Osira stood at the edge of a cliff with her toes eager to take off. She could feel the wind sustaining her intention on her back. No shivers. No fears. Afterall, the wind could not be wrong. Her long black tresses curtained her face like a head covered before an execution. Whispers in the wind sang out to her and called her names for being a coward... in good humour of course. The dark curtain on her face hid a smile that screamed of dares and adventure. She was about to listen to her friend – the wind.
She nosedived. Neck cracked.
The wind was still calling her names while she stood delicately this time. The face was still curtained behind her wildly flowing locks. No smile.
The toes were curled and firmly gripping the edge. ‘Osira, you nitwit! Don’t you believe in anything I say?’ howled the wind. She slapped her back strongly against the wind. A broken neck was her recent trophy. With clenched fists and rehearsed dynamics she jumped.
Got swept away and hit a rock. Broke her legs.
The wind felt somewhat stronger now. Not that it was. ‘There has to be a better way’, thought Osira. She leered over with her head hung low - trying to map her way down. Blood trickled down her hair. She loved watching the drops fall and disappear after a while.
The wind cackled and gave her little nudges this time. It was delightful to watch.
She had to figure it out right away. Flung herself over.
This needs a strategy. There’s definitely a better way to do this. Osira is sitting with her legs dangling from the edge of the cliff. Stooping and wondering. There has to be a better way.
The wind’s name-calling is mere noise now. She is swaying with it. It soothes her muscles and numbs her pain.
She is observing the blood trickle down and disappear.
‘There is a better way’, thinks Osira while she is waiting to heal.