"He just does."

I whipped my head back and forth from Tom to Kurt Cobain.

“He’s an angel?” I asked Tom, still disbelieving.

“Sorta kinda,” Kurt said. “My wings don’t really work.”

It was then that I realized that Kurt Cobain’s wings were only wing bones jutting out of his back with only a couple on feathers hanging off of each wing.

I turned towards Tom angrily. “What did you do that for?” I asked.

Not perturbed in the slightest, Tom shrugged. “Every time you purposefully do something bad or something self-destructive, you lose a feather as an angel. As a kid, you don’t do a lot of that stuff. That’s why they say the good die young, because they haven’t lived long enough to become bad.”

“That’s so unfair!” I said. “It was crazy times back then, and it was hardly his fault!”

“It was my fault.” Kurt said, and disappeared.

“Why’d he do that?” I asked.

“He just does.” Tom said.

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