He was flying. At first, he thought it was beautiful. He could feel the onrush of air sweeping over his body, whipping at his outstretched hands and bare feet. He could see over the rooftops, out into blue sky, all the way to the river, and down onto roof gardens with their splashes of early summer colors, yellow and purple and pink. And there were quick glimpses into windows as they flashed by: TV sets blinking, food being cooked, life, thought to be hidden, suddenly revealed.
Best of all, it was exquisitely quiet. Eerily, wonderfully silent.
He didn't understand what was happening. Didn't know how he could have such power. All he knew was that it was magical. Everything was moving so slowly. A soft haze enveloped the entire world. It all seemed so unreal.
And then it wasn't beautiful.
And it wasn't unreal.
And he wasn't flying. He was falling.
He remembered suddenly. Just a flash of remembering. Someone in his apartment. Leading him outside. He remembered words. Just a few words…
I love you…
Things were moving faster now. There were no more glorious rooftops, only the drab sides of buildings with their pockmarked bricks and scarred concrete blocks. The wind cut into his eyes, blinding him so he could no longer see into people's secret worlds. His hands and feet were not outstretched, they were clawing, reaching upward, trying desperately and illogically to reverse what couldn't be reversed.
More words came into his head. Standing on the balcony. Looking out…
Why don't you love me?
Everything was even faster. And faster still. Out of control. Spinning. Faster and faster and faster.
Whose voice was it?
I love you…
Why don't you love me?
Sounds blared, overwhelming him: horns honking, tires screeching, dogs barking. People yelling. Someone screaming. A painful, terrible scream that filled the air, swept over the city. A siren of death.
It was his scream. Louder and more terrible as the pavement below swept up to greet him, as a passing couple scrambled to get out of the way, as a car swerved, knocking over metal garbage cans. As his flight ended and his teeth were jarred from his body and his nose flattened, then splattered on the cement. As his skull splintered and bones in his arms and legs and hip and back cracked and shattered.
The screaming stopped.
For a moment, there was quiet.
And then a new summer color was added, a bright and savage red, which spread over the dirty gray New York City sidewalk beneath him, then flowed into the gutter and streamed quickly onto the newly poured patches of ragged black tar on the street.