At first, I was content to stay. But my father, he wanted to leave. If he left, I would go. I didn’t want to turn out like that.

Like Perdix.

We would leave Crete.
Our prison.
For awhile it was just desire. Then, it became more frantic. We had to escape. I wanted to ask ‘why?’ but I knew it was because we were in danger.
“Why?”
“Why did you displease Minos?”
“Why did you kill Perdix?”
I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t be the same.

Like Perdix.

So he made wax wings.
We would fly.
Not too high, not too low. I had to go with him. If I stayed, with or without my father, I would be killed.
And they were nice wings.
I could fly now.
The sun was warm and I wanted to go closer. What had my father said?
“Do not fly too low – your wings will grow heavy.”
“Do not fly too high – your wings will burn.”
But I could do it.

I flew higher

and higher

and higher.

I wanted to touch it. I wanted to reach the sun. My father’s wings were good; they would carry me.
Almost.
Almost.
Almost.
Oh, the sun was too hot. My wings were melting, the feathers were burning.

I fell faster

and faster

and faster.

My father was gone. He’d flown away. I had tried not to meet the same fate, but in the end, I was

just like Perdix.