Why Can't We Soar

When I was young, my wings were what gave me life. I’d run towards the horizon and push myself off the ground, soaring like a dove freed from its cage. I remember the sound of the wind rushing past and the feeling of the fresh air filling my lungs. I’d fly until home was just a speck in the distance, and my stomach rumbled with hunger. 

As I flew, I’d sometimes hear shouts from down below. I thought they were shouts of joy, wonder, surprise. I’d look down upon them cheerfully, wave and shout back, then fly on. As I grew older, I started flying closer to the ground.  

I noticed the men’s shouts were not shouts of glee, but instead shouts of bewilderment and fear. They would hurry their children inside and watch warily out their windows. 

When I walked the beaten, dirt streets, my wings strained to burst from underneath my coat. Once, a small child ran up to me and pulled off my jacket, eyes widening when he revealed what was underneath. He had clenched the dark blue cloth tightly in his small hands and ran off towards his friend, who was already turning the corner. 

Mothers would shoot glares at me, and girls would gossip when I roamed town with my wings untied. My confident, youthful rhythm was slowly fading into a shy, shriveled one.  

The disgust towards my infamous wings started to rub off on my mother. She had always hated me, and I never knew why she didn’t abandon me like my father had. But then, she did.  

In my anger, I burned our barn from the crumbling roof to the muddy floor, saving only a few necessary things. The clothes I had been wearing. The money in our safe. My bronze, rusty knife. 

I couldn’t bear to leave my childhood town behind, if only to save my pride, so I stayed in the basement of an abandoned bakery, like rats coming to infest. I spent a lot of time thinking down there, with nothing better to do. 

I hate my wings. Why was I born like this? Why can’t I be like everyone else? I wish it didn’t matter. Shouldn’t everyone want to be like me? Why aren’t I an idol? Why doesn’t everyone have this thing on their backs? Then, these wings could be something that I shared with everyone, and I could explore the world like my younger self had always thought would happen. 

My mind swam in the darkness, and I thought, and thought, and thought, ideas sprouting out of my mind. But I always came back to what had gotten me there in the first place. Why can’t my wings be normal? Why can’t everyone just be the same, and there would be no problems. 

As naive as I was, I thought I could do it. I finally came out of my cave, and I tried to take people’s personalities. I took their clothes and replaced them with bland ones. I beat them with my words, pounding on their shells until they started to splinter. Some I could crack, and break, until there was nothing left inside them. But I knew not everyone would budge so easily, and something like this would take centuries to complete. But I was dedicated when I was desperate. 

I spent years working at this goal, making everyone equal, stripping their personalities, their spark. Sometimes, I would sit and observe. I’d try to find the source of joy. What, and who, really brought out the life in people. I observed the tavern. Never would a disappointed soul leave that place. When I had first had my goal in mind, I would have immediately set the tavern to flames, watching it burn with my glowing eyes. But I had grown wiser, and I knew to think smarter, not harder. I would draw the townspeople to the tavern night after night until the main source of joy in their lives was singing till dawn in the dusty old shack. 

Then, I set it aflame. I slit the throats of the tavern keepers in the light of early morning and kicked over the barrels of rum, throwing in a torch and running out as quickly as possible.  

The next week, all the spirit had left the townspeople, and the village was drained of color. It was rare to see anyone outside of their houses, and even then, they never interacted with each other. Sometimes, I felt guilty for causing my town to run in a state of despair and dread, but mostly I liked the silence, the normality, the equality. 

I spent most of my time sitting high up in the trees and enjoying the eerie silence of the world. But, after a few weeks, I found myself pacing and fidgeting, until I couldn’t help it. I climbed to the tallest perch of the tallest tree in the village and jumped. As I was momentarily suspended mid-air, I thought I would fall to the ground, my own body failing me. But at the dirt neared, a wind picked up and caught my widespread wings. I flapped my hardest until I was high enough for my wings to carry me. 

As I soared above the fields near the village, I was reminded of days like this in my childhood. When the wind blew in my face, filling my lungs. When the sun glinted off the endless golden fields below me. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the shouts of the people below... 

My eyes snapped open. Shining, golden stalks surrounded me, covering my head and only giving hints of the endless blue sky above. The smell of manure filled my nose and the sounds of voices filled my ears. I crept closer to the women squeezing out clothes and making small talk beneath the hot summer sun. I observed the way their muscles tightened when they clenched the fabric and the way their mouths moved while they made polite conversation. I sat there for what seemed like an hour before I finally thought to head back “home”.  

As I turned away to find a place to launch off into the sky, a loud crack filled the air. On instinct, I crouched low to the ground and glanced back at the women to find the pinpoint of the sound, but they were all staring straight at me. I slowly started to back away from the women before turning to run. As I rushed off into the fields, I heard wheat breaking behind me. One of the women was crunching through the fields behind me, holding a small gun. I wasn’t one to be frightened of a small piece of metal, but at that moment, it was the last thing I wanted to see. I jumped as high as I could and tried to slice through the wind, but just as I thought I had gotten away, a bullet shot into the air, straight through my foot.  

It was a short fall to the ground, and the woman who had shot me immediately came to tower over me. Her friends soon found her, but stayed a few feet back, letting the man they had brought with them approach me instead. 

“I heard of you,” he said, his accent putting a strain on the vowels. “You were causing treachery the town o’er there, least that’s what I heard. A boy with wings, blue eyes, knotted brown hair. What a sight.” I tried to scramble away from him, but the man was able to maneuver me into a sack and haul me over his shoulder. 

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I heard the man talk to a few others, including the voice I recognized as our mayor, but everything was muffled by the thick bag I was stuffed inside of. By the time I was dumped in the center of the town square, my breathing was ragged and my whole body sore. 

“This monster is here to be burned at the stake on charges of murder and suspect of arson and assassination,” says a stout man wearing a loose black suit. As I process his words, my body struggles to get out of its bounds. An execution block is waiting for me on an elevated area of the square. The town square is a cobblestone circle in the exact center of town where people come to sell their wares every day. An elevated platform in the center of the town square is used for speaking at public meetings. At that time, you couldn’t see the various buildings surrounding the circle due to the mass amount of people crowding towards the platform, all their eyes on me. 

My mind had wandered off and I had missed the rest of the tiny man’s speech. I tried to compose myself when a man with a mask, gloves, and a dark cloak came over to me and yet again hoisted me over his shoulder. But I wouldn’t go down without a fight. My legacy would live on. I hadn’t spent my life like this to make nothing of it. 

“Wait, wait!” I shouted. People dragged their eyes away from the looming carving block to lock their eyes on me. “You shouldn’t do this! While you have no proof of any of these things, you also don’t know why I’ve done those things. I’ve only done them for the better of our community.” I was lying on the block now, but the executioner had paused, seeming interested in what I was saying. I had the interest of the people. “I may have taken the tavern away.” There were angry shouts at that. “BUT” I had shouted over the roar, resuming after it had quieted, “It’s only made you better for it. Have you been hurt recently? Have you been shamed by your peers? Felt bad about yourself? No. Taking away small parts of life ultimately lead to humanity growing more and more similar to each other. I’m only making this world a better place!” 

“Your wings aren’t doing anything to help that!” I heard a voice shout from the crowd. A few chuckles escaped from the surrounding people. 

“Really? I’ll show you how dedicated I am! This world can be a different place! Let me show you right now!” I struggled to lift myself up from my position on the block, but it was no use with my hands, wings, and legs tied together. I looked around and found a small shard of bone on the ground. I grabbed it in between my teeth and turned my head as far back as I could, beginning to saw at the feathers on my back. I struggled for a few minutes before the executioner solemnly walked over and replaced my bone shard with a knife. My rusty, bronze knife. I looked into the executioner’s eyes, silently thanking him before continuing my struggle. The flesh where back meets bone was thin, and it took not more than ten minutes to finish my demonstration.  

“You see? This is a cause worth fighting for! We can all be the same now! The future generations won’t have to struggle with others if we fight for this!” I struggled to speak through the pain, my voice coming out smaller than before. The blood was pouring down my back and soaking the cobblestones. 

The executioner was speaking quietly with the mayor, when they suddenly quieted and the mayor conveyed to the group. 

“Despite what the convict has said, he has still committed murder and arson, which is something we cannot excuse. Let this be a lesson to all.” The executioner walked back to the block and released the rope. The sharp edge came down with a thud, and my cry could be heard for miles.