to catching it… it was in my grasp! Truly, if I wanted to, I could scoop the little boy up. But I didn’t. I kept following him, further and further into the forest. 

A kilometer in, the bird vanished. I was, in that moment, confused. I searched around, a bit… what’s the word? Dazed. Yes, I suppose I was dazed. Yet soon after came a moment where things all fell into place. I stepped forward, where the bird once stood, and the leaves and such beneath me collapsed over. And I was in a well. 

It was soggy. And my leg was broken. I was able to nurse myself back to health- miraculously. But what was more miraculous? My bird was there. While I laid in agony, he leaped up on me. We were both bleeding, and we both had little golden bits on our head, and we both had wings that we didn’t ask God for. 

So I named him Oro. It means gold. 

Me and Oro stayed down there for… I’m not sure how long, actually? But I just got out of the shower. I just washed all the mud and blood off. I have all my towels wrapped around me, and if I don’t write for a while it’s because my Dad’s mad at me. 

August 23rd, 1984

Ala Capulo wishes Helena Borkshovaski a happy birthday. 

Dear Helena,

Happy birthday!! I don’t think I’ll be able to write for a while, but I was able to sneak out my pen and paper. I finally got your letters… I’m so happy to see you write back! 

Despite not being able to do much writing, I’ve been doing really well. No one’s at the hospital died in the last week. I still haven’t learned to fly yet… but I did learn how to punch! That’s right, I’ve been working out. A lot. It’s so much fun. 

But enough /about me! I want this to be a very special day for you! Next time you write to me, write to me about your friends. And your family. They seemed very nice that one day. I would send you a gift in the mail, alongside this letter, but I don’t have much to give. I did hold onto the book you gave me. It’s very good. I relate to the main character a lot, because I, too, am very angry. I’m not sure why, but part of it is sure that it’s because I’m not normal. Maybe it’s because I’m Italian. 

I found a little chest, it’s an antique. There’s little pirates carved into the metal bits, and I think it used to be my Mother’s. I’m putting the book in there, and if you send me any more… then I’ll put them in their too!! For now, it’s a good spot for Catcher In The Rye and only Catcher In The Rye. 

Good night, dear! 

Love, 

Ala

August 28th, 1984

Ala Borkshovaski describes life at the hospital. 

Dear Helena,

I’m still trying to find out what happened to my Mother. Most of my brothers have told me that it’s a lost cause, that she probably just offed herself. But what do they know? They didn’t know her like I did. 

Children… well, other children, not you, are so cruel to me. There’s this one child here, 096, who has done nothing but torment me. That’s nothing compared to the treatment they’ve dealt out to my younger siblings, though. 

Angelo told me this one story, once, about how a bunch of kids snuck into our room while we were sleeping and took a knife on all of their pillows. Angelo only woke up once that same kid, 096, slashed his leg. 

He didn’t tell me until the next morning, where I scolded him. I wish that he would’ve simply woken me up. I would’ve chased them out into the field just like how my Father chased my Mother. 

It made me angry. 

My Father’s been very angry, too. I didn’t mention it in my last writing, but the reason I’ve been gone for so long, is… well… My Father’s been too angry. And I’ve been too scared. 

He’s been hitting my brothers a lot lately, and he’s been drinking a lot more. When he gets really drunk, he starts to call me my Mother’s name, and then he’d fall on top of me. And I wouldn’t have much of a choice but to carry him back to his bed on the other side of the hospital. 

Do you know how big it is? The hospital. The place is about three miles. Now, I didn’t walk three miles… but still. With a hot and sweaty man (6’4. 204 pounds) on your back. It’s hard. 

When I dropped him off on his bed, I stared at him. He was sucking on his thumb like an infant. I hated him. 

I could honestly say I hated him. I hated how he walked, and how he talked. I hated how he taught my siblings everything I hate about them– everything I hate about myself. I hated all of it. And in that moment, it would’ve been pretty easy to kill him. 

But I panicked. I had no one to go to. You’re all the way in America… You couldn’t save me, no matter how much I wish you could. 

So that’s why I don’t kill my dad. 

That’s how my week has been. How about yours? 

Love always, 

Ala 

September 1st, 1984

Ala Borkshovaski discusses his favorite Holidays. 

Dear Helena, 

Oh, a new month! I always get excited when a new month hits. It tells me that more time has passed. It tells me that the next good thing, no matter what it is, is getting closer and closer! Despite my circumstances, I’m… doing better. I find that writing to you has really helped me. Hearing your letters back, hearing your story. That your life is good, it truly makes me happy in a way I can’t completely put into words. Thank you, Helena! 

September is a weird month, because it ends in “Ber,” but doesn’t have a main holiday. October has Halloween. November has Thanksgiving, which I’m surprised other Italians don’t quite seem to celebrate! Most of the scientists here appear to be Americans, though. And of course, there’s Christmas. Did you know I’m Catholic? Yeah, I am. I’m catholic. 

But back on track. September, it has nothing! To make matters worse, it comes right after your birthday, which I count as a holiday. So it’s right in between two of my favorite holidays, and yet… nothing happens! In Jesus’ name, it frustrates me. Halloween’s fun at the hospital, though. 

Sure, we’re not allowed to go Trick-O-Treating, but they still dress up in costumes and they still give us candy. I don’t like Christmas, though. When it’s Christmas, all the lights are outside and it gets really cold. 

I am excited for New Years though. Because when it’s New Year’s, it’ll be 1985! And I’ll be fifteen years old. And as scary as that is, I truly am excited, dear. I feel like come ‘85, things will get better for me. 

I remember last New Year, I stayed up way past bed time with Angelo. All of our other siblings were asleep, leaving us all with the jitters. My Dad was passed out from partying uptown, letting my Mother sneak me in cookies. I’d read about cookies in books, and I’ve heard stories about them, but this was me and Angelo’s first time trying the delicacy. Angelo saw how happy he was and insisted… he insisted that I have the rest. He’d had it before, but only once. 

Angelo was kind like that. A soul so much purer than mine. 

We looked at the clock, cuddled up against each other, and we counted down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two… One! I cuddled up against my brother, and my Momma, and we were so, so happy. 

This New Year I won’t have my Mother or any cookies. And so it doesn’t feel the same. 

I have to go to bed now, it’s getting late and I hear my Father. 

Love always, 

Ala 

September 6th, 1984

Ala Capulo discusses the Outsiders by S.E. Hinton 

Dear Helena, 

I finally finished that book you sent me! So far, I’ve read Catcher In The Rye, 1984, The Great Gatsby… and now, my favorite, The Outsiders! I really relate to Ponyboy Curtis. I think that we’re like Ponyboy and Johnny in a lot of ways. You even end your letters in “Stay gold,” just like him! 

I love to see what America is like. As much as you write about how much you hate it, I long for the country in the same way Ponyboy does. Part of me really wishes that we, much like them, could run off together and go on long walks at night. 

I actually might read it again, just because of how much it meant to me. 

My favorite part has to be the Curtis brothers. They’re all so different from each other… Sodapop is like Angelo. He’s the nicer one, and yet he’s the one who gets cheated. And I think I’m like Ponyboy because I bottle everything up. And I don’t think anyone’s like Darry because if anyone is, it’s me, and that just doesn’t sit right with me. 

Love Always, 

Ala 

September 9th, 1984

Ala Capulo describes how he met Helena Borkshovaski

Dear Helena, 

While my Father’s drinking has been getting worse and worse, I’ve been thinking a lot about the first time we met. And I figure that I need to write it down in case I forget. Which I hope I don’t. 

I had just snuck out for the first time. I couldn’t fly, (I still can’t, my wings are too small to lift my large frame off the ground)and so I ran. I ran so far, and I wasn’t sure where I was running, but I knew I was running somewhere.

See, I had always looked up to real superheroes. Real superheroes like the Olympians! Big men in the stars who fight in wars. Those people… those folks are folks who I look up to, they, they could save me! 

Eventually, I found myself at the cemetery. I wanted to see if they had buried my Mother and not told me. 

They hadn’t. 

But walking amongst the cemetery, well… there you were. I saw you right there, standing above a grave. You never told me who it was, but I won’t pry. Truly, I won’t. Maybe it was a Grandma or a Grandpa who wanted to be buried in the “Bel Paese.” 

I was half expecting, 100% praying, that the cemetery would be empty. When I saw you, I panicked. I made a quick effort to hide my wings, yet their gold glistened in the night bright as flames. 

“Hey!” You shouted. Frightened, I ran off into the night. Yet you chased me far and wide. You even chased me up a tree? 

I was sure that I was going to sleep up there. The problem being, well, you seemed adamant on learning why this boy had wings. And I was adamant on not telling you. 

I yawned, my wings dangling over the branch and hitting you square in the face. 

You hit my wing. 

After an hour passed, you put your back against the tree, and put your hair over your eyes. 

“I’m staying here for two more days.” You said, dryly, “I’ll sleep out here, if I have to!” 

I sighed. I attempted to go ahead and, well, fly down with ease, like an angel descending from the heavens. But I think I looked more like a pigeon making a crash landing. You giggled as I stood back up, dusting the grass off of my shorts. My hair was a mess, a twig practically braided into it. I was sore all over, bruises across my body (black eye included.) Oh, and my fashion? I was so so awfully dressed. I was wearing one of my Mother’s dresses (covered in mud, might I add) with a pair of combat boots on. 

The only, and I mean only thing it looked that we had in common was those same combat boots. Other than that… you looked so perfect. Your red hair, despite it’s curls and flecks of blond, reached down below your shoulders. And that tank top, why! It hugged you ever so beautifully. That’s all I’ll say. 

“You good?” You asked. 

I stumbled back, a bit frightened at the sight of such startling beauty. 

“Yes, I- I’m doing wonderfully, yes. I’m doing good.” 

“Why do you have wings?” You asked. 

“What?” 

You pointed at my wings with a twig, “Wings. You have them.” You blinked, “Why is that?” 

I gulped. You mocked my gulp. I blushed. “My Father.” 

“Does your Father have wings? Do you- Do you come from a family of bird people?” 

“My brothers and sister have wings. My- My Father doesn’t.” 

“Then how did he give you wings?”

“Surgery.” 

“Oh.” Helena nodded. 

The silence went on and on. I was afraid you’d wander off. 

“Have I introduced myself?”

You shook your head. 

“My name is Ala Capulo.” I said. 

“Helena Borkshovaski,” you said, extending your hand. I stared at it, briefly noticing the necklace on your arm, the pain that splattered your fingers. The chips in your nails. 

I took your hand, and noticed you staring at my hand too. Grimey and veiny. I shuttered, hiding my hands behind my back. 

“Why are you wearing a dress?” You asked, without skipping a beat.

“It was my Mother’s.” I said. 

“Oh.” You said. 

And from there, I let it all out. I did- oh, what do you call it? Let the cat out of the bag? Yes, I suppose I let the cat out of the bag. We talked into the wee hours of the night. Come morning, well, I realized it was time to go. If I stayed any longer, surely I’d get caught sneaking back in. 

I left you, the second most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and I went back to the hospital. 

I apologize to you, truly, if these letters annoy you. I’ll stop. But something about writing to you, and hiding the letters in packages and other contents, it’s… Oh, how it’s felt quite nice. But what I love more than anything is reading your letters. I like seeing what you have to say. I like hearing about the golden life that you live! 

Angelo (as well as my younger siblings, though they don’t like your letters so much as they like slobbering on the books that you mail me) like your letters, too! Angelo’s looking over my shoulder right now, so I better tell you that he says hello. 

Love Always,

Ala 

P.S. I might be gone for a bit. I’m going to a Campeggio Autunnale. 

September 16th, 1984 

Ala describes to Helena what a Campeggio Autunale is. 

Dear Helena, 

You’ve never heard of a Campeggio Autunnale? Strange. Really, that’s strange. A Campeggio Autunnale is where they take us kids out to some forests with all the rivers and all the trees to talk about how much we love God. 

According to my Father, it’s a week to show off how much we love him. We sing songs, and we dance. There’s one dance that my Father makes us all do. In years prior, we’d have Mom to teach us the dance moves. And she’d pull us away before all of the scary parts and feed us rolls she had snuck. I’d complain the whole time: Why wasn’t I allowed to see? 

This was my first Campeggio without Mother. And it was something truly, truly, mortifying. For starters? The scary bits, well. People were dying. 

At high noon, each day, bull men in lab coats were brought into the common area. I recognized their bodies as that of scary doctors and scary nurses I’d seen in my time here… who’d all gone missing sometime in the last year. Rumors had spread about them, yet nothing concrete. Until today. 

They were bulls. By god, they were bulls! And one by one, they were carried into the center. And they cut their heads clean off. I was disgusted. Angelo, who stood beside me, vomited all over his tightly tied shoes. 

One of the littles was crying. 

When it came time for the dance, all of us, all of us, did our best to do as Mom taught us years prior. We spun around and showed off our wings, we danced across the stage, thousands upon thousands of children watching us with intent eyes. One of my younger sisters stumbled in their dance, though she just as quickly got back into position. 

No harm. Right? 

Not in my Father’s eyes. He struck her, calling her vermin. The only thing he hit more times than her was the wall. Me and Angelo, well… we just wanted to rest. It had been a long, long day. 

As they put the bags back on our heads, and drove us back to the hospital, I heard Angelo began to murmur himself. Scared. I kicked his leg- Surely, Father would not like to hear from us after today’s blunder. Surely, surely. 

And then we returned back to the hospital. 

Something stuck with me… about the bull killings. Something that my Mother had hidden from me… the last remaining atoms of my innocence crushed before my eyes, and punctuated with a dance number. 

No. No, no, no, this couldn’t be the world. This couldn’t be how things were. It was supposed to be good. Things were supposed to be good! 

September 24th, 1984

Ala Capulo describes his most successful surgery yet. 

Dear Helena, 

Something terrible happened today, and I’m not entirely sure what I have to say about it. All that I know about myself, right now, is that my back hurts like hell and my eyes feel as if they’re popping out of my skull. 

I got out of bed, just like any other day. I spent most of the day in my room, as I was expected. In fact, my day was… strikingly average. Come the lunch period, I was getting suspicious. 

Even Brutus was acting normal. Brutus was from the other division- the bat division. I wasn’t sure how many divisions the hospital had, all that I knew for sure was that the lunch period was a hodgepodge of man’s worst creations. 

Brutus was dead on blind, his bat themed experiments lead to him retaining all of the vampire bat’s worst features, and yet he lacks the ability to fly. All of the blindness and all of the bloodlust, and yet not an ounce of power behind his frail bones. 

Naturally, him and his cronies had made it their mission to make me and my brother’s lives hell. Brutus, as well as half the hospital, was under the impression that me and my brothers and sisters were given some type of special treatment. That we… had it better. Because our Dad worked here. 

And, in a sense, maybe we did? I don’t know. 

Brutus’ friends all stole my food, and threw it away. They would pinch at my back until it bled and slap my exposed ribs until I started to cough. Despite how… vomit inducing this may sound, this was “normal.” 

I continued to my Father’s office, knowing that after lunch period, he would be away until nightfall. I hated it, but my Father’s own office had become quite the hideaway. He had a bin, filled to th brim, with old comics about the Olympians that I’d spend hours upon hours reading, allowing them to consume my aching heart. Within those pages, I felt safe. I was transported to a new world that wasn’t 1984… I was some place good. I thought about joining the fabled Zeus by his side, my wings powerful enough to lift me up the ground, high enough to soar beyond the clouds. As a boy, I dreamed of him sweeping me off my feet, of him saving me and everyone here. And now I just wanted to be as free as he was. 

Despite the comics taking a majority of my time here, and despite my love for them, they weren’t what I came for. I came for Oro. When my Father picked me up out of that cave I fell into, he took the bird with him. Every night I’d hear him caw, and for a while I thought that it was simply a ghost. And then I found him. 

I saw myself in Oro. He too was injured… captured. And every day I’d check beneath and replace his bandaged leg to see if he had healed, praying that one day might be the day that me and my child may take flight. 

This was a normal day for Ala Capulo… a normal day. And a normal night would’ve seen me snuggle up in bed, and listen to whatever it was that little Angelo had to say today. But this was not a normal night. 

Because tonight my Father caught me in his office. 

“Ala, what are you- What are you doing here?” He was drunk. I could see it in the twitch of his mouth, the way he put his weight onto the door before it swung open, sending him stumbling towards me. 

“Ala- you… you know you can’t be in here, Ala…” he stumbled onto a stack of paperwork, rubbing his hand through my hair as I was frozen in fear. “Do you know what happens,” he said, “To little boys that go through Daddy’s office? They… Not good things. Bad things. Bad, bad, things, Ala!” 

He slumped in his office chair, before rolling it up close to me, putting his hands on my shoulder, “Look me in the #@$%ing eye, Ala…” that phrase. That same phrase that he said the night me and my Mother tried running away. The night that started, well… all of this. 

“Ala, you- you always do this. I tried leaving you alone, I tried taking you nice places, and yet you just- you’re bad, Ala! You’re a bad kid!” His voice was so loud that it boomed throughout the room, echoing back at me. I wasn’t as angry… I was more scared. And I was mad about how scared I was. 

“Ala, let me tell you something, Ala… every day I see you, I think ‘Oh, we’re finally making progress.’ ‘Yeah,’ I think, ‘Ala’s gonna be a good boy now…’ and then you always #%@%ing prove me wrong, Ala! You always #$%@ing prove me wrong!  Do you know how frustrating that is, Ala!? Do you know how frustrated you make your old man, Ala!? Your wings haven’t grown in right, you’re the reason your Mom’s dead, I- I can honestly say that you ruined my-” he cut himself off, “I can fix you, Ala. Ala, maybe, maybe I’m a genius! No, no, I am a genius! Ala, maybe it’s my fault that you came out looking like,” he looked around the the room searching for an example, settling upon the sleeping caged bird who’s cage he rattled. He shook it around, sending the poor bird into a screaming fit. 

Drowned out by Oro’s screeches, he continued marveling, “This bird! You’re a little Oro! Ala, Ala, I am a genius to a fault. A one hundred percent bonafide Socrates! The Oppenheimer of the baby boom! Ala… what you need, Ala… is another surgery.”

He knocked all the objects off his desk: Printers, computers, staplers, assorted surgeons equipment and chemicals all falling onto the floor. And he shoved me off of it, slicing my back open without anesthetic, without any way of numbing the pain. While still all too awake, my brain went numb, knowing not how to process the pain, or how it might affected me, focusing only on the pain itself. Naturally, I didn’t scream. My Father’s office window, which I was forced to stare out of, showed me o

Only darkness. An empty hospital. No one would hear me scream. 

And yet Oro screamed for me. He screamed as the only witness, sentient enough to understand the torture that I was feeling. And in a way, I guess, Oro’s screams were kind of my own. 

But at least I have wings now. 

Ala

October 1st, 1984 

Asphodel: A Poem by Ala Capulo 

As the wind caught up with me, I felt a change…

I didn’t know what to do– whether to fly like a kite or blow out like a light…

And as the fear of darkness gave way to a fear of color and life…

I felt myself give way to the black and white, resting my eyes throughout the night…

The moon above was made of cheese and for a moment I wondered if there was any for me…

In the great beyond…

In the great beyond for me…

And yet here I was, thrashing and screaming, tearing away at my skin like a symbiote.

As Charon takes me down his avenue, and at dusk to his boat..

In asphodel… we are running through the endless fields of white noise and black souls…

The cruel, cruel truth being? There is nothing left of our days of old.

When life was young, and pain was new

Before we became this thrifted youth

Is there anybody out there? Or am I all alone? 

Nevermind, I don’t want to know 

October 9th, 1984 

Ala Borkshovaski discusses how he met 008. 

Dear Helena, 

Rage, Helena. All that I know right now is rage. I have never felt such anger, such misery. I pray that their isn’t a god out there, because if he is, he’s one cruel mister. The only good thing that’s happened to me this month is my new friend, 008. 8 is just a little guy, he’s very strange. He collects bugs. 

I meet 008 after I got put in solitary confinement. 

Before I get into my story, I probably should start with an apology. I’m sorry for writing such worrying letters and going away for nine whole days, but I’ve hardly been able to move my fingers at all, so I’m sorry. Towards the last couple days, I started getting strong enough, and with my new wings I felt… a lot better. Mainly, because I was stronger. I’ve gotten way more muscly in my arms, and my wings, well… they’re beautiful. My Father redid his surgeries on another one of my siblings (I’m down to three,) and… it didn’t work as good on one of em. It was one of the babies (well, not really a baby. He was four. But that’s a baby to me,) one I hadn’t even gotten attached to. But I had to spend most of one of the days burying him out by the forest that’s just by the hospital, which made me sad. While I was burying him, I thought about the life he would’ve lived. How good he would’ve been, had he grown up. How much change he could’ve made in the world. 

He could’ve been the one who got out of us out of here. Or maybe, the odds are, he would’ve just lived a sad life like all of us. Maybe he would’ve been the last to die. And that would’ve hurt me more than anything. 

I thought a lot about death, what would happen if I died? Would you come back to Italy, and talk to my headstone? I mean, that’s assuming that I died first. Which is fair. And, well, assuming that you don’t leave. 

Another day passes, and I blame my Father for his death. If he hadn’t, in his arrogance, did all of these surgeries again, then he’d still be alive. I know it. I know it because he died of an infection. That’s the sad part, of all of this. That out of all the surgeries my Father did in this, what? Week? I wouldn’t even call it that, most of them were in the measly night that I was up writing poetry. 

By October 7th, I had just about had it. When it was time to get tested on again, when it was time to tear me open and see what was going on inside me, I wasn’t going to go out without a fight. No, no, no, no. I hissed, and I fought. I scratched my Father, not just with my nails, but with my wings. My big and blistering silver wings that look gold beneath the sunlight. Years worth of anger was let out, every atom in me seething red. I was looking to kill. Honest, I was! 

And the best part was… I was winning. My Father was beaten, he was bloodied. He was mere inches from death, and the thought of ending him then and there was one of the greatest rushes of my life. 

And yet, as soon as it began, it was torn from me. Ripped from my grasp, almost like I had stolen it, and what I had sewn was simply being reaped. And I can’t even begin to describe what being tased felt like. The pain went through my metal wings, despite that, I felt it, my wings becoming, in a split second, a circuit that scattered itself throughout my weak body. When the electricity reached my body, for a split second it felt amazing, the sheer sensory overload of it feeling blissful, yet much like my freedom it was ripped away from me just as fast. 

My Father is much scarier when he’s sober. You can see, in the way he carries himself, the way he dresses, the thick glasses he wears… he’s intelligent. His hair is combed, for once, usually pulled back into a ponytail for maximum cleanliness. Despite his collected nature, he’s able to truly attack. To pry. Without the alcohol messing up his mind, you’re able to see how truly awful he is. He took a belt to my legs, until they were not just bruised, but broken. And while I was weak, he threw me off into, well… Helena, I’m sorry to inform you, but you’re writing letters to a convict. That’s right, Helena. I’m in the slammer. They put me in the slammer. 

I couldn’t move… I could hardly breathe… I couldn’t do much of anything at all. So instead of beating down the door like I so wished to do, I sobbed. I sobbed for what felt like a whole day, I sobbed until I saw two little dots in the darkness of the room. I had spent so long looking at the peeled wallpaper and staring out at the window at the foggy winter, that I hadn’t realize something- or someone- had been watching me for hours. 

“Who- Who goes there?” I shouted in my best knight impression, though with my cracking pubescent voice, I sounded more like some type of gerbil. 

And then… something odd happened. As whatever it was grew closer, the two dots turned into three, and with each creak it slowly became more and more real that I was, in fact, speaking to a creature with three eyes. 

As it grew closer, I grew more and more sickly… the crack of his bones, his two eyes bright yet bloodshot. Yet when he stepped out of the shadows, why… he looked completely harmless. He was too skinny to hurt a fly, and yet despite being sickly his three eyes looked too kind to hurt a fly. 

“You’re… just a little guy. Y’know what? You’re just a guy,” I said. 

He poked his long, clawed finger in between my eyes. “What’s your name, little fella?” 

He pointed at a sign. “Subject: 008.” 

“008? Is that your name?” 

He nodded, popping a bubble with his lips. 

“008, do you know my name?” I asked. 

He shook his head. 

“I’m Ala Capulo. Now will you help me up?” 

He poked my metal wings. 

“Up,” I said, “I want up.” 

He pointed at the wings, and then began to flap his arms, as if he was a bird. He stopped, pointing back at my wings, and then up. Oh. 

“Yeah, no, my wings are… a bit fried. You’re gonna have to help me up, c’mere, grab my hand.” 

I offered him my hand. He gripped my wrist with his other hand, curiously tracing the wrinkles in my palm before ultimately deciding to help me. From above, 008 looked remarkably… cute. Despite his third eye, and sharp tongue. His claws, and his overgrown finger nails, he looked like someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Something about him was just… oh, so incredibly nice. It didn’t hurt that when I stood up, I was an entire foot taller than him, and so he had to look up at me with pleading eyes. 

“008,” I said, “How would you like to get out of here?” I asked him. 

He looked hesitant, almost bashful, before nodding. I was beginning to like this young blood. Despite his lack of… verbal expertise, he seemed to understand me perfectly. Hell, something behind the kindness in his three bright eyes told me that he understood me better than anyone except for maybe you and Angelo. Something told me that 008 and I would be friends for a long, long, time. 

I produced a stolen pencil from out of my wings (in these nine days, they had become quite the hidey hole,) and I mapped out what I’d seen. That’s right, Helena! I made a map for him, showing off all the little entrances and all the little exits. I drew circles where cameras were, and squares were guard posts were, and everything was all mapped out. Every little detail was perfect, and so when we beat the door down we were surprised to see… stairs? This wasn’t what we had planned at all! Without having much of an idea of what else to do, we walked up the stairs. Me and the three eyed boy were at our wit’s ends, pressed up against each other on the door that lay at the end of the stairs. Oh, what to do now? What horrors waited for us beyond this burch door? 

Only one way to find out. Without giving myself a moment of unearned hesitation, I swung the door open, and in a moment of panic, I pushed 008 in front of me, as if he was my shield. The room we were in looked nothing like anything I’d ever seen at the hospital. Hell, the fact that we had wallpapers at all should’ve frightened me from the very start- we weren’t at the hospital. We were some place far, far away from the hospital, in a whole new world where everything I had known had been flipped on its head. Fearful, I gripped onto 8’s hand, making sure he didn’t leave my side. 

This room was a place that shouldn’t exist. The wallpaper looked like something out of some old victorian room, the bookshelves matching. In the center of the… Would I call it a library? Yeah, I’d call it a library. Books filled with names I was sure I recognized lined the walls, the coffee table in the center containing rambles upon rambles about beetles and gods. I tugged 008 along, hurrying to get out. The library lead into a long concrete voices, where we heard voices we were sure we recognized speaking in a tongue we were sure we didn’t. The voices grew louder and louder, only silencing themselves once we reached a room covered, from the floor to the ceiling, in taxidermy. But it wasn’t the regular kind of taxidermy, not the kind I’d read up on in my Dad’s hunting book. 

No. 

In place of the deer and the bear, were lamb. Sheep. The room went on so long that it seemed to be a corridor, until we reached, at the very end of the hallway… something. 

I wouldn’t call it human. To call it human would be to call any creature with flesh and blood a human. Up on a cross, crucified, there was what used to be a human. His hair was long, like 008’s, the two sharing a chin. Despite this, that’s the only thing they had in common. That’s the only thing whatever this was had in common with any human at all. 

Pinned to the wall, his chest was nailed open, crammed with plastic superheroes and paper machete lightning bolts. His hands were held up by string, like he was being puppeted around as some cruel, cruel, joke. And the worst part was his face? Bludgeoned beyond belief, one side of his face having his bloody, meaty skull exposed, with spiders crawling out of the empty eye socket, the other side of his face frozen in time, forever in fear, forever glossy with bloody tears. 

I wanted to fall over and hurl. I didn’t know what I was looking at, and yet seeing whatever it was sickened me beyond belief. I punched a bookshelf, sobbing. As I sobbed, I could almost hear the taxidermy sobbing with me, my mind filling up with the bleets of the sheep. 

“8…” I said, “What is this place?” 

008 held up a book: 

And I looked up, up above the burnt man, to see a painting. A beautiful, magnificent oil painting, of… me. No, not me. My Father. My Father, Enzo Capulo. This was his house. Meaning that this was also my house. 

And that disgusted me more than anything.. 

Finally home, I decided it would be the best option to do what I do best. To run off with 008… and go hide in my room. 

008 helped me make my bed, wrapping a sheet around the cushion. At first, he offered me his own bed, though I declined the offer. As deep as my care for 008 had become since I first met him, the only person I ever really wanted to share a bed with was you, Helena. I think it’s always been you. 

You’re so kind, and so exciting. And all of your letters make me wish I’d be better at standing up for myself, like you. But I’m not, and that makes me angry. If you were the sun, I’d fly to you with my wings each and every day until my wings melted clean off. That’s what I would do. 

Anyways, it’s getting late, and I have a new room to adjust to, so I think I best be getting my sleep. I love you, good night. 

Love always,

Ala

October 10th, 1984

Ala discussed his method of sending letters

Dear Helena, 

I just had to add something on here real quick, you know, I’m almost certain you’re wondering how my letter even sent, and to tell you that, yesterday I managed to find a little pile of mail and sneak the letter into the little pile. That’s how. I don’t know, I just thought you should know. The only problem is that, well… the first letter hasn’t even sent yet. I don’t even know when you’re gonna get these anymore. 

Love always,

Ala

October 13th, 1984

Dear Helena, 

I’m going to be so honest with you. It has been such a weird week, Helena. Weirdly enough, the solitude hasn’t been that hard, mainly with 008 to keep me company. 008’s a very creative boy. He’s managed to use the powders from stuff like red wood and dust to make paintings on the white window sill. He has a notebook bound together filled with his red and gray drawings, talking about his life. He draws what he loves, and what he cares about. He’s looking over my shoulder right now, and waving. I think he wants to say hi. 008 says hi. 

008 and I have found many, many, ways to pass the time, my love. 008’s decorated my wings with just about every piece of furniture he has. Though we choose not to leave the room that much, we like to press our ears against the door and listen. We hear some weird stuff, down the halls. Without much of anything else to do, we poured our heart and soul into figuring out what the hell they’re saying, dreading the day that my Father found us. I hate it here, truly. 

And as I thought about the fear, a lightbulb flickered above my head! What if we went spelunking? Wait until nightfall comes, and go out and explore this maze of rooms. All the tunnels, all the halls. Truly dig into what makes my home… my home. But if we’re going to do that, we would need supplies. And plenty of them, at that. After convincing 008, we decided the first room we’d sneak into that night was the kitchen. We stole apples from the fruit bowl, and granola from the broken fridge. At one point, we heard creaking, and panicked, 008 and I crawling into a cupboard. It was awkward, positioning the both of us, 008 being forced to sit on my lap. 

After we were done hanging out down there, we returned to our rooms. 008 and I held open our little sacks like little boys on Halloween, revealing the metric ton of supplies we had gathered. Everything that we needed for our little mission. 

The two of us are pulsating with excitement! If we can get enough papers to, I don’t know, mail them to a certain somebody, we can really start making a change, can’t we? 

Love always, 

Ala

Ala Borkoshvaski and 008 celebrate Halloween

Dear Helena, 

Little eightball had cut three holes in his bed sheet, wandering around the room as if he was a ghost. I guess this is his way of saying… Happy Halloween! I’m the same thing I am every year, I guess. An angel. Haha, do you get it? I hope you get it.  

Haha. I have wings. 

Love always, 

Ala

Ala and 008 begin their quest into Enzo Capulo’s basement

Dear Helena, 

Today’s the day. Today’s the day all of it gets started! Me and 008 have, meticulously, gathered all the supplies we needed to make an escapade into my Father’s basement. We’ve gathered, well, more than we need. Food (Granola bars, assorted nuts, chocolates), supplies (Pocket knives, grappling hooks, a handmade shooting little doodad for emergencies), and clothes (Most of them are mine, though I’m going to let 008 share with me. I recorded a little conversation I had with 008 before writing this, so I’d get right. 

“You ready?” I asked him. 

And then we plunged into the deep dark. 

See you soon. 

Love always, Ala

Note from Editor: Dr. Borkoshavski has asked the remainder of his letters be removed from the record for the sake of his dead lover.