Shift (1)

     Sometimes we forget where we are in the moment and don’t to see. The hands of death clutch my throat and yet I find that I let them. I embrace them as though they were an old friend. The drapes fly backward, kissing me with a soft, cool breeze from outside. I can see the trees waving to me brilliantly in the afternoon sun, cutting the air so softly with their wistful branches. I want to be among them, I want to fly with their leaves, rest on the breeze and forget everything. A black square draws my attention.

     The rope weighs heavy in my hand, tied ever so gently to the railing; it’s finely coiled loops form a noose, hanging limply in the now stagnant air. The black square waltzes in the afternoon light, and immovable spec, taking away everything and leaving nothing. I want so badly for it all to be gone, but my old friend grows more distant from me by the moment.

     This is not my first fleeting attempt at bravery that has sputtered out like a wet match, It comes in fits, some places are nice, some of them stay longer than others, but time always falls short. Friends made in distant lands, never to be seen again, but always in my heart, growing like a weed into an ache that can never be quelled. I will always feel them, writhing inside me, like thousands of insatiable dragons, twisting and turning, devouring whatever they find.

     I can see her running towards me, telling me to put the noose down, that there is so much in this world to live for, that I have people who love me. I know it to be true, it’s plain on her face, the pain, the emotion, the sorrow. All of it is real, and yet I know in a moment none of it will matter. By the time I fall she will be nothing but a memory to collect dust amongst the corners of my mind, her long blonde hair cascading into an old library where it will never again be glimpsed, but from afar through an obscured window pane.

    The square is two now. They oscillate together, two pitch black butterflies, dots against the sky that only I can see. Maybe if she could see them too she would worry less. She could stop this foolish nonsense and let me attempt to die in peace. A life lived only in memories is not a life.

    I take a moment and try to concentrate on the features of her face. The soft lines around her eyes, kind eyes, full of sorrow, and a grief so profound that it can only accompany the loss of someone dearly loved. I wish I could tell her, tell her about everything, leave a note, but in the end she would love a crazy person, and no one would tell her otherwise.

        Her beautiful green eyes stare straight through me. Bright brown flares circle around them, swirling into little suns where I can hide from it all, find comfort, one last time. There is a place deep beneath the pain, a place that is still full of love, and a place I will never go again. I fixate my thoughts on that place and pull the rope tight around my neck. The chord has grown cold, but I suspect it’s not the reason I feel chilled.

       I step away from her, she screams, frantic, pleading now, but I know what must be done. I lean backward over the railing and fall. Time stops, or at least slows to a rate much slower than I am accustomed to. I can see the black squares, now numbering close to ten, filling the bright sky with a terrible blackness. I hope that I am not too late. Air whooshes past my face in a frantic gust, trying to slow me, stall my demise, but it does not matter.

       Sooner than I expected I can feel the sudden snap of the rope tightening. My neck does not break, and I feel the immediate effect of my windpipe being crushed. My vision blurs and the black squares duplicate incessantly. I die with a smile, knowing that they are too late, and I have controlled this one aspect of my fate…

                …and then I shift.