Insolence

I soared through the sky, my wings cutting through the air with an elegant grace that only the heavens could offer. The vastness around me stretched infinitely, a world where the mundane concerns of the earth below seemed inconsequential. The city, now a fading memory beneath the horizon, was no longer mine to claim. I had left it far behind, shedding it like a discarded garment, and with it, the ceaseless noise and corruption.

The city—how quaint, how convenient—but also suffocating. It was a place of perpetual motion, a cacophony of human voices and metallic clinks, a haven for distractions. People bustled about, chasing fleeting desires, their lives dictated by an unnecessary urgency. There was a sense of pervasive busyness, a constant hum that vibrated through the streets and buildings, as though it had become the very pulse of life itself. But I had never understood it. The clamour, the noise—it was as if the soul of the city had been drowned beneath a tidal wave of perpetual distraction.

Perhaps I was an anomaly. I had always found peace in silence, in stillness. The mind, when surrounded by noise, struggles to find clarity. It is drowned by the superficial—the incessant demands for attention and the constant barrage of information. In the city's clamouring depths, I felt an oppressive weight. Why do they not seek to escape this? I often wondered. Why is there comfort in the noise?

As I flew over a club, the bass thudded like a heartbeat, a pulsating rhythm that echoed the shallow pursuits of its patrons. Then, a bar, where laughter and drunken slurs mingled with the clink of glass—a discordant symphony of temporary pleasures. To willingly spend time in such places seemed incomprehensible to me. Yet, I recognized it as a form of human nature—people driven by desires they themselves might not fully understand, their values shaped by fleeting pleasures, by a culture that insists that life's worth is measured by accumulation and indulgence.

And so, I left the city behind, my wings carrying me further, towards the quiet solitude of the outskirts. Villages and small towns greeted me like forgotten relics of a time long past. Here, the pulse of life was slower, quieter. These places were old, crumbling in their own way, their buildings sagging under the weight of years. Time had not been kind to them, but there was an air of tranquillity that I found more agreeable than the frantic pace of city life. People in these parts had shed the urgency of the city, yet it had left them in a state of decay. Maybe they've lost desire, I mused. Or perhaps they never had it to begin with.

What struck me most was the contradiction of it all—these small towns, weathered and decayed, were somehow more enduring than the glistening modernity of the city. The buildings, though crumbling, had stood for generations. And yet, I wondered: if desire is the fuel that drives progress, would the lack of it, the absence of ambition, ultimately be their salvation? These forgotten corners of the world would likely outlast the bustling metropolis, their dilapidated walls standing firm against the tide of time. But to what end?

My stay in these towns was brief. A fleeting glance into a life that had long ceased to chase the illusory promises of the future. The wilderness, however, beckoned me. It called to me with a strength that made all the noise, all the clutter of civilization feel like a distant murmur.

The wilds were a place of untamed freedom—a world where I could escape the constraints of society, its expectations and its illusions. There was nothing here to distract me from myself. Only the open sky, the wind, the earth. Nature's rhythm was slower, more deliberate, more in tune with the truth of existence. Here, I felt unshackled. Free.

I pirouetted through the sky, the air rushing past me in wild currents. I dove and swerved, my body flowing through the wind as though I was one with it, my movements a dance of pure euphoria. The sky was my canvas, and with every twist and turn, I painted my own existence. I was alive in the truest sense—not in the mechanical way of the city or the stagnant way of the town, but in the pure, unbridled freedom of nature.

But then, the joy faltered. A sharp pain, sudden and brutal, struck my chest. It was as if the world itself had turned against me, an unwanted reminder that all things—no matter how free, no matter how beautiful—are vulnerable. The pain was rhythmic, a steady thud like a drumbeat that grew louder and more insistent. It shattered my concentration, and before I knew it, I was spiralling downward, my wings no longer guiding me. The wind, once a companion, now felt like a weight dragging me down.

Bang!

I felt something pierce the side of my chest and with it, a stream of crimson red fluttered through the sky.

I was in agony, an agony of life.

I crashed through the canopy of trees, my body slamming into branches, snapping through leaves, until I finally hit the ground.

The world tilted. Pain erupted in my body, a searing agony that tore through every inch of me. Despair gripped my heart as I lay there, stunned, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

A small group of children stood nearby, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"I think I got it," one boy declared triumphantly, holding a shotgun with trembling hands. His voice was filled with a strange sense of pride, as if this moment held some deeper significance.

"You really hit something?" another boy asked, sceptical but curious.

The first boy grinned, practically bouncing with excitement as he made his way toward me, still writhing on the ground. "Doubt it if you want, but I did. I'm showing Father."

The others watched in silence, a mix of emotions flickering across their faces. Some appeared uneasy, others indifferent, but most of them—mostly the boys—looked at me with a strange sense of joy, as if my suffering had somehow validated their existence. What a curious thing, I thought, the way suffering can be turned into a trophy, a badge of pride, a validation of one's worth.

A girl in the group spoke, her voice edged with horror. "What are you doing?"

The boy who had shot me—Gary, as I would later come to know him—grinned with an innocence that betrayed the darkness of his actions. "Picking it up, obviously. Gotta show Father."

The older boy in the group sneered dismissively. "It's just a bird. No need to make a big deal out of it."

The others, a mix of boys and girls, began to drift away. The oldest of them, Ben, turned back.

"Gary, you coming?"

Gary was still standing there, his eyes locked on me with a strange intensity. It was as if he saw something in me—something more than just a fallen creature. The way he trembled, the way he stared—it made me wonder: was he afraid? Or did he, too, recognize something deeper?

But before I could delve further into this, Ben's voice cut through the air.

"Gary, what's wrong?"

But Gary didn't respond. His eyes were wide, his body frozen as he stared at me, a strange intensity behind his gaze. Ben, the older boy, noticed the shift in Gary's expression, the way his pupils dilated, and something in the air changed. Ben didn't wait for an explanation. Without a word, he spun on his heel and began to run—fast, as if something had shifted in him, something primal urging him to flee.

The other children, bewildered by his sudden departure, quickly followed suit. They didn't know why they were running, but the desire to not be left behind seemed to overpower their curiosity. 

As they broke from the forest's edge, one girl hesitated, her voice soft with unease.

"That was mean."

Ben, hearing her, stopped briefly, his head tilting back as if to consider her words. He sneered.

"You all followed me," he snapped, his voice dripping with frustration. "I didn't force you to. If you're that worried about Gary, why don't you go back and help him?"

Without waiting for a response, he turned and stalked off, heading toward the town, his footsteps purposeful. 

The others were left standing in the shadows of the trees, uncertainty clouding their faces. After some moments of deliberation, they finally made their decision. 

They would follow Ben. Gary, it seemed, was no longer their concern. They left him behind.

Ben, however, walked quietly, an anxious smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "I don't know what that was, but that definitely wasn't Gary."

Instincts, Ben thought to himself, smiling. I trust them. He didn't know why, but something told him Gary wasn't the same boy he had once known. And that felt like a truth worth following.

***

Gary found himself surrounded by a light blue abyss and before him, stood me, in my most natural state.

Gary's voice cracked through the silence, his scream a raw expression of terror. His eyes met mine, and in them, I saw a reflection of something—something I couldn't quite name.

I knew then that my appearance held more than just the power to intimidate—it had become a barrier, a force that commanded fear. And in fear, there was power. Protection. Reverence.

I studied him, this small, fragile boy. His dark brown hair was unruly, sticking out in wild angles. His pale face was framed with freckles, his eyes sunken and tired, as if he had seen more than his fair share of hardship. His clothes, a mismatched and worn collection, were stained with dirt, a sign of neglect or perhaps indifference.

But it wasn't his appearance that held my focus—it was the sense of unease that rippled through him, the way he looked at me as if I were something more than just a creature fallen from the sky. He looked at me as if I was a monster.

I entered his mind, slipping past the walls of his consciousness. But something was wrong. I found myself pulled back, unable to breach the depths of his memories. It was as though something—or someone—was preventing me from seeing the truth.

Frustration simmered beneath my calm exterior. Why can't I see his memories? I wondered. What am I missing?

But then, a new thought crossed my mind: Does it even matter?

Gary stood before me, and in his fear, in his uncertainty, he held the answers I sought. I would unravel them, piece by piece. It was only a matter of time.

And as I stared at him, I couldn't help but wonder—What does it mean to truly see? To understand another's soul? Perhaps it was not just his memories I needed to access, but something deeper within him—a truth hidden in plain sight.

It was a question that would drive me forward.

And I would find the answer.

But it didn't matter.

I found myself back in the forest and in the body of Gary.

I gazed down at my new form. Feet. Hands. A human body. I opened my mouth, startled by the hoarse rasp that came out.

"Hello," I said, my voice thick, but unmistakably clear.

For a brief moment, confusion gripped me—how had I managed to speak, to appear human? 

The curiosity I felt at first quickly gave way to exhilaration. I could feel the energy of the world moving through me, and I found myself, almost instinctively, moving in the direction the children had gone. 

The town, the society, was ahead.