Mist

Mist

I step forward, turn. She%u2019s staring at me, running as if in slow motion, horror on her face and a scream upon her lips. I know that my own face is oddly peaceful. I%u2019ve seen it enough in reflections. I lean back. I fall off the roof.

I twist in midair and spread my arms, exultation written on my face. My hair whips as wind buffets, turning from a gale to a hurricane as I hit the mist. I catch glimpses of street through gaps, but I don%u2019t feel worry. I can%u2019t feel worry. Not like this.

A few yards above the ground I wake. It seems to be the same place that I wake every night, but I know it%u2019s not. I always seem to wake at the same place. A year ago I woke before the twentieth floor.

She hears my sigh. She stirs in my arms, drowsy, looking up through her hair. I feel totally relaxed, and I guess it shows in my smile because she stiffens. She knows that I had the dream again.

The dream worries her. She thinks that I%u2019m suicidal and she wants me to go to a psychologist. She couldn%u2019t be more wrong. It's life I feel as I fall, not death. More than that, I%u2019m not stupid enough to do it for real. Life is short enough that I won%u2019t waste it for something I can feel every night. Besides, not like I%u2019m in despair.

I argue there%u2019s no point to going to the psychologist. I know what I want; I know what they%u2019ll tell me. I want to give up control. I want to be free. I want to enter the unknown; I want to enter the mist.

Impact is irrelevant; the fall it all that matters.

I love my dreams.

Life is good. This morning is good. It gets a little worse as she begins to yell. Go to a psychologist. Get drugs. Go a support group. Do something. Stop dreaming. STOP DREAMING.

We break up.

It%u2019s been coming for a while.

I never even got up from the mattress. Too relaxed, I couldn%u2019t be bothered. It%u2019s probably why we broke up today. It was the mist. The mist made it perfect. I cross to the blinds, opening them. It%u2019s another beautiful day in Seattle. Cloudy. Dark. Chilly. Misty. %u201CDreary%u201D. I love the rain. I love the wind. I love the dark. I love the mist. The view is great so high up.

I don%u2019t know how long I spend there. It%u2019s long enough that the cold leaches through the window, another good thing. Today started bad, but it%u2019s looking up. I go back to the mattress and wrap myself in still-warm blankets, loving the difference. They smell a bit like her, but I don't mind. Soon enough I drop off to sleep.

I won%u2019t wake up in time, she had thrown the alarm at me. %u201CWe broke up this morning, sob sob sniffle.%u201D My boss will let me off work, especially if I explain about the clock. She%u2019s a sweetheart. I think she has a crush on me.

It%u2019s better, so much better. She%u2019s not yelling at me, she%u2019s not crying, she%u2019s not trying to stop me. She doesn%u2019t think I%u2019m committing suicide. Not when she%u2019s not there. Lights shine through the mist, and it opens cool arms to welcome me.

I wake in the same place as always. The same place I%u2019ve woken every night for two years, even though it%u2019s not. I don%u2019t get up; just watch the ceiling in twilight.

I could see a woman in the car beneath me. She was middle-aged, had bad make-up, was no one special. She didn%u2019t see me. She had a coffee, was chatting on a cell phone held in the crook of her shoulder. She was trying and failing to take notes on the dashboard.

Today, I passed the lamp-posts for the very first time.

Soon enough I won%u2019t wake up.

It's worth it.