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I woke up to sunshine, cut by the partially open shades on the window. The smooth white blanket on top of me was made for sterility, not comfort. I was in a crinkly hospital gown with the back open.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out where I was. Why I was there took a little bit more detective work.
We’d been flying, right? He’d been showing me, on bigger and bigger trees, how to land. Then we found a huge one.
I was petrified. This was one of those old-ass Montana forest trees that have probably been there since fish first grew legs and walked around topside.
CC was staring at me with hungry eyes. Every leap we made, his breathing got heavier. I doubted it was the exertion, since he did all of the leaps so smoothly.
He was impressed with me. Every chance I took was turning him on.
The feeling of flight was like nothing else. It had all the exhilaration of a rollercoaster and the smooth replenishing feeling of swimming in clear, smooth water. It was the biggest rush of power I’d ever had.
I guess the only thing I could really compare it to would be skiing. When you skied, it felt as if you owned the slopes. As if you were part of the wind and also all of the nature that had given itself up to you.
As I swooped and dove, I felt I was a true apex predator. But the landings always brought me back some humility. I was clunky, and each time I felt as if I was falling off a bike, and I could feel the bruises and bumps under my tough, scaly exterior.
But, here I was, about to jump off a tree as tall as a small mountain (at least it felt like it), ride the wave of aerodynamics, and come to some kind of stop at the bottom. CC said it was all about trusting yourself to make the landing, or at least trusting yourself to survive if it went awry.
Surfing always sounded insane to me. Getting out onto the water and praying it didn’t smash your face in, all so you can get a few minutes of adrenaline rush. Really only a few seconds.
As I looked into CC’s eyes, I thought I understood. I stepped off the tree and flapped my massive wings to get air resistance. They felt great as they unfolded and hit the warm summer air. The air filled my large lungs, and the high I felt was ten times better than the runner’s highs I chased in high school on the track team.
CC was a second behind me. We looped in the air, dancing around each other on the rhythm of the wind. Occasionally, one of us would bathe the other in a delicious blast of fire.
Then, he got a devilish look in his eye. “Let’s play,” he said, “Tag.”
He blasted me with a full cannonball of fire, and I roared with the playful joy of it. I chased him, and he flew back into the tree line, testing my agility. I wasn’t about to give up. He was clearly slowing himself down so I had a chance, which made it all the more important that I catch him. I sent blasts carefully through the trees, trying to hit him without hitting any extremely flammable wood.
Eventually I had him trapped so he had to rush across a road. I followed closely behind him. That was when I became enveloped in a white light and felt a harsh smash into my ribcage. I heard him scream my name, in my mind. Then all went quiet.
I woke up in the hospital. Blake was sitting across from me, concerned as all hell but relieved to see me awake.
Maybe it was all a dream? Is that what I wanted?
To have never really flown?
