It was 3 a.m. and the city was as dark as it can get. The moon was hidden behind mist and thick, swirling clouds and there was not a star to be seen in the sky. On the streets there were few cars; almost no illumination came from piercing headlights. Inside the buildings, inhabitants slept. Windows were covered with shades. Even the usual flickering light that came from televisions left on all night seemed nonexistent. The city was black. And quiet.
Jack slid open the glass door that led to his terrace. Naked save for a light blue-and-white cotton robe, a long-ago gift from Caroline, he hesitated before stepping outside. He knew that what he was about to do was crazy but he was compelled nonetheless to do it. The magnet was there and it was drawing him outside.
Sleep was impossible, and he felt he had to try to understand, to see for himself.
One foot inched out onto the terrace and, although this was usually no problem for him, this night – or morning – his stomach immediately drew itself into a tight knot and his throat went dry. Another step and then another and then he was maybe six feet from the end of the terrace. His legs were rapidly losing strength; they felt as if they would barely keep him erect. But two more steps and he was closer yet. He reached out for the wall, tried to force himself to touch it, and he thought, yes, I can do this, I can do this, but then he started to shake and he could feel the magnet draw him closer and closer. He could see the fall. He could see them all falling. His mother, her mouth twisted, her eyes pleading, disappearing. Caroline, limp and lifeless, dropping. Kid…
What did he see when he saw Kid fall? Anger. Desperation. Clawing and fighting and resistance against something that could not be resisted.
The terror swept over Jack and took his body, his mind, his soul, and as his fingers strained to touch the brick he stumbled. His body half turned and he could feel himself shivering uncontrollably. Disoriented now, he didn't know how close he was to the wall, then he felt his shoulder scrape against it and he screamed. The scream was strangled in his throat, it didn't last long, but now Jack felt himself going. His hand was on the top of the wall and he saw exactly what was going to happen. His other hand would touch there and he'd force himself closer, and then his leg would magically rise up, and then his other leg, and then he'd be gone. He'd be flying above the city. All-seeing and -powerful. But then he'd be falling, too. Just like all the others. It would come with no warning; his flight would just stop and there he'd be, out there – out there – with nothing to grab on to, nothing to save him. He'd be dropping. Faster. Faster still. And even faster. And there would be the city, rushing up to envelop him, swooping over him and through him. The blackness would take him and make him its own.
The pain. The noise. The roar and then the stillness.
And then it would be over…
When Jack's eyes opened, he was on the floor of his terrace. His right hand was stretched above his head, his left was resting tight against his body. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, didn't know it had been less than a minute. He got his bearings, saw the table and his usual chair, saw the barbell and the stack of weights. He shifted his head to look back through the glass door into his living room. All was still dark and silent.
Jack never turned back to look at the wall. He crawled the several feet he needed until his hand could touch the solid glass of the sliding door. When his palm was pressed against it, could feel its coolness soak into his hot flesh, his dizziness began to subside. His stomach slowly settled and his robe, damp from his sweat, began to drop away from his body and loosen. He took a deep breath and stood, slowly, in stages, as if unfurling himself from inside a trunk. Or a coffin.
Jack put one foot inside his apartment. For a moment he straddled the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. Then his back foot slid forward and he was in his living room. Without turning around, he fumbled for the handle of the door, found it, and slid the glass shut.
He wiped the moisture from his forehead, ran his hand through his sopping-wet hair, went into his bedroom and sat on the bed. When he lay down, he pulled the light, summer quilt up to his shoulders and then over his chin. Soon, almost all that was visible were his eyes. They stayed open for several more hours, staring straight ahead, and then, close to seven in the morning, they finally closed and Jack slept a fitful but dreamless sleep.