Life was never as simple as the story books. . .the fairy tales. If only some miracle could make me better. Make my lungs stronger. But no. . . they just had to collapse under pressure. No more swimming. . .ever.
Just sighing with the wind and skipping pebbles was all I could do. I grit my teeth, turning away from the rippling waters. I knew I'd never be able to swim. And did I want to any more? Did I? After all those tryouts and drills and practices and never being able to stop when I wanted to. Did I really want to? Did I ever really want to? I shrugged as the wind in the trees sighed. Water had always just been a way of life. I rubbed the fish charm on my bracelet.
Swim swim. 100 laps. GO! Left right left right. Breath, hold. Gasp. Push. Left right left right. Move faster. I can't. I can't anymore. I want to fly as the dragonflies do. Flit flitting. Field upon Field. Rose to aloe.
Don't do it. Don't give up. You love the water. Did I? Or was it just my Uncle that did? I didn't care to find out. I'd sign up for aviation classes.
Air pressure.
Fine then I'll just--
Come on. You know you love the water. . .the sea. The smell of salt and chlorine. I'll build something. Air planes. Helicotpers. Buildings. I'll make something in the sky. . .
Water. Water. Water. Pool. You'll never meet him. He doesn't exist. A hopeless dream. But the wings he drew. Faeries and dragons and birds. . .sometimes just wings. Graphics in the photo shop window, computer store, art school. A graphics designer. He could make anything fly. Wings. Spiraling down
To the sea. No, down to the clouds from the nowhere sky.
You dream. I will see him.
In front of the photo shop.. Red blinking banners in the night. I stood hypnotized by the wings. A pair of white feathered wings, belonging no one, belonging to everyone. Meshing into the abstract of the clouds. The abstract that held ashen phoenix's and ice dragons, not seen on first glance.
Beautiful. Absolutely. . .beautiful. . .I rubbed the charm on my bracelet once a gain.
A dark skinned man with a beard. Did he know if the one who does the graphics will do so for hire? Yes. He did. Did he know his name? No but he knew that the graphical designer worked at the art institute. A student but did odds and ends to pay his way through college.
Dancing on the tips of my toes, flowing, circling like a bird, my arms spread out, graceful . . .No longer swimming but flying. . .bliss. And then, unsurprisingly because we all know how life hates watching people have fun, it started to rain. Sprinkling was all it needed to do to get me crying like a wounded child. The water burned against my cold flesh. Warming it and yet hurting it. No, I wanted to fly.
I ran up to the institute and banged on the doors. Two guards came to the door, peered at me and smiled cruelly. Twins. Could they let me come in? No, the institute was in the nighttime mode. Was there not any way to get in? They looked at one another. They knew who I sought only it would cost a price. What kind of price, I wondered as I followed them, grateful to be out of the rain.
I was placed in front of a large woman with a white bouffant. She was beautiful only. . .she smiled revealing yellow and green teeth. A price. I emptied out all my pockets and shoes. I gave her all I had. I wanted to fly. And she let me in, smiling to herself.
I ran into the institute, tripping on myself. . .as I did when I lungs had collapsed. Where would he be? Technical arts. Would he even be here? It was dark. Night. I ran up the stairs that never ended. I turned and stumbled into room upon room. Some empty, some with people. I felt despaired. I needed wings before--
I told you it was but a dream. And upon thinking that I knew my super ego was right. No. Couldn't be. I slunk to the floor, not being able to stand. I still wanted to swim. The door opened and produced a man with laminated paper in his hands. He was staring so closely at them, he tripped over me. The papers went flying. I watch the wings as they tumbled before me. I looked up at him, speechless. Now that I found him what was I going to do? I couldn't just say I was obsessed with his art. I bit my lip and whimpered. I'm so sorry, he mumbled. Sorry, yes. . .yes he was. I stared at him beseechingly. What is it? Did I need his help? Yes, greatly. I wanted to fly. He smiled. A smile that took up his whole face, made his eyes spark. He told me to go inside and sit.
I did. I would not remove myself from that chair. Or rather, I couldn't. I sat hypnotized by the wings. Tears began to prick my eyes and roll down my cheeks. He walked back in, moments later. I'm sorry I-- He stared at the tears that cooled my cheeks. Are you alright? I shook my head.
He took me home with him. He made me soup and had me sit behind him as he started working. He worked till early in the morning. At times I had to pull him away and rub the stress from between his brows and from his temples. And he would smile and call me an angel. We talked as he worked, conversation swooping, gliding, at times fluttering. It evolved with his work.
The more he did the more I spoke. And when at last it was finished I cried. He held me. They were right, I said; Release is sweet.
He took me into his bed and did nothing but hold me. I never told him about my Uncle, who sometimes came into my room at night, smelling of the sea. Late at night with the smell of liquor in him, on him. Just let this be the last time, I always prayed. Maybe, this time, the last time was really the last time.
I lived with him for days and weeks and months, almost a year. He taught me all the he knew and while I learned we spoke. Sometimes we argued but the arguments never lasted long. The longest would be until I finished. Sometimes he would speak of the sea. How much he loved it. And every time he did I grew quiet. What is it, he asked me, time and time again. Once I answered simply, I want to fly.
Everything was too good. Too perfect. I knew it, I felt it, and that was why I wasn't the least bit surprised when my Uncle showed up at the door one day. He wanted to know where I'd been. That he'd worried about me and my personal health. That he loved me and wanted me back. Love? A lie! Such a lie! I started crying and yelled about how my Uncle crept into my bed at night and all the practices and the collapsing of my lung, hoping he would do something. He listened with a bit of tears in his eyes, like the sea that he loved, that I hated, until my Uncle flew at me with a fierce rage. I'd never known my Uncle to come into any situation unprepared. I tried to get in front of the gun but the shot was fired and it was too late. It seemed as if the ambulance couldn't get here quickly enough. He died with a smile on his lips and angel on the tip of his tongue.
I pushed open the door to his office. The next place to look through. There had to be some awful fault with him. A woman, a man, some children. Something. Had to be. I checked under his desk. There, lay some graphics that he'd made. . .twenty or thirty of them. Tears started once more as I looked through them. Me. Flying. Me with angel wings, dragon wings, butterfly wings. Swooping, spiraling. Under clouds, above them, in forests, above ponds. . .He gave me what I wanted, what I needed. I always wanted to just. . .
fly.
