Author's Note: Haha, this was fun to write. I always wondered what would happen if Reiben was entirely out of control. Please take the time to review this, thank you! :D
"Alright, Brooklyn. Nothin' left for me to show you. Have fun." The older man, chewing his gum, made a gesture to the stretch of trees and forest below them before walking away. Reiben stared down at the ground several hundred feet beneath him as he perched on the rocky edge, a step's away from The Fall. From what he'd been told, it was a great situation, and unlike anything else.
There was a churning uneasiness in the pit of his gut, the sensation of a loss of control and balance already. He stirred slightly, tightening his grip on the metal of the single handlebar that pressed against his chest, cold from the crisp fall air. It was November, early November, and the stretch where he would plummet to was red and orange and yellow in a vivid display of colors. Plummet? No, he was supposedly going to fly.
A frigid wind pushed the hang glider that rested over his back, and it rattled the orange fabric. Nothing left to do now but to jump—so why was it that hard? Reiben had come with the intention of losing his physical control, having been stressed and angered, and now he was here. But he couldn't jump.
Here. At the edge of a mountain in the country, of all of the places that he could have been. He didn't know why, specifically, he had chosen this place---it wasn't because it was 'right' or because 'God' had told him to. Hell, he didn't believe in that load of shit anymore. And if God was real—he wasn't afraid of him.
Not after what he'd seen.
Finally the impulse hit him and he jumped before he could change his mind. In the first three seconds he was falling at a straight plummet, and didn't even realize that he was yelling. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" Then the wind snapped the hang glider back up with a forceful blow to the wings and his own chest, and it began to rise abruptly, soaring.
He was still shaking and a rush ran through his veins at the feel of the wind, at the feel of being so high above everything, at flying. This was what it felt like to be above everything else. His body was tensed and so was his jaw, simply at the attempt of controlling anything, just to verify that it was impossible.
The glider's wing tipped and he began to sweep to the left, circling almost like a bird. He'd never been this free in his entire life, the cold, rapidly moving air being forced up his nose and into his lungs, seeming to clear them of all of the damage of smoking. Everything flickered by without any thought.
The glider began to lower and the thought of landing came to him abruptly. How the Hell were you supposed to land? Oh well, it looked like he would be landing one way or another. His feet hit the hard ground and folded beneath him onto the pine needles and dead leaves after a few steps.
The hang glider fell and dug into the cool earth. It wasn't a crash, but the only way for the thing to land. He got up, the burdens coming back, and brushed off his knees. Maybe he'd do this again. But right now, he had to find a way to carry this stupid thing to the pick-up point.