What’s wrong with you?  What the HELL is wrong with you?

I screamed in pain, writhing on the sweat-soaked sheets of my bed.  Needles and daggers tore at my skin from inside, bones stretching and breaking and forming new, alien shapes.  I choked and coughed until the very force of it tore at my throat.  Thin sprays of blood landed on my pillow, the foul, metallic taste of the stuff coating my tongue like lead.
My back arched.  I could feel my spine cracking, adding shells of new bone to my shoulder blades.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  I was supposed to be normal.  Like my father.
As another scream tore itself loose, I felt something slice through my back.  More blood soaked the sheets, and bones stretched the holes in my skin with excruciating slowness.  Though it was over in seconds, it seemed like millennia.
Panting, I curled over on my side.  I tried not to acknowledge the things jutting from my back, but they twitched of their own accord.  Finally, I reached back and felt the blood-dampened feathers on my wings.
My fingers traced the bones barely sheathed with plumage.  All the way back to my shoulder blades.  The feathers were warm and sticky, hard to separate.  I stood carefully, adjusting my posture to accommodate for the new appendages.  
I had to bathe.  The wings would only become damaged if I let the blood dry on them.  Shuddering, I slipped into the bathroom and stepped into the shower fully clothed—well, as fully-clothed as I could be, considering the placement of the wings.  The cold water stung the fresh wounds along my spine, but I endured it long enough to wash off the sweat and blood.
I paused in front of the mirror.  My damp, dirty white wings twitched at me in my reflection.  I sighed in disgust at them but nonetheless carefully dried and rearranged the feathers.  
After all, even a half-bred angel should look somewhat presentable.