There was a point where she realized she could do impossible things.
That day, she'd taken her name.
Screamed, Not Whispered.
After a while, the impossible stopped becoming something to discover. It stopped becoming a thrill, something to prove. It just started being a difference, a way to clear her mind.
She bobbed in the water, carried along on her back. The sun glared on the crown of her head, glinting over the veil of the waterfall she'd cascaded down moments before.
No longer an impossible thing. No longer an impossible thing to be herself. To breathe. To be a woman, in a shape of her own making.
Her head grew weightless as the water once more rushed over the edge. She thrust a boot under, shoved against the stones, thrust herself into the open air.
Screamed, Not Whispered pulled a carton of cigarettes from her pocket. A click of a lighter, a long, slow draw.
A small impossible: No whipping of air in her descent. Smoke spiralled skyward, tracing a slow arc that grew stories tall.
She spread her arms, scattering a mist of droplets like wings. She held her head back, caught sight of the inverted horizon.
Screamed, Not Whispered smiled at the warmth that fell over her face.
It'd sting in some minutes when she struck the pool below, but that was all. No more dying changed the world like nothing else.
She was weightless. She was impossible.
In this life after life, she was free.