Vola

Long ago, if one looked at the sky from this place, they might be able to see a swath of glittering stars. Now, if one looks at the sky, all they see is hollow darkness. Maybe it’s better in the country, where the tendrils of pollution don’t quite reach, but Vola lived in the city, in a cramped apartment. The night sky blanketed the tall buildings, a sharp contrast to the flashing lights of the city below. Vola scanned the sky, breathing out a gentle sigh against the glass of the window, sorrow for the lost luminescence soaking into her bones. 

The cheap tourist clock Vola bought on her first day in this apartment ticked away, a loud reminder that the little time she has left is being robbed from her. She carefully unwinded the window, wincing as it squeaked loudly, knowing that tomorrow the old lady in the room next door would be yelling at her for the noise. Vola stepped over the windowsill, sliding down onto the fire escape. 

Nothing really happened for a long time. Vola swayed on the fire escape, the grated floor and peeling paint not bothering her anymore, after years of standing there barefoot. The rusting metal never gave way, and that was all she ever needed from it. Well, that had been the case. These days, Vola sometimes wished that the worn out escape would collapse beneath her, leaving her to the mercy of Fate. Vola looked out, searching beyond the honking of cars for the barest wisp of fresh air. 

It’s difficult to pretend the city doesn’t exist up here, with a neon sign advertising some new hair product wherever she looked. Vola mournfully sat down, wondering why she ever chose to live here, in this crumbling, dusty attic of an apartment, when all she ever wanted to do was to have a quaint little house in the suburbs. But life wasn’t fair like that. Who could have known the path Vola would be unceremoniously dumped upon?

With trembling hands, Vola took a folded picture from her pocket. The colors were faded and the creases shone white even in the moon’s sickly glow, but the joy emanating from the faces in the picture was impossible to extinguish. At least, they thought it had been when the picture was taken. In the picture, Vola stood front and center, face glowing as she proudly held up her acceptance letter to one of the best art schools in the country. Her parents had their arms around her, and Vola’s brother grinned up at her. 

Her brother hadn’t been grinning a month later, when the doctors apologetically handed him crutches after both of his leg bones were crushed in a car accident that also rendered him deaf. 

Her father hadn’t been laughing when he told them he had been fired for not showing up to work enough times, even though he had been caring for his suffering son on those days. 

Her mother hadn’t been proudly stroking Vola’s hair when she told her they wouldn’t be able to pay the tuition anymore. 

Vola’s face certainly hadn’t been glowing when she ripped up the acceptance letter and tossed it into the recycling. It hadn’t been glowing as she packed her bags and stepped out of the door to her parents’ house, hoping there would be more jobs in an urban area. And it wasn’t glowing now, after almost a decade stuck in this hell of a city, working until her fingers bled from untended splinters in her paintbrush, making just enough to support herself and her family. Her face was now gaunt, and her eyes were surrounded by black circles.

A patch of water blooms on the picture. Vola blinked, confused, before realizing that she’s crying. She let the tears slide down her jutting cheekbones, only caring enough to make sure the picture wasn’t stained further. One tear for her brilliant brother, reduced to a shell of his former self. One tear for her aging parents, who should have retired a long time ago. One tear for herself, for the blossoming little flower, strangled by weeds before it could mature.

Vola walked to the balcony and looked out. She had been contemplating this for years now. The idea of escaping her current situation, of leaving this room with its walls slowly closing in, seemed too good to be true. Vola had once felt sure that karma would catch up to someone even in death, but now her faith is slipping, and that little girl had died a long time ago. Vola thought of the concept of optimistic nihilism more now, wondering if everything would be forgotten in the end. 

It would be selfish, yes, but Vola was too tired to keep running anymore. She just wanted to quit, and she wasn’t scared of what awaited her. Still, her limbs felt sluggish as she clambered onto the railing.

There Vola stood, swaying ever so slightly, toes gripping the edge of the railing, arms aloft. Then, quiet as a feather, she swayed forward and fell.

Fell past the windows of her neighbors

Fell past a family of pigeons making a nest on the ledge of a building

Fell past the chiming of a grandfather clock, barely audible from a half open window

Fell past—

Vola gasped as she felt her descent slow, then stop. There was a pair of wings on her back. Vola could only see them out of the corner of her eye, but they’re beautiful; woven from morning dewdrops and gossamer butterflies. An urge to fly filled her, and she pumped her wings, feeling herself rise. Her wings are marvelous, passing right through traffic lights, birds, whatever crossed her path.

Peals of maniacal laughter shook Vola’s body as she soared even higher, her addled mind grasped the only artificial ray of light that came from this revelation; the hope that maybe she can fly away from her problems. It was impossible, and very possibly dangerous, but Vola didn’t care one bit.

While Vola was buried in her own insanity, her altitude kept climbing. Now, there is a reason why birds’ wings tire when they fly too high. Vola’s wings didn’t have that mechanism. And so, when Vola blinked back into reality, she realized just how woozy she had become.

“Air,” she whispered, barely managing to get it out. For a second, for just a millisecond, Vola hung there in the horizon. NO! Every part of her screamed, I’m so close! But it’s too late.

Then she fell, again. This time, Vola wasn’t awake to witness most of it. I’m so sorry, was her last thought before her body and soul split apart. As Vola’s limp body fell, her wings began to burn, blackening like a crow’s, like the shadow of midnight, like death’s tears. People notice, of course. There is always someone watching in a crowded city.

A pair of newlyweds were strolling through a park, arm in arm. One of them points up, at what first appeared to be a streak of fire across the domed sky.

“Look, Honey! It’s a shooting star! Make a wish!”

A set of four-year-old triplets were crowding around a window, having snuck out of bed after their parents went to bed for some well deserved rest. They all simultaneously noticed, in that uncanny way of triplets, the growing shape in the sky.

“It’s a bird!” The first one exclaimed.

“It’s a plane!’ the second retorted.

“It’s— what is it?” The third asked.

A woman briefly looked  up from her book and noticed the vaguely winged-human-shaped form falling from the sky.

“Icarus reborn,” the woman remarked sadly, before adjusting her glasses and returning to her book.

An old man was idly wiping the window of his nursing home, when he saw something fall. “It’s a phantom!” he gasped, turning to his roommate, who promptly wheeled himself to the window.

“No,” the second man said gravely, “It’s a wraith.”

A preteen boy was playing a game on his Xbox, when his younger sister ran into the room, squealing, 

“It’s Katniss! Katniss Everdeen! The Mockingjay!”, and jabbing towards the window, where a burning black winged woman was falling from.

A bank robber was driving almost double the speed of the speed limit with the police hot on his heels, when he spotted an angel-like figure falling from the sky. 

“They’re coming for me.” he whispered in a fevered panic, “They’re going to make me pay for my crimes. Please, angel or devil, whatever you do, don’t hurt Melanie.”

A young girl was curled up on her balcony seat, insomnia gripping her once again. She saw the figure fall, saw the burning wings, and she knew then. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that magic was real. She held tight to that knowledge, even when she was taught that it was impossible, even when she was older and wiser. She knew that magic was real, and when she grew up, she wrote a series about magic, writing her belief into every piece of it. And even on her deathbed, with her mind addled by Alzheimer’s, she never forgot that day.