The Fall

It takes in a world where a part of the population had the ability to fly.
Unfortunately, they didn't know if they had this ability.
The only way to know if they had it, and awaken it in the process, was to jump from a high point, so high there was not a single chance to survive.
If they have this ability, it would awaken and save their life.
And if not...

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A young man was standing at the highest point he could find, the place towering over the city in a beautiful breathtaking view.
The city was bathed in the gentle glowing light of the dusk, of the sleepy sun ready to let the night took over.

He was here, looking down, seeing how far the ground was from here.
He couldn't clearly make out the ground, only discerning few fading colours and blurry forms.
It was so high.

His left foot slowly hanged over the void, the white lace of his worned out shoe gently swinging in the wind as all his weight was still on his right foot which was securely planted on the firm ground.
He hesitated, unsure about making this fateful step, his hands tightly clutched the cloth of his pale blue pants, the mind racing with thoughts.
He finally took a deep breath, looking up at the orangish sky with melancholy and longing, seeing the sun slowly falling down.
Then...

He jumped.

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He was falling.

He felt weightless. The weight on his shoulders being lifted off him.
He felt the air slashing against his skin as he fell and its coolness contrasting with his warm skin.
Tiny salty pearls gathered at the corner of his eyes due to the air slashing against his clear eyes.

The sky was growing farther, and the ground was growing closer.

He closed his eyes, only hearing the air whistling in his ears and feeling the void under him.
He waited for the incoming impact against the hard ground, against the hard reality in the darkness of his eyelids.

Then, the whistling stopped, the sensation of falling stopped, the slashing of the cold air against him stopped too.
He felt like he was floating, slowly drifting away into the nothingness.

He slowly opened his eyes, watching the world around him.
Everything was still.
Nothing was blurry from the speed of the fall.
He was floating.
He was flying.

The unshed tears gathered in his glossy eyes fell, salty drops disappearing into the void and crashing on the ground below, far below him.

He could really fly.

He was staring with blurry eyes at the orangish sky above him, smooth pinkish clouds slowly passing by in the periphery of his vision.
The warmful colours were the only things he could see, besides the dimming ligh of the falling sun.

The boy began to cry more as the wind soothingly rocked him with fresh gentle breezes, running smooth invisible hands in his untangled messy brown hair.
His cries progressively quieted down while he hugged himself, burying himself in his loose and gray sweatshirt, the void around him soothed him in a comforting silence.

A part of the population had the ability to fly.
But the only way to know if they had it, was to jump from a high point, so high there was not a single chance to survive.
That was why not many dared to do it, afraid to die.

Because, after all, was it really worth to maybe die from trying to reach the sky ?

The few who dared, were whether reckless, confident or foolish, depending on who you asked.
They were whether met with death or the joy to have survived and discovered they could fly.

So how ironic was it when the boy cursed himself to have the ability to fly.
How he hated the fact he could float in the void without fearing to fall.

Because he wasn't expecting to survive, like anybody else would expect and wish when they jumped to meet a merciful and favourable destiny.

He was expecting an another destiny, an another end.

Icarus was expecting to die.