Learning to Fly (A Very Rough WIP)

The ceiling was too low. Sight was the first sense to awaken from the long night, dazed by insane dreams of ruined cities and clouds drifting peacefully over the desolation. He realized that he felt nothing beneath him. Supine, groping like a blind man, he reached back for something solid and felt his questioning fingers push through quite a bit of air before their tips gently brushed his covers. He panicked. A gasp caught in his throat, tearing at it and choking him. He thrashed wildly in a moment of breathlessness. Something gave: he fell heavily onto the bed, bounced out, and landed with a muffled thump and a heartfelt curse on the hardwood floor.

Just a dream, he thought, one of those little day-dreams in between sleep and waking up. It felt so real, no wonder I got scared and threw myself out of bed. And with that, he pushed himself up and immediately put the incident out of mind. There were more important things to worry about than flights of fancy. A button-down that looked presentable, possibly even sharp, had to be found in the fallout of his laundry strewn across the floor. He picked up a white shirt. What is this? Is this blood? Ketchup? He scratched half-heartedly at the crusty splash of red before tossing the shirt aside in favor of a patch of bright blue that, when grabbed, unearthed a thin shirt the color of the summer sky. Too wrinkled. If I had time, I'd look up how to iron. I'm sure I have one around here somewhere. Oh well. There was only one shirt left that was appropriate for such an occasion as today, though the shirt in question hadn't been seen since his brother's wedding a few months ago. Maybe it had managed to avoid joining the debris that shielded what must be a very clean floor underneath from the grime of apathy. He went over to his closet, walking like a man with x-ray vision in a minefield; with bowel-gripping nervousness tempered by a practiced knowledge of exactly where to step. He opened it and was relieved to find a shirt so black that it almost shined with darkness in the gloom.

Locating a matching pair of pants and jacket was much easier; he believed that no one ever paid attention to the waist-down if it was clothed, and so had a few pairs of dusty dress pants hidden away. The jacket had also survived largely through disuse. He looked warily at the black figure in the mirror. The fabric gripped him in unfamiliar places, and he felt strangely naked despite wearing more layers than he was used to, as if some intimate part of him was exposed to senses keener than sight. He turned away, tired of seeing himself. The roar of passing cars, the musical tune of voices sublimating into dialogue, and the rapid-fire twang of metal that speaks of nearby construction cut through the silence in his house, reminding him of all the empty space by filling it with sound. He didn't want to be inside anymore. He didn't want to be alone.

It was warming up as he made his way to the 90s Impala in his driveway, an unlikely and partially unwanted heirloom flaking away in the sunlight and humidity. It would be a cool night, he thought, after it rains and I can finally feel it on my scalp. It seemed appropriate to cut my hair this short to look more presentable, more solemn. It seemed appropriate because later... well. He tried to take control of his thoughts, Think of something else. Think happy. Think of breakfast. Think of the little French restaurant a good two mile trek away through the slick black hills of suburbia. It was too good a morning to drive, and the deliberate effort made what must have been the perfect croissant, a rich, flaky, buttery, and yet ephemeral pleasure, all the better. So simple and so, so satisfying.

He started the walk up, all too aware that after he'd gotten there and eaten, drinking just water and savoring the energy of the morning sun, he'd have missed... it. What a shame. No one will miss me though. He instantly felt sick, reminded again of what he had done. To her. To all of them. Ohgodand the KID. He's just 14 and suddenly he's robbed of his mother and orphaned. Because of me. Why do I always think about myself? What right do I have now, today? He was at the restaurant. What just happened? He looked at his watch. Two minutes. A mile a minute. 60 mph at a slow, reluctant walk.