What would you do for love? Most people say they would do anything, but they don’t really mean it. I did everything for love and look where it got me: dead. I would do it again, and again. I’d die a thousand times for a chance at love. I grew up in a tower at the center of the inescapable labyrinth my father invented. It was small, cramped even, between me, my father, Daedalus, and the numerous inventions he spent all his time on.
In the tower there was a single opening: circular window of stained glass, almost always left ajar. At night when it was too dark for my father to work, even by candlelight, he would sit underneath it and admire the stars. I never cared much for them. They were cold and distant. There was no fire in their gaze, only passive judgment. No, I preferred the heat of the sun. I would bask in the warmth of the early morning sun for as long as it would stay.
When I found out my father’s escape plan involved flying, you could imagine my delight. We would be making wings made of feathers to fly away. I think my father could see the fire in my eyes, the same way I could see the stars in his gaze. Maybe he noticed my renewed interest in escape plans now that they involved flight.
“They won’t take you too high,” he would mutter as he dipped the feathers in wax, eyeing me carefully. He was right of course, with wax in place of glue, the contraptions would melt apart in the sun.
Still, more often than not, I dreamt of feeling the sun on my back and the wind in my hair. The smell of salt water below me, rather than the dusty laboratory. The feathers would fly off the contraption, in my dreams. Just a few at first, but then they started coming off in clumps, and when I looked back there would be patches of bare metal shining like gold. The whole of it would come apart, piece by piece to reveal I had wings of my own. Wings made of daylight itself, carrying me higher towards the radiate warmth. I would wake up land bound.
By the time the wings were ready to fly, I thought I had a good idea of what flying would be like, but gliding out of the tower, the prison, it was better than my dreams. I flew towards the sun. Could you blame me? If you had been in that prison for as long as I was, would you do any different?
My father’s warning came to me suddenly. I remembered the mourning in his eyes as he laid the waxy feathers on the metal frame, and I could almost hear his muttering. I leveled out. Not too high. A lifetime of freedom would be waiting if we could leave the country safely.
Soon we reached the ocean. The pale line of blue I had seen on the horizon. It was more magnificent than any illustration I had ever seen. No painting could capture the way the waves played with the golden light of the sun.
The daylight on the water looked like the golden feathers in my dreams, but whenever I looked back it was just the awkward, man made contraption my father had hobbled together.
It happened almost without me noticing. Slowly, I flew higher and higher. The brilliance of its heat washing over me. I heard my father call my name from below, beckoning me to come down, but I was barely losing feathers. I could go higher. Closer to the heat. It was so bright, there was no way I could go down.
The wings were shaking, and I could hear the metal rattling. When I looked back, the metal frame was shining like pure daylight and I could nearly touch the sun itself. Then I fell. I’d never fallen before. The ocean came up to meet me, my ears filled with the sound of rushing air.
I never learned how to swim. How would I have learned? Even if I did, how could I reach the surface with what was left of my wings weighing me down? From so far below the water, the sun looks like a star: cold and distant.
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