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It was so quiet up here.
Above the drone of life, living seemed simple.
But living was the last thing on his mind.
He inched closer to the building’s edge and looked down. An updraft hit him full in the face; he closed his eyes against it, but did not step back. He would never step backwards again, only forwards, and only once.
A single step and all his problems would end. A single step and everyone else’s problems would begin.
They were so ungrateful. He’d done so much for them, for nothing. No rewards, no fixed income, not even a nod of thanks.
So they’d have to do without him. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
And he was going. Messily.
Seventeen years he’d being working like this. He was the most famous, most recognised and most important person in the city. There were fan clubs, there were look-alikes, there was even a statue.
Still, he wasn’t impressed.
People waved and laughed, screamed and fainted. His fearless deeds were recreated on the playground. Old ladies put his picture on their walls.
He was depressed.
Down below, people clogged the pavements, cars choked the roads. Going nowhere, doing nothing. Tedious, pointless lives.
But they could all be happy, they knew they were safe.
If anything happened, he’d be there.
Reliable, infallible, efficient, wonderful, invincible.
The pressure was unbelievable. It strangled him even here, above the staring eyes, comfortable smiles. Every living soul in the city knew he’d be there, knew he’d always be there right in time.
They had no idea what kind of pressure that put on a guy.
Selfish, so selfish.
Perhaps they’d be a little less smug without him around. Maybe the police, the government, would actually do their jobs.
Who knows, he might even get another statue out of this.
This was it. The end.
He took that single step forward and dropped soundlessly towards the beckoning pavement. As he fell, he smiled and let everything go. His mind went blank. Only the whistling of the wind registered, faintly, in his ears.
One last breath.
Natural instincts took over.
He landed perfectly, of course.
One knee to the floor, planted next to a clenched fist, the other leg bent out to the side. Shoulders hunched, head down, the other hand resting lighting on his sword hilt.
He waited the customary three seconds and looked up. Tears of frustration burned in his eyes.
That was the problem with being a superhero. Suicide was near impossible.
Above the drone of life, living seemed simple.
But living was the last thing on his mind.
He inched closer to the building’s edge and looked down. An updraft hit him full in the face; he closed his eyes against it, but did not step back. He would never step backwards again, only forwards, and only once.
A single step and all his problems would end. A single step and everyone else’s problems would begin.
They were so ungrateful. He’d done so much for them, for nothing. No rewards, no fixed income, not even a nod of thanks.
So they’d have to do without him. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
And he was going. Messily.
Seventeen years he’d being working like this. He was the most famous, most recognised and most important person in the city. There were fan clubs, there were look-alikes, there was even a statue.
Still, he wasn’t impressed.
People waved and laughed, screamed and fainted. His fearless deeds were recreated on the playground. Old ladies put his picture on their walls.
He was depressed.
Down below, people clogged the pavements, cars choked the roads. Going nowhere, doing nothing. Tedious, pointless lives.
But they could all be happy, they knew they were safe.
If anything happened, he’d be there.
Reliable, infallible, efficient, wonderful, invincible.
The pressure was unbelievable. It strangled him even here, above the staring eyes, comfortable smiles. Every living soul in the city knew he’d be there, knew he’d always be there right in time.
They had no idea what kind of pressure that put on a guy.
Selfish, so selfish.
Perhaps they’d be a little less smug without him around. Maybe the police, the government, would actually do their jobs.
Who knows, he might even get another statue out of this.
This was it. The end.
He took that single step forward and dropped soundlessly towards the beckoning pavement. As he fell, he smiled and let everything go. His mind went blank. Only the whistling of the wind registered, faintly, in his ears.
One last breath.
Natural instincts took over.
He landed perfectly, of course.
One knee to the floor, planted next to a clenched fist, the other leg bent out to the side. Shoulders hunched, head down, the other hand resting lighting on his sword hilt.
He waited the customary three seconds and looked up. Tears of frustration burned in his eyes.
That was the problem with being a superhero. Suicide was near impossible.
Damn - no 'splat'. I feel robbed.
:)
:)
Damn, I wish I hadn't read the last line now! I liked it. Very much.
Er ... thanks?
*Adds 'efficient writer' to big list of talents*
It's a extraordinarily long list.
*Adds 'efficient writer' to big list of talents*
It's a extraordinarily long list.
Effficiently expressed. Good one.
It was so quiet up here.
Above the drone of life, living seemed simple.
But living was the last thing on his mind.
He inched closer to the building’s edge and looked down. An updraft hit him full in the face; he closed his eyes against it, but did not step back. He would never step backwards again, only forwards, and only once.
A single step and all his problems would end. A single step and everyone else’s problems would begin.
They were so ungrateful. He’d done so much for them, for nothing. No rewards, no fixed income, not even a nod of thanks.
So they’d have to do without him. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
And he was going. Messily.
Seventeen years he’d being working like this. He was the most famous, most recognised and most important person in the city. There were fan clubs, there were look-alikes, there was even a statue.
Still, he wasn’t impressed.
People waved and laughed, screamed and fainted. His fearless deeds were recreated on the playground. Old ladies put his picture on their walls.
He was depressed.
Down below, people clogged the pavements, cars choked the roads. Going nowhere, doing nothing. Tedious, pointless lives.
But they could all be happy, they knew they were safe.
If anything happened, he’d be there.
Reliable, infallible, efficient, wonderful, invincible.
The pressure was unbelievable. It strangled him even here, above the staring eyes, comfortable smiles. Every living soul in the city knew he’d be there, knew he’d always be there right in time.
They had no idea what kind of pressure that put on a guy.
Selfish, so selfish.
Perhaps they’d be a little less smug without him around. Maybe the police, the government, would actually do their jobs.
Who knows, he might even get another statue out of this.
This was it. The end.
He took that single step forward and dropped soundlessly towards the beckoning pavement. As he fell, he smiled and let everything go. His mind went blank. Only the whistling of the wind registered, faintly, in his ears.
One last breath.
Natural instincts took over.
He landed perfectly, of course.
One knee to the floor, planted next to a clenched fist, the other leg bent out to the side. Shoulders hunched, head down, the other hand resting lighting on his sword hilt.
He waited the customary three seconds and looked up. Tears of frustration burned in his eyes.
That was the problem with being a superhero. Suicide was near impossible.
Above the drone of life, living seemed simple.
But living was the last thing on his mind.
He inched closer to the building’s edge and looked down. An updraft hit him full in the face; he closed his eyes against it, but did not step back. He would never step backwards again, only forwards, and only once.
A single step and all his problems would end. A single step and everyone else’s problems would begin.
They were so ungrateful. He’d done so much for them, for nothing. No rewards, no fixed income, not even a nod of thanks.
So they’d have to do without him. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
And he was going. Messily.
Seventeen years he’d being working like this. He was the most famous, most recognised and most important person in the city. There were fan clubs, there were look-alikes, there was even a statue.
Still, he wasn’t impressed.
People waved and laughed, screamed and fainted. His fearless deeds were recreated on the playground. Old ladies put his picture on their walls.
He was depressed.
Down below, people clogged the pavements, cars choked the roads. Going nowhere, doing nothing. Tedious, pointless lives.
But they could all be happy, they knew they were safe.
If anything happened, he’d be there.
Reliable, infallible, efficient, wonderful, invincible.
The pressure was unbelievable. It strangled him even here, above the staring eyes, comfortable smiles. Every living soul in the city knew he’d be there, knew he’d always be there right in time.
They had no idea what kind of pressure that put on a guy.
Selfish, so selfish.
Perhaps they’d be a little less smug without him around. Maybe the police, the government, would actually do their jobs.
Who knows, he might even get another statue out of this.
This was it. The end.
He took that single step forward and dropped soundlessly towards the beckoning pavement. As he fell, he smiled and let everything go. His mind went blank. Only the whistling of the wind registered, faintly, in his ears.
One last breath.
Natural instincts took over.
He landed perfectly, of course.
One knee to the floor, planted next to a clenched fist, the other leg bent out to the side. Shoulders hunched, head down, the other hand resting lighting on his sword hilt.
He waited the customary three seconds and looked up. Tears of frustration burned in his eyes.
That was the problem with being a superhero. Suicide was near impossible.