The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Six

"You haven't seen a tree until you've seen its shadow from the sky."  -Amelia Earhart

[ C H A P T E R  S I X ]

_________________

A man stood in the doorway, shrugging on his winter coat. His hard gray eyes betrayed nothing of the turmoil raging within him. He searched his pack one final time to make certain that his belongings were in check. He paused when he came across a photograph of a little girl: his daughter.

“Daddy, where are you going?”

He turned around to face the ten-year-old girl standing behind him. He hadn’t even heard her approach. Her beautiful blonde hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail; her steely gaze was laced with suspicion. She had gotten that stare from him.

The man ran his fingers through locks of unkempt hair, the only outward sign of his distress. “I didn’t see you there, sweetheart…”

“Why are you leaving?” she pressed. “You don’t have to work today.”

“I’m going on a little business trip,” he lied.

“When will you be back?”

A lump formed in the man’s throat. “…Soon.”

The girl’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “So you were gonna leave without giving me a hug?”

He forced himself to embrace his daughter, unsure if he could let go when the time came. He wanted to remember this forever – her warmth, the smell of her hair, the way she held onto him with impossible strength.

“I’ll miss you, daddy.”

She would never see him again.

I open my eyes slowly, staring at the stark white wall in front of me. Tears cloud my vision. I don’t bother blinking them away. Instead, I sink into my pillow and just lie there for a while.

I am genuinely surprised at my inability to move. I haven’t had a dream like that in months. …No, it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. I thought I was over my father’s death, but I suppose the memories of his final departure will never cease to haunt me.

I should get out of bed, I think to myself. But I can’t – my mind is laden with grief.

After several minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I manage to roll over and peer at my alarm clock. It’s not even four in the morning. This realization makes me want to sink even further into my mattress, but I know that lying still will do me no good. Sleep is proving elusive.

Despite my body’s protests, I slip out from under the covers and haul myself into a sitting position. I stretch my wings and yawn. Perhaps a good nighttime flight will help me relax.

My bedroom window has a hinged sash that swings in and out like a door. I open it carefully, not wanting to wake my mother. She does not approve of noise in the wee hours of the morning, especially if that noise indicates my leaping from a two-story building.

I stick my head out and inhale the warm night air. It has a peculiar calming effect, and I already feel my worries beginning to drift away. Without further hesitation, I hold out my arms and jump. The air whips past my face; the ground rushes towards me at sickening speeds. Then, at the last possible moment I snap out my ghost wings. I brush the grass with my fingers before sailing up out of gravity’s reach.

Before I leave, I circle back to my bedroom window and close it. I don’t want any bugs getting in.

Rather than flying over the city, I dip one wing and make a wide turn in the opposite direction. I flap my wings to gain altitude. Inhale, down. Exhale, up. I hardly have to think about pumping to the familiar rhythm. Within seconds, I am tearing through the sky at well over one hundred miles per hour.