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At the age of 16, Wilbur stood on the edge of a cliff. Clouds rolled below him, obscuring the view of the ground. The wind was sharp, biting his cheeks and turning them red, the cold a stark contrast from the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Coming here had been an impulse decision. He hadn’t prepared, and his light brown coat did nothing to shield him from the wind, whipping around behind him like something from a dramatic scene in a movie. Taking one last look at the mountains around him, the sheer drop just inches away, Wilbur shut his eyes and stepped forward off the cliff.
— —
From as early as he could remember there were feathers. Dark, like the night sky during a new moon. Soft, like fingertips brushing against his skin. Graceful, like a dancer that danced with the winds and flowed with the streams. They’d kept him warm when he would be scooped into Phil’s arms and carried inside after playing in the snow all afternoon. They’d protected him, when he crawled into Phil’s bed after having a nightmare, keeping all of the bad dreams at bay.
When he was 5, he’d asked Phil when he would get his own feathers. Phil had smiled softly as he tucked him into bed, planting a kiss on his head. “One day bud. You have to believe in them, then they will come.”
“I do,” Will had answered with shining eyes, “I will.”
“Good.” Phil had answered, and turned off the lights. And from that day forward he did everything he could to get his feathers.
— —
If he concentrated hard enough, shut his eyes, it was almost as if he could feel the wind in his wings. He imagined that this was what it would be like to fly. His hair flowing in the wind, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, feeling weightless and free. He supposed that he would never really get to know. That this is the closest he would ever be able to come to flying. It felt good, to finally know what it would feel like.
— —
Wilbur was 8 when Phil found him crying in the backyard. It was getting dark, and colder as the sun settled down past the horizon. Wilbur was sitting at the base of a tree, and Phil sat down with him.
“What if I never get them?” Will had asked, his voice soft and timid. And Phil pulled him closer. “How do I even know if I am believing hard enough?” A warm wing wrapped around him, the feathers blocking the cold and protecting him as they always did.
“You can’t ever know that. It’s impossible. You can only keep believing in them.”
“I want to be like you. I want to fly.”
“One day.” Phil had said, like he did everytime Wilbur asked.
“What’s it like?”
“It feels like you’re free,” Phil whispered, and Wilbur shut his eyes as he listened. “Like you’re weightless without a care in the world. You can see everything, and it all looks so tiny…”
— —
He always thought the clouds would be soft. They look delicate from the ground. Like soft pillows or whipped cream. As he fell through them though, they were anything but soft. They left him wet, water gathering on his face and soaking his clothes, whipping into his eyes as he plummeted. The wind screamed in his ears, loud and roaring like a waterfall. It was cold, and everything was too much, too fast. And just like that, the illusion began to break.
— —
Phil had always been the center of Will’s world. Phil was the strongest, he could open all of the jars Will could never open, could fly up into the air with one solid beat of his wings. Phil was the bravest, he would scare off all the monsters hiding underneath Will’s bed, would protect him from all the nightmares. Phil was the kindest, he would take in all the stray animals and give them food, he would always make sure to bake extra pies for the villagers when they went to visit. Phil was everything Wilbur wanted to be when he grew up.
Wilbur was 10 the first time he told Phil that he hated him. He had spent all day planning a show with his friends, rehearsing and making it perfect. It was his own story, coming to life. Phil had promised to come. He didn’t. Will searched for the feathers in the crowd, but they were nowhere in sight.
He had found Phil in his library, engrossed in ancient texts. Phil tried to apologize, but Wilbur simply slammed his door. The words “I hate you,” rung sharply throughout the house. It was a day before they spoke to each other again.
Their conversations became more scarce. Wilbur hung out with his friends more and Phil threw himself into his work. Wilbur was 12 when he stopped referring to Phil as “Dad”.
— —
He was falling too fast now. Everything was a blur. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. He could see the ground now, rushing toward him. Unmoving. He wasn’t quite sure if he screamed or not. If he did, he couldn’t hear it. It was swallowed up by the wind. He shut his eyes.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
— —
He wasn’t quite sure when in his life he stopped believing he would get feathers. Maybe it was the first time he told Phil he hated him. Maybe it was the first time he fell and nothing, no one was there to catch him. Maybe it was the first time that Phil told him “One day”. Maybe he never really stopped believing, and it just wasn’t possible. Maybe this was his last ditch attempt to show his belief, to test the limits and see if it would ever happen.
He had been 16 when he told his Dad he wanted nothing to do with him, told him that he was going away and wouldn’t be coming back. He had been 16 when he found himself in some unfamiliar place, cold, alone, and wanting nothing more than to go back to his house. To be wrapped in the warm feathers and lulled to sleep by his Dad’s soft voice as he explained what flying felt like. He had been 16 when he jumped from the cliff, choosing to believe for one last time that he could fly.
— —
Strong hands lifted him, slowing his fall. He opened his eyes and suddenly all he could see were feathers. Dark, like the night sky during a new moon. Soft, like fingertips brushing against his skin. Graceful, like a dancer that danced with the winds and flowed with the streams. “I’ve got you,” Phil reassured.
And suddenly he was no longer falling, he was flying. The wind no longer roared in his ears, it sang. He felt weightless, free, like the air was running through his veins and lifting him up.
“You caught me,” he whispered and the wind did not swallow his words this time.
“I always will. Believe in me.”