His wings grew, not torn but bloodied, and gave up the fight long before it had begun. Society unlaced it’s barbed ropes years after they had fallen from his back, not rotten but leaving bloodied gaping holes that they might sink their fangs into.
Even when they grew back he knew not how to fly. Though that was a lie crafted for himself. He knew how to fly but his prized object was fear. Even before he had seen society cut it’s way into the souls of human hearts he feared the arrows to shoot him down as he reached his hands towards the clouds. He did not wish for freedom, only to be passed by without a second look. He did not crave adventure, just accepting company and a warm cup of tea. He wished to walk the streets without one eye over his shoulder and a bandage around his chest.
When they grew back he screamed, but not for as long.
When they grew back he hid, but not from everyone.