@WriteOutofTime
I was supposed to write something in 2nd person POV:
You’re terrified. Your mom definitely doesn’t know where you are, and if she did she would push you off the building herself. There’s more wind up here, and the coolness of the night air nips at your nose. You rub your nose, the motion fidgety. Exhale. You’re going to be okay. You know it.
Except you don’t know it. You have a fifty percent chance of survival. Literally, the odds are neither against you nor for you. Part of you wants to forget the whole thing, like most people do. You know you could just walk away from here, bring your toes back from over the edge, and go home. You could sit down at the kitchen table and stuff your face with Chinese takeout and throw the peas from the rice over at your brother’s plate. You could wake up the next morning and go to school and maybe even lie about it. You could live. But you’d have to live knowing that you might be able to fly, but you never even tried.
“Gutless,” you whisper, and the wind carries your voice, “or wingless?” Or both?
You think back to last year when your friend dragged you to this same building and wanted to show you she could fly. She was so excited. Giggling, dancing around, skipping as though she were already weightless. She dared you to try with her, but you chickened out. You wanted to see her do it first.
“Fine,” she said. “But I’ll shoot right back up here and see you. And then you’re gonna join me.”
“Statistically,” you said, “one in two people have the gene. That means only one of us. You know, statistically.”
She laughed in your face. “Sure, because that’s how it works.” She winked, slapping you on the arm. “Nah, you have to believe, girl! Haven’t you ever seen Peter Pan?”
You didn’t feel like telling her you hated Peter Pan because the light in her eyes rivaled Tinker Bell’s glow. Her excitement was contagious. Chewing her lip, her curls flying in the wind, she stepped towards the edge and held out her hands and if anyone could fly, it would be her. She flapped her arms a few times, just to be comic, like always. You giggled despite yourself.
It didn’t occur to you until a split second before she took flight that her jokes and her laughter were to disguise her fear. But in that moment before she jumped, before she fell, before her screams tore through the air, you heard her gasp. You saw her eyes widen. You saw her shiver.
Now you stand in her place. Your feet are where her feet were. Your hair is blowing in the same direction hers was. It’s your turn.
“One in two.” You feel goosebumps prickling your arms. “Statistically.”
You can almost feel her agreeing with you.
You can almost feel her hand against your back, urging you forward.
You can almost feel her sorrow at not being the one. But you can also, just barely, feel her excitement. Excitement for you.
Maybe she believes in you more than she believed in her.
