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Adrenaline, wind, pulsing.
He files faster and higher than ever before.
There’s a dull buzz, a light blanket cloaking his every thought but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in this moment, only the adrenaline, the nerve, the sheer audacity for freedom.
He doesn’t think (what is he ? Is he a he ? Why would he be when it was never his decision. A witch, a ghost, and an ambition decided that for him; but where was his choice? Can he be a he when he was no less than a tool, a puppet dancing endlessly to the beat of a witch’s snare.)
There is no need to think. But there is urge to fly. Faster and higher.
When did it last soar without shackles? When did this crow flit about carelessly, with joy sung so desperately it reaches somewhere akin to heaven with its bellow. (Not heaven though, for heaven is where souls and humanity goes. It is simply a puppet uncut and unraveling at its seams. Perhaps it could be compared to a pierrot, but that would imply that the crow is a soul, and it certainly does not have one. Not since Edwin’s condemnation and Esther’s touch-) .
It flies beyond, it flies higher, and faster than ever before. The sun is within grasp! Surely, this is it, true unbridled freedom! ( It doesn’t look down, why would it ? There’s no consequences after all!)
It peers into the incinerator, how it gleams with life and gazes back promising death. How the sun’s warmth bathes the universe but smiles with death to those who approach.
And it approaches, flying faster and higher.
Why does it matter if death looms near the surface, dancing and weaving itself between the pockets of life being created through the sun’s warmth? It is already well acquainted with certain doom. She has already beckoned him- ( nonononononononononononononono -)
She has already beckoned it with an iron cane, a grin, a promise, an iron carding tool, a boy, with death herself. It is not afraid of doom for it was raised by it. It wears the devastation as a second plumage, its desperation as a collar.
It is not afraid to fall, for it is not falling for its hubris. It is falling for its freedom.
Now it files faster, higher, more desperate than ever before. Who cares if all direction point back to doom just as it always has? Because no matter how hard it tries, it can never truly escape? As of this moment doom isn’t present, only the promise of life in death; a vision warmth in the searing surface of the sun. (For a moment he can see two boys, one with a cadence as sharp yet satisfying as a burn and the other with a smile more brilliant than the sun- )
But who cares? Beyond this point, there’s no consequences!
It files faster, higher, harder than ever before! Yes, beyond this point there is no doom of consequences! Only salvation in the essence of life only attained through dying!
(Because how else is a tool meant to live?)