Some of us make it.
You know the ones.
The ones that are blessed by certain angels. The ones who sat upon carefully pressed horseshoe diapers and never really learned how to spit out the silver spoon.
The lucky ones.
There’s this one guy. He had wings, big frilly yellow things, not really much as super powers go. I think he called himself the Canary or some such foolishness.
Whatever.
It seems he pulled the right kid out of a burning building. He damn near killed himself in the heat spiralling cross currents.
“His wings caught on fire,” one of the rescue workers told a reporter. “It was something to see, like a bright canary comet lighting up the sky. A long streak of flame trailing out behind him and he just kept on going like he was trying to outrun his own personal funeral bonfire.”
It seemed the kid that he saved had himself a rich daddy.
A rich and grateful daddy.
There was a big reward for saving the kid.
So the Canary, or whatever his name was, got his picture in the newspaper.
They even named an art gallery after this guy.
I go see him every now and then. I stand there and grin at him and drink his liquor while he tells me the same damn old stories, every time.
He serves good whiskey, the fancy stuff.
The truth is, I can’t stand the guy.
The truth is, I don’t think he can stand me.
But I remember the way he looked in that sea of burning flame, with me handing the kid out to him before the floor gave way.
Nearly burned me alive.
The only thing that saved me was a sewer hole in the cellar. I crawled through and found safety amongst the rats.
Who offered me no reward.
I still go to see him and he always invites me in and he pulls the blinds like the sun is shining in his eyes.
I know the truth.
I stand just as close to him as I can.
It makes him nervous.
Even now I can smell it.
The reek of burned pin feathers.
An angel who flew too close to the candle.
Some of us make it.