Chopin, Raindrops

There are a few places where there should always be someone selling cotton candy and popcorn: funeral homes, Holocaust Museums, and on every street corner adjacent to a tall building. Not that people need to be reminded that they are spectating - there is always something special about witnessing something terrible without having to truly witness it. However, they do need to remember to keep their mouths shut, especially in the case of the street corners.

           

Tyler couldn’t help but wonder what his own gore would taste like to the spectators on the street. The women would be alright, as they held their hand over their mouths as custom, but the men would taste something sweet or bitter, salty, sour - they would taste something that Tyler was struggling to fully imagine.

He thought about his parents for a second, as he saw many of his viewers further divided into groups of two. They were probably watching on TV now, unaware that it is him in the building, making snide comments about liberal political leanings. They were sweet people, though.

There really was a lack of vocabulary to describe what he was feeling. Surely someone had come up with a proper term for it - the last escape from the existential boredom some people fall into: the feeling of true annihilation of the mind into the Universe, the feeling of true and proper freedom, the feeling of truly unsympathetic attention from the people watching from 30 stories below him.

He slips, a finger at a time from his left hand. His weight shifts forward and he balances on the ledge. He holds his weight steady with his right hand, leaning over the edge with the left side of his body. His left foot follows, hanging off like a child on a chair that is much too tall for him. He’s spread out like a flag for a split second, and that moment comes to him. He closes his eyes and let’s go completely.