Rain water pelts the window. I'm standing so close I can see my breath on the pane; I can feel the chilling breeze emitting from the surface of the glass. Looking down from the 12th floor, I can see people running to escape the down pour, covering their heads with newspapers or back packs or their sleeve. Others carry giant umbrellas that appear to be floating in midair.

I wish I were among them, standing with my arms open, welcoming the drops to rain down on my skin. Instead, they trickle down the window, spider webbing into root-like streams all the way down to the sill. Drops collide, merge, become one on the outside. I press my hand against the surface.

I'm so far away from them all. I'm above them, like I always am. I'm distant. I want to be with them. I want to belong. I'm so different that I've had to hide, never finding my place to fit in.

I sweep out of my apartment and head for the stairs. Instead of heading down, I move up, heading towards the roof. The door is locked but I cup my palm around the knob and twist ever so gently and the knob gives. I look around to make sure no one saw before disappearing behind the door.

The wind greets me on the other side of the door, wrapping around me in an invisible embrace. It's my only friend. It brings me the rain, sprinkling the liquid morsels on my cheeks as I walk to the edge of the roof. I can breathe up here. I suck in a deep mouthful of the cool and thick air before toeing the edge. I look over, bending at the waist to hang my torso over into oblivion. I can smell the yeast rise from the chimney of the bakery down the block, the exhaust from the trucks below, the perfume of the woman leaving the building across the street. I can see into the apartments five blocks away. I can hear conversations of strangers when they think no one can hear.

I am a freak; a monster maybe. What is wrong with me? How can I be like this? Straightening up, I look through the city, I look into the country, I see all the way to the horizon and beyond until I find the place I want to be. There it is. Now, if only I can get there.

Like Icarus with the hope of flight, I stretch my arms out to my sides. On the tips of my toes, I lean forward, letting myself go. I'm falling.

Falling.

Falling.

I open my eyes.

I correct myself and make the wind my stallion. I am flying, soaring. I shoot into the sky and among the roof tops. I drop to my feet on the roof of a building downtown, take off in a sprint, and jump from the edge again, letting the atmosphere catch me. The buzz of the city hits my ears like white noise. It's so loud. It's so deafening.

The rain burns my skin as the drops dive-bomb my face like kamikazes. I push forward, speeding up until I'm out of the city and out of the storm. Below me are fields of wheat. I dip down, skimming the feathery vegetation with the tips of my fingers. It's quiet here. It's peaceful but I'm not home yet. I move higher as houses emerge in the distance, afraid I'll be noticed.

The sun is setting and the air is cooler. I speed faster until I can see my destination. I make my descent and gingerly step onto the porch, stepping out of the sky. The house smells of rotting wood and mold. The once vibrant white siding was now faded, stained, and warped, pulling away from the house as if it resented the decaying structure.

The door bears a brand new dead bolt lock. Whoever owns the house now doesn't want any squatters. Spying the sleepy neighborhood around me, I cup my hand over the lock until I hear the click. I let myself in.

I can still see it in my memory. I've remembered every inch of this house since I was torn away from here, since my parents died and left me behind. I can still see my mother knitting on the couch and my father teaching me how to tie my shoes. I can still feel the plush carpet under my bare feet and a warm blanket smother me, fresh from the dryer.

This is the only place I'm not alone. This was the place I can be myself. I had to learn to hide when they died. I had to control it when I was out in the world; in the system. I tiptoe through the living room and run my fingers over the dust-covered counter.

Someone is here. I can hear their breath, in and out, slowly, calmly. They're watching me. I look over my shoulder and see a figure staring. His mind is blank. I can't hear him. How is that possible?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trespass." I say, heading for the back door. I focus on the knob, unlocking the door before I reach out for it. I sweep out, ducking under the old oak and to the back fence gate, leading to the dimly lit alley. I turn and the man was standing in front of me.

The distant streetlight gives me a vague idea of his features. I don't know his face. I don't know him but his hungry, direct eyes seem to know me. "What do you want?" I whisper.

The man smiles.

He bends his knees and he flys off, disappearing into the darkness. He is like me. He knows my secret and I want to know his. Exhaling deeply, I follow into the night sky.

The wind and I have company.

Impressum

Texte: The cover is not meant to be sold. It is only to enhance the reader’s experience. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the events, characters, and/or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright ©Jessica Wygle
Bildmaterialien: Google Images
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.10.2012

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