Fly

The boy muffled his ears in pillows and blankets, his face in tears and sobs. Below him sang two dischordant tunes- his father's bass booming, melodic mother moaning. 1

Her cries ring out resounding cymbals. He shouts storm out as blaring trumpets.2

This whole sad symphony frightens the boy. It's not the tune he'd wish to hear. Instead he looks to the window, to the moon, and the clouds. Their gentle hum and silent sorrow sound soft to his ears, a sacred oath of perseverence. He always loved night best. The darkness meant he could seek refuge in his room and lay in his bed unbothered. 3

Only on rare occassions would his father seige the staircase and sunder his solitude. The piercing light would cut away his pleasant dark, and the silhouette of his father would stop him still. His musings would thin out as failing mist, a passing breeze. 4

Mornings were mournings, for his mother would sleep late, tired from the beatings. His older sister would come in early, drunk and loud. His father would be gone for work, his tornado fury left wreckage in its wake. 5

Every night the boy looked to his moon, her beaming fair face falling upon him, filling him serene. 6

This particular night he prayed to be taken up to her. The fights were getting worse. The storm had finally reached his little kingdom and he feared he couldn't weather it. Twice now had he been struck by his father's lightning, his body bearing the bruises. 7

His mother ignored him now, even detesting his touch. His sister was gone. She didn't come home. Alone he sat and the only love he felt was the cold solid light from the moon. 8

The music struck up again, a violent piece. The chords were jarring. There was an abrupt stop and the melody changed. 9

He found himself near the window, looking out longingly. He was sick of this sound, tired of the treble of this house. He would no longer be a mere instrument to this song. His father would lay no hand on him. 10

He looked to the moon. Her song seductive. She seemed to smile at him.11

There were footsteps, their rythmn unsteady. The song had changed, it's crux lay on him. His mother's part had been played out, quieted for a time, by the conductor's swift hand. 12

He glanced at the door, it's frame golden yellow. The yellow was widening. A black figure was emerging. 13

Tonight he would fly.14

He heard a new song-was it worry? Was it anger? He couldn't tell.15

As the air rushed about him, he heard a new theme.16

His theme was freedom.