“Son. The wings. Are they done?” Daedalus was staring into the clouds which were a few miles away, but a few inches away when the wings were ready. I checked on the wings, with astonishment, they were solid, a break free from this singular rocky tower.
I suited up as soon as I knew it was prepared to be used. “Son. You need to listen to me…” I marched to the edge of the turret, “Wait! You need to…”
“I want to get out of this hell.” intercepted solemnly by the chagrin me of my father’s deeds of building the labyrinth. “That you created.” adding insult to injury.
“Wait! You need to remem…” one of my foot was in thin air, my body followed suit. Diving with the gravitational acceleration, reaching a terminal velocity, I spread my waxed wings to soar in the skies, breathing the air of freedom, wafting through the atmosphere that belonged to the Gods.
A familiar figure tailed me, kept on shouting warnings to me, I know what to do, dad. The paroxysm of freedom overwhelmed me, climbed over my head, I flapped my wings instead of maintaining my height.
If you go too high, the wax will melt and you are gone. If you go too low, you would not attain enough altitude and speed to fly, and so you will fall also. Keep the height as we have discussed earlier.
Those words coruscated across my mind, a mindless thought swept those words aside, Fly higher, my heart prompted me, to quench my insatiable thirst for freedom. I kept flapping, flapping and flapping, until I reached the apex of the skies, brushing away the clouds that wreathed me from reaching the sun.
Tearing away all the chains that held me back, reaching for the highest skies that were the Gods’ possession. Shattering the boundaries, contributing to the annals of history, I, Icarus had relished the winds of the highest, and being part of the Gods.
Feathers started to fall apart gradually, I was descending, No. I was losing the momentum to keep going higher. “No.” I flapped my wings vigourously, hoping that I would reattain my status, “NOOOOO!” the remainder of the frames were the only parts intact with me.
“FLY! YOU PIECE OF TRASH!” I commanded, but to no avail. The shadow of my father flew passed me, leaving crystalised drops of grief in the sky, regretting for having a recalcitrant child, me. I caught hold of his drop of tear, a symbol of melancholy of a loss child, hugging myself, embracing death with closed arms, filled with contrition and shame, sinking in remorse into the Davy Jones’ locker.