Icarus

Icarus

They say that when Icarus flew too close to the sun, he fell, a tumbling cloud of spiraling feathers and flailing limbs toward the inevitable pull of gravity and the ocean. And what a precious moment it must have been as he struck the waves. The tingling sting of impact; the feeling of hot dread contrasting against the frigidity of the water – for the water would be frigid, one would presume. And would he have committed this atrocity – ignorance and boastful pride – would he have committed it again, with a laugh and a whoop of joy?

I would.

I have long pondered the story of Icarus. A mere myth, one might think, but all myths hold truth. Or at the very least an element of this most tenuous of profanities. For truth is indeed a profanity and all who wish to speak of it must first recognize it for the blasphemous activity it is before one can hope to address its many issues. But still. Myths contain truths and “Icarus” contains a lot of them. There are a good many Icarus’ in the world. The stereotypical fall from grace, the tumble of morals that must surely follow this grace. And of course the metaphorical death of such a man.

I am an Icarus.

Oh yes, indeed, quite. I am an Icarus. I live in an asylum, but let it be known: - I am not a lunatic. No no, I do not burble insanities and I am, to put it quite simply, in an entirely clear state of mind. Transparent, almost. Unlike these other depressive madmen languishing around me in a false sense of self-esteem, pushed upon them by the horrors of modern medicine, I am quite clearly sane. I am not fed sedatives, nor antidepressants, or drugs of the mind – oh, I am quite a rare breed among these harebrained, self destructive old fools.

However, I am informed by reliable old “friends” that there are reasons for my being placed in such a prison as this. People seem to be in the strong belief that my love for even the simplest things in life - the fragrant scent of freshly cut grass, the dappled sunlight on the surface of a woodland pond, the way hot, crimson blood spurts from a freshly opened wound – are a sure sign of my madness. They are wrong. I do not even run with scissors.

Nevertheless, I have had my shortcomings. I reached the top of my flight, only for my beautiful Wax (for she was my Wax and I her Icarus) to crumble and melt beneath me. And then I fell. I am ashamed to say, I fell hard and landed upon my face.

And that of course, like any novel of a respectable stature, is what this story is about. And for the purposes of this story, I am to be known only as Icarus. You will know me by no name other than this. It is, I feel, my true name.

The beginning is always a good place to start.

My life started when I was around the age of five. Many have tried to argue this point with me, but seeing life purely as a biological process dehumanizes the whole experience, as it were. Memories create the person behind the façade (and it is a façade, all of it. The way we live, the way we present ourselves and everything related to it). I have a good memory, but similarly to just about every one person upon this most delicate of planets, my memory does not extend to many moons before the age of five. When I was five, I started to take a keen and uninterrupted interest in the world around me. Fascinating, it was. The way water ripples and splashes, so lucid and unstoppable. The way the wind blows of no apparent volition but of its own accord. The way a spider moves, so eerily. I would try to imagine how one could possibly control eight legs at once, but would become so quickly overawed by this magnificent feat of power that I would soon be forced to stop.

Many of the people in this Godforsaken place - a positive palace for broken homes and uncaring parents - had a bad childhood, full of rape, torture and terrible parenting skills. Their families were highly dysfunctional, if their mutterings and raspings are much to go by, but mine were the opposite. We were functional. We were always on time, always neatly dressed, always the first to notice a possible error or flaw. Perfectly presented. We appeared, to the rest of the world, I am sure, as sterile and clinical in our precision. There was love, certainly, but love was to be shown when nobody else was around to observe it, and take note. My parents were incredibly caring and conscientious people, however, and took notice of all of the strange curiosities that I performed upon a daily basis. They were entertained by my admittedly childish musings and would watch intently as I would attempt to fathom what it was that allowed people to catch a ball within their hands. Co-ordination, I was later informed.

It is not a skill I have ever really obtained.

And that was exactly my downfall, in the end.

By the time I was at the young and fantastically naive age of ten, I was already out-reading the others in my year at school. They were stupid, dumb, ignorant. Annoyingly so. The works of fiction I was reading were mostly from the “teen” section of the library – despite the fact that this is evidently the least read, most dust gathering corner of such a building, writers do insist on creating their works for this diverse group of people. It was all drivel, of course. When there is no one to read it, your works do not have to be great or prominent. I was, by no means a child prodigy, some genius with an IQ of one hundred and forty-eight by the time I was seven. No. I was merely intelligent and liked to make great use of the brain I was born with.

Some people are talented with their hands. Others with their listening skills. My talent was (and still is) my eyes. An eye for detail unparalleled by any others of my age. They never looked, never watched. They were so hyperactive, so full of energy. It disgusted me. Why did they not look at the leaves as they flew generously though the sky, turning and dancing? How did they not notice the beauty? And why did they run so aimlessly after an ungainly and ugly rubber ball? The world is quite the work of art in itself, an absolute relish for the retinas, and as its denizens, we have a duty to watch it.

We must find the time to stand and stare.

And that was the precise reason why I first hit anyone. They called him Tom. He would not listen. He did not take note of the exquisite splendor that I was trying to convey to him. The nettles were swaying in time with the dance of the last of the autumn pollen and they swished with the musical elegance that is so magical to me. I balled up my fists. Despite the fact that I was of only small to average height, and he one of the largest in our year, he fell over backwards when I finally struck him with a thump. The blinks of surprise in his stupid eyes were a magnificent sight to gaze upon and when his nose started to bleed it was simply fascinating. It trickled slowly down his face. Ruby red. Such pleasure to the eyes. Delicious.

I wanted to sense it.

I walked forward gently, eyes transfixed upon the blood running down his face towards his lips. I did not take great note of the tears welling in his eyes, and I am sure that he was terrified as I prowled in the way of a panther towards him. I leaned forward, inhaling the smell of the fluid, so close it nearly went up into my nostrils. Blood from nose to nose. It smelt so good. I couldn’t resist it. My tongue flicked out of my mouth, quick and smooth as a reptile and I tasted the iron taste of blood.

I grinned. It was good.

Silence, but for his breath. His breath, the only sound above the swishing of the trees and the nettles. His breath, a ticking clock. His breath, misting the air in front of our faces.

He jerked back suddenly, scrambling away. “You’re a God damned freak!”

That hurt. I am neither a freak nor am I odd. I am normal and I deserve the respect that the position holds.

The boy ran. He ran all the way back to the main building of the school. It was a macabre looking place, all greys and straight lines. Ominous it was, on the horizon and all around it could not fail but to at least glimpse the stark structure in the peripheral vision. Nevertheless, I liked it. It was clear, unmistakable and spectacularly grim.

Nothing ever came of that incident, and I think, perhaps, that’s when the fun in my life really began.

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