Taking Off

It was dark.

I stood on the dock, surveying the blackness of the lake, the eerie, captivating reflection of the moon on its vast surface. And he stood behind me.

My wings were hidden in the shadows, frozen. Those wings were the only way I could get to the center of the lake to save someone, but they were no more than fragile, sleeping carvings on my back. I couldn't make them work. I just couldn't.

So I stood there, on the wooden, rickety excuse for a pier, regally draped in pure white – radiant, hopeless. But he stood behind me, and he was of the shadows. It was only his silhouette that I could see, but I knew I knew him – and he knew me. He was one with me. As if to confirm this insane thought, he whispered gently – and I flew. Just like that.

I spread my wings and the feathers were stained glass and they glittered on the icy face of the waters, leaving trails of tiny crystals in the air, like a spill of shimmering grains of sand. The wind rushed to my grinning face as I dived and glided, incessantly glancing to my side at the vivid streaks of light – trickles of little diamonds – that surged and glistened with each wave of my wings. I felt those powerful wings from my shoulder blades, felt every beat, every flex, felt each sinew within contract and expand as I soared closer to my goal: I knew I could save whoever needed saving now. I turned towards the dock to thank him. But he wasn't there. He had done his job.

The moon shone even brighter overhead.