Fly Away!

10/06/2001

Matt exploded through the screen door of his house at a dead run. His father raced through the door; hot on his heels. As he ran across the deck, tears streamed from his eyes. He only wanted to fly away, far, far away from here! He launched himself from the top step of the porch, and, for a brief moment, he was airborne. The fear in his eye faded ever so slightly. One way or another, the years of abuse would end. With a jarring jolt, gravity caught hold and brought him back to earth. There would be no flying today!

He raced across the graveled driveway headed for the field across the street. His bull-like father charged on after him. Seething with red rage the Minotaur’s fury burnt into the back of his neck. Faster and faster, he ran trying to outdistance himself from the monster at his heels. Across the labyrinth of fields that led to Bowles Road, he charged on. His mind raced back to those dreams of flying across these fields intermixed with the reality of the broken bones and a damaged soul. Each stride was a call to the friendly skies.

Matt crested the hill that led to Bowles Road. The gap between him and father had grown. The obscenities and curses chased after him. Faster and faster, he felt he was running close to the speed of sound. With a warm autumn wind in his face, he could not hear his father’s rants. Across the hot tarmac of Bowles Road, he ran like a warrior in retreat. Trying to break free of the maze that his life had become, he could not continue this daily fight for his dignity. Tears dried on his face and today’s bruise on his hip, were the newest injuries to this warrior.

As he ran up the dirt road that led to the local baseball field, he stumbled face first into the dusty road. Struggling to rise, he saw the raging bull charging. Ignoring the dust attached to his sweat-drenched chest and face, he threw himself to his feet and ran for his life. This battle was not going to end like this; he would escape to anywhere. It did not matter where he went, anywhere was better than here. His sleek body flowed fluidly across the baseball diamond. Looking down at the blur of his legs, he prayed for his feet to leave the ground. Just for one moment, just for once in his life - Fly!

Unaware to Matt, he had beaten his father. For the first time in his life, he had beaten his father but never noticed. The monster would not capture him. He ran and ran, not looking back. The demon of his home was becoming smaller and smaller. Standing at the edge of the baseball field, his father ranted like Rumplestiltskin, a caricature of himself. Matt rode on the sound waves of the verbal onslaught. He charged into the woods, through the low-lying shrubs, through the briars of the raspberry bushes. His bare arms and chest were excoriated with thin lines of crimson as he exited the thorny briar patch. Plummeting deeper into the woods as the sun descended on the unexpected horizon, he slowed his pace.

His worn blue jeans were soaked as he waded across Gordon’s River. On the other side of the river, he stopped and listened. No sounds of pursuit. Would he ever be safe? The solitude of the woods echoed the memories of the conflicts - all of them. He submerged himself in the cold water of Gordon’s River, washing away the dirt and tears from his face. He scrubbed the grime from his chest with vicious strokes trying more to absolve his damaged heart. He fell to his knees in the stream. His tears attempting to purify the unseen taint and transgression from his tiny body, he cried. For the first time in his life, he cried not in pain but in relief. The deluge of tears was diluted in the gentle current of Gordon’s River flushing away the hurt, the fear, and the love. As he rose from the river cleansed; he still could not fly away. He began to tug at the thorns in his side, carefully removing them.

With darkness pulling its blanket to its chin, he tried to find a place to rest for the night. In a clearing surrounded by ancient pine trees, he found the center of the Labyrinth. No trail of breadcrumbs or string to follow back, he could not return. Would not return! As the chill of darkness settled, he realized how unprepared he was for his flight and tonight he needed a place to sleep. He made a bed of dried pine needles, which he softened by stepping on over and over again. Once satisfied by his handiwork, he created a small pile of dried leaves, broken twigs, and pinecones. Removing a penknife from his pocket, he stripped the bark from a couple of weathered branches. Using those branches to rub together to start a fire, he tried and tried but after many unsuccessful attempts he threw the sticks to the ground. After the frustration wore off, he picked up pieces of wood and tried again. He rubbed those sticks together for hours but not a spark flew to the pile of kindling. In anger, he snapped the sticks in two and crashed into his pine needle cradle. How he longed to fly. One day, one night he would fly away.

As he lay in his crude bed, he dreamt of flying, flying across his yard, across Bowles Road, across the baseball field, over the woods and beyond. But even as he flew, he was touched, every time by the hand that hurt him, and words still echoed off him like radar. He remembered every hurt, every taunt and every touch. But he learned how to fly. He had learned how to fly. Running across the field, flapping his long arms like the loons of Brettun’s Pond, he became free. As the sun sneaked in upon Matt, he lay on the ground like Icarus after his fall, melted wings and broken body.