[ WP ] One day , everyone wake up with wings like angel , soon after scientists found that the colour of the wings are depend on your character . The better your character is , the cleaner ( more close to snow white ) the wings are . Yours is decently grey but your family , girl/boyfriend are dark as hell

It had been a bad fight that night almost a year ago, the worst we'd ever had. The wings had appeared that morning - everyone got them, and it had n't taken long for the significance of the colors to be understood. 
 
 If you had been morally good, your wings were white. If bad, they were stained with black. News video of prisons demonstrated that sharply - so many inmates and too many of the guards had wings smeared and splotched with black tar. Most folk had a blend of white and dark grey - some of the patterns were actually rather pretty, really. And you could glide with them if they were big enough and your were in moderately good shape, children started figuring out how to actually fly - though there seemed to be an upper limit to how high up they could get. About ten feet or so seemed to be the max. Physicists and biologists were utterly baffled, of course. Chemists were having a field day in tremendous excitement analyzing the composition of the feathers - but that's another story. 
 
 This is about us. Me and my wife. My wings were no better nor worse than most folks; though I could see a few splotches of darker grey mixed in. My wife, Sarah, hers were mostly brighter than mine - except for a couple feathers that looked rather splattered with black ink. 
 
 I wanted us to examine our black spots, and confess them to each other. We had sworn to never keep secrets when we took our vows, and while we both probably already knew what each dark spot represented - I felt driven, irrationally so, that we needed to go over them all. She argued with me then, which got me even more worked up. The temper I inherited from my father took over, and yes I know that's no excuse - it's mine and my responsibility, but I know rightly where I got it from. If he had still been alive today I have no doubt his wings would be a checkerboard pattern of night and day. 
 
 No, I did n't hit her. But I did say some things which were utterly unkind and foul, shouting them at the top of my lungs while my eyes could n't even focus properly. And when she pointed out that a new line of shadow was appearing on the top of my left wing due to my rant, I lost it, felt the urge to strike rise towards my raised fist, but with a gutteral yell I stormed off to the garage instead. Slammed the door so hard that a picture from our honeymoon fell off the wall on the other side, crashing to the floor. 
 
 I heard her march out the front door shortly thereafter, and her car start up. She had packed a bag and driven off. And she had left her phone on the dining room table, deliberately placed in the center of the spot where I usually sat to dine on the miracles she crafted in our kitchen. 
 
 Two days she left me there: the fight was on a Friday, and I had the weekend to spend staring in the mirror, reaching over my shoulder, and touching the top of that wing now marked by a moment's rage. It felt hot to my fingertips, the echoes of anger pulsing up my arm and towards my thoughts, like worms wriggling up and trying to dive back into my brain. Out of reflex I pulled back, not wanting that rage to be rekindled, terrified of what it would do to me, and in a moment of blind hope grabbed onto the brightest feather I could see on the other side. 
 
 A memory flashed through my mind, a moment I knew all too well. We had just met, her and me, at a party hosted by mutual friends. She was stunning even in simple light blue jeans and emerald t-shirt. So much so that I had only managed to admire her from across the room, trying to get up the nerve to go introduce myself. But one of our host's kids, their daughter of perhaps five, had run over to her to show off a new stuffed unicorn. I did n't want to intrude. 
 
 Then it happened - Sarah was kneeling over the child who was clutching her unicorn to her chest and looking a little green. Sensing something was up, I started to cross over to them - when the child threw up all over the poor unicorn, and also covering Sarah's shirt. 
 
 But Sarah, hovering over the now starting-to-cry child, did n't miss a beat. She scooped her up - unicorn and all - and carried her to the bathroom, all the while smiling and comforting the child, telling her it was okay, her eyes sparkling without a shred of discomfort or irritation. And right in that moment I fell in love with her. 
 
 Sarah agreed to borrow my flannel overshirt for the rest of the party, as her emerald one was going straight into the laundry. And after I cleaned up what mess had made it to the floor, I refreshed her drink and, well, we spent the next month in a whirlwind romance where each day the sun seemed brighter than the day before, especially whenever that smile and those twinkling azure eyes were directed towards me. 
 
 Back in my garage I had fallen to my knees, tears flowing down my cheeks, cursing myself for a fool. What did it matter what she had faced in the past or done? The only thing that mattered was her and who she was now, and all those moments which shone through her own feathers. I was sick to my stomach the rest of that weekend, worried that I might have lost her. 
 
 Sunday late afternoon she pulled back into the driveway. I was in the backyard when she did, trying to occupy myself with pulling weeds ( and making a bigger mess as a result ). Swallowing my own fears, I walked slowly around the house - to find her standing before the front door, arms crossing her stomach and shoulders hunched, a figure of sheer misery. 
 
 I saw it then, a new darkness had gathered at the tips of both her wings. Fresh and a deep purple fading into black. She was trembling as she stood there, not having heard me approach. I looked down at those new spots, feeling my own sick fears and rage trying to rise yet again, but I ignored it. Saying her name, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, wings and all. 
 
 She burst into tears, clutching at my arms. She rambled on about having gone to a bar, wanting perhaps to do something to get back at me, and she had had too many drinks. She did n't remember what happened. She woke up in a hotel room, booked in her name, and she said there may have been a man. Someone from the bar. And the sheets looked, and she felt... 
 
 I told her it did n't matter. Everything would be alright, and she needed to come inside. Whatever had happened, we would deal with it. Her and me. And I apologized for getting so angry, saying I had been stupid. So very stupid. 
 
 We walked in together, and I noticed the new marks on her wingtips fading slightly as we walked - the sharpness of the darkness easing towards more grey. With a glance over my own shoulder, I saw the same start to happen to mine, every time she pulled me closer. 
 
 We made love that night, hesitantly and tenderly at first, which then built to a frenetic passion leaving us both in tears at the end. My mark of anger had almost faded out entirely, one tip of her wings had done the same, though the other still showed it clear. She bit her lip in dismay, but I told her not to worry about it. 
 
 A couple weeks later we understood why. She was pregnant, and we did n't know if it was mine or her mysterious bar-stranger. She still could n't remember what he looked like clearly, but I did n't care. Whether it was mine or hers, I just did n't care. Every time my own dark thoughts tried to rise up, I'd touch that one shining spot on my own wing and remind myself why I fell in love with her. 
 
 So here we are, nine months later, and staring down at our newborn boys. Twins. The world still has n't figured out why everyone suddenly was given these wings, experts and doctors and philosophers have debated non-stop all this time and gotten nowhere. 
 
 But standing here, in the nursery, my wife and I looked at each other in somber shock. The doctor already had rushed out to call a team of specialists a few moments prior. 
 
 One of our sons has wings of pure light. Not just white feathers, but feathers formed out of soft glowing light. 
 
 And the other, his wings are made of blackness. No light reflects from them, and the light around him seems to bend and fade away from his little basket. 
 
 I take my wife's hand and say quietly to her, `` Whatever happens now, know I love you.'' 
 
 She grasped mine firmly, her eyes meeting mine, and she whispers, `` I love you too.'' 
 
 And that's all that matters.
