The Day I Learned to Fly

CW: suicide

I shove open the office doors and stumble out into the blazing heat of Phoenix.

“Hey, Peter,” a voice calls from behind and I curse under my breath. I was hoping to get to my car before he’d followed me downstairs.

“Sorry, Carl, I have somewhere to be,” I pant, stealing a glance at him. His face is red, not from the heat, but from our boss yelling at him for the last 10 minutes.

“Where have you got to be? You never go anywhere,” Carl protests, and then his voice lowers, “you kind of threw me under the bus back there, man.”

“Sorry, Carl, I don’t have time to talk right now. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, jogging to my vehicle.

I sigh as I shut myself into my Jetta, avoiding eye contact as I drive past my friend. It’s not like I lied, I just let our boss think that he miscalculated the numbers, not me. What was I supposed to do? I’ve never been one for confrontation, he knows that.

I’m waiting to turn left into my apartment when I see it, a dark ominous cloud hanging over the outskirts of town. I squint into it, I’ve never seen clouds so dark before, the blackness is so full it feels supernatural.

An aggressive honking snaps me out of the trance and I hit the gas hard, causing my car to shudder and squeal its way into the complex. I groan when I find my parking spot once again inhabited. I peel around and reverse into my roommate’s spot on the far end of the lot.

“Fucking Scott,” I grumble as I pull my briefcase out of the trunk. I think of a new curse for Scott for every extra step it takes to my front door. Letting myself in with a huff, I find the culprit lounging on the couch with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Scott, you parked in my spot again.”

“Oh, yeah sorry about that, Pete,” Scott takes a swig of his beverage, “see, I had to bring in the groceries. You don’t expect me to walk all the way from the end of the lot with all the groceries, do you? You’ve only got that there briefcase.”

“Well, I guess,” I reply, shuffling my feet.

“Yeah, glad we got it figured out,” Scott grins and lumbers over to the fridge, “want a drink?”

“Uh, sure,” I wave my hand, my attention drawn to the television. The news is covering the storm clouds I saw on my way home, claiming that they will be on us this evening. “Did you see we’re about to have a storm?”

“Yeah, the weatherman says to expect torrential weather for a good week at least. They look pretty menacing hey?”

I nod with a gulp. I’ve never experienced a storm like this and have no idea what to expect.

A few hours later Scott announces that he’s going to the bar with some friends, leaving me alone in the apartment. Despite the thunder rumbling outside, I manage to distract myself with a movie. At some point between the end of the film and the bottom of the popcorn bowl, I drift off.

I sit up on the couch, shivering. The television is still playing, but the sound is muffled as if my head were under water. Something is wrong with the screen; the picture keeps flickering between the baseball film and ABC15’s news coverage of the storm. Something seems to be taking shape within the storm. Goosebumps begin to prickle on the back of my neck as the form of a woman emerges, her eyes slits of red. She raises a hand, pointing at me and appears to be talking but no voice can be heard. I snatch up the remote control, rapidly punching the power button but the woman does not disappear. Instead, a crimson smile spreads across her features.

“Are you ready to fly?” A deep, multitoned voice whispers in my ear and I jolt awake.

I look at the television and the credits to the Million Dollar Arm are playing across the screen. Once I’ve finally stopped shaking, I stand up. Maybe moving into my bedroom would be more conducive to sleeping. A scream erupts from somewhere over head, distantly at first but growing stronger and stronger until there’s a terrible thud and then silence. I cover my ears and run to my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

In the comfort of my bed, I attempt to process what’s just happened. Most likely, the scream was some late-night partiers getting up to no good. And the dream, well, that’s just a culmination of my anxiety and the storm. With these soothing explanations I finally manage to fall into a deep slumber.

***

As I leave for work the next morning, I’m surprised to see that, despite the clouds hanging heavy overhead, it is not raining. But even more startling is the yellow tape wrapped around the side of the building accompanied by a slew of officers and hazmat suits. I take a few steps forward to see the scene from a better angle and instantly wish I hadn’t. Right outside my kitchen window is an occupied body bag.

“Excuse me, sir,” I look up and find myself face to face with a police officer, “sir, this is a crime scene. Unless you have some information for us, I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”

All I can manage is a nod. My eyes fixate on a woman adorned in a hazmat suit crouches over the body. Her head slowly raises, allowing me to see her face. She seems to notice me because her mouth curls into a smile and her tongue darts out across her lips, causing ruby droplets to parade down her chin.

“Sir, are you alright?” The officer asks.

“Huh?”

“You look unwell, are you okay?”

I look between the officer and the body—the woman has disappeared. I shake my head, and stumble to my vehicle. The entire drive to work I spend reasoning with myself and once I’ve arrived, I’m feeling confident that I must have just imagined her as a result of the nightmare I’d had the evening before.

I hasten inside to my cubicle but find that I needn’t have hurried at all. The work room is in complete chaos. Just as I’m about to sit, Carl rushes over, “Peter, oh man am I glad to see you. I heard that one of the suicides was in your building.”

“Wait, what? One of the suicides?”

“You haven’t heard?” Carl gasps, “there was a mass suicide last night. Eight men jumped off buildings across town.”

“No way! Eight?” I open the news on my desktop. Sure enough, news station is covering it. ABC15 has collaged 8 different crime scenes, each with its own body bag set at the bottom of a building. I spot my apartment and bring my face close to the screen. She’s not in the picture. The station changes back to the weather and Cindy Wimbledon is front and center. The image flickers and Cindy is replaced by a woman, shrouded in black. She snarls and runs her tongue across her teeth.

I grab Carl’s shoulder and point at the computer, “do you see her? Look, it’s her!”

“Who, the weather woman? Yeah, I see her.”

“No, not the fucking weather woman,” I shriek. The impersonator winks at me and then it flickers again and ABC15’s blonde, blue-eyed weather woman is staring back at us. “What the fuck. What kind of game is this?” I yank my glasses off my nose and swipe at my forehead.

“Peter, you don’t look so good. Maybe you should go home?” Carl says, backing out of my cubicle.

“Fuck off, Carl. I’m not crazy!” I spit.

Carl raises his hands in submission, “go home, Peter. I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

Maybe he’s right. If I’m sick it would explain why I’m seeing all this crazy shit.

***

My sick day was spent reading a book. If I don’t turn on the television she can’t come through the screen. Not that she’s real. She’s not. But I’d rather not give my imagination the chance to play tricks on me. At 5pm Scott lumbers into the apartment, “I see you took my parking spot,” he chuckles, taking a beer from the fridge.

“It’s not your spot.”

“I know, pal. I’m just pulling your leg.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Scott does a flippant motion with his hands and plops himself down on the couch. He flicks on the television and instantly ABC15 News is on the screen, “it’s raining again,” he muses, observing the weather forecast.

“I-it is?”

Scott nods and takes a swig of his beer, “They’re talking about those suicides. Guy that jumped off our building was the one from the corner unit, Hank I think his name was.”

I gulp and turn to see the short list of names, “Hank, that’s right.”

“All men hey? It makes one a little nervous,” Scott shifts and frowns.

“What do you mean? They were suicides, weren’t they?”

“I guess.”

The woman’s face flashes across my mind, the glee as she knelt over Hank’s body was palpable. I shudder and stand, “I’m going to bed.”

“To bed? It’s not even 5:30,” Scott says, sitting up, “I was hoping you’d hang here tonight.”

“Sorry, Scott. I came home sick today. I’m going to bed.” I shut myself into my room and crawl into bed. If I go to sleep maybe I can avoid hearing the storm outside and avoid any nightmares.

***

I’m outside of my complex looking at the crime scene again but this time, it’s pouring rain. There are police officers scattered all around, but I can’t make out any of their faces, they’re shrouded in darkness, as if their hoods are filled with fog. I turn to look at Hank’s body bag, it’s exactly where I remember. I stumble towards it, my feet sloshing through puddles. I kneel in front of the bag and take hold of the zipper, pulling it down. A tuft of brown hair emerges, and I pause, Hank is a redhead. All I want is to run, to get as far from this gory scene as possible, yet I can’t. My hand continues to reveal the face. My heart stops in horror as a pair of glasses come into view, framing blank, hazel eyes. I know who it is, but still my hand moves on, as if I can’t confirm the identity without seeing the whole of his face. The zipper slides over a familiar nose, an unmistakable pair of lips, until the entire head is revealed.

“Are you ready to jump?” The deep voice growls and I know who it is before even looking.

“No, no, not me. Anyone but me!” I wail.

“Who then?”

My eyes fly open, and the woman is there, hovering in the corner of my room. She has an amused expression on her face, as if she’s playing with a new toy. The room is unnaturally dark, there is no light save for the ominous red glow that she emits.

“No, no, this can’t be real.”

“Someone will die tonight. If not you, then who?”

The words leave my mouth before I’ve had time to even consider them, “m-my roommate, Scott. Just spare me, please,” I whimper, clasping my hands in earnest.

She bites her bottom lip, swaying from side to side like a puppet on a string. A smile spreads across her face and with a flash, she’s gone.

The room warms and brightens but despite the now comfortable temperature, I can’t stop shivering. I must have been hallucinating, ghosts aren’t real. She can’t be real. And yet, I hear Scott’s door creak and the soft padding of his feet. The front door opens and closes and then I hear nothing. He’s just going out for drinks with his friends. She isn’t real. She isn’t real. She isn’t….

There’s a scream, small at first, then growing louder and louder until, with a sickening thud, everything goes quiet.

***

Sleep denied me last night. I keep hoping that when I leave my room I’ll find Scott, frying eggs or brushing his teeth, but when I’ve finally worked up the courage to step foot into the living room, I’m met with an eerie silence. “Scott?” I call, but there is no answer.

I swing open the front door, sprinting out, my bathrobe billowing out behind me. The pavement is sharp on my barefeet as I run around the corner, and then I see it. Scott’s body crushed and broken, a pool of drying blood embracing him. There is a slew of peoples in uniforms taping off the area. An officer seems to notice me and begins to approach but I rush back into the apartment and then crumple to the floor.

I stay curled up on the tile for what seems like hours when there’s a knock at the door, “Peter? It’s me, Carl.” I bring myself to my feet and open the door to see my workmate, “oh thank god, Pete! I heard someone in your building jumped last night, there were 11 last night, did you hear? When you didn’t show up to work, I was worried.”

“11 people?” I whisper, slumping into the kitchen chair in shock. Carl nods sorrowfully and I pull on my hair, “Scott was one of them.”

“What? Like, Scott your roommate?” He gasps and I nod, “did you hear anything? Have you made a report?”

“What? No.”

“You haven’t done anything at all?”

“You know what, Carl? I don’t need your fucking judgment. My roommate just died. It wasn’t my fault. Just get out,” I yell, shoving the man out the door then slamming it in his face. I throw myself onto the sofa, once again, sink into a restless sleep.

***

I’m awoken by the clapping of thunder and an intense chill coming over the room. I sit up, groping for a blanket when there’s a low chuckle, “you won’t be needing that.”

I open my eyes and find my breath is stolen from my lungs. She’s floating above my face, her hands propped up under her chin, “Are you ready to jump?”

"What? I-I gave you Scott. What more do you want from me?”

“I need a sacrifice,” she hisses, her eyes flaming.

She rushes down and wraps her hands around my throat. “Carl!” I sputter, “take Carl.” Her lips curl into a smile and then she disappears.

***

I haven’t been to work since the day before Scott’s death, so I haven’t had to witness Carl’s empty cubicle. Maybe I would’ve been able to stomach it if I’d had the chance to forget the storm witch, but she has visited me every night for a week. Giving her names was difficult at first, but as time went on it became easier. I began to list people who had bullied me in school, or my mother’s ex boyfriends, and I’ve began to find it rather gratifying. Lounging on the couch, I flick on the television. ABC15 is once again covering the alleged suicides and there is Cindy in all her golden glory.

“The term ‘It’s Been Raining Men,’ has never been so true, as our city has been struck with a catastrophic rise in male suicides,” she recites, and I can’t help but chuckle. She proceeds to list about the names of the men who had died the previous evening. I feel a jolt of satisfaction when I see the name I’d chosen, Gerald Vickerson, my old highschool teacher who had failed me in Math class.

“Despite these dark times, I have some good news,” Cindy forces a smile, “we will be seeing the sun again here in Phoenix. The winds have changed, and the storm is making its way south.”

I sit up straight, a manic grin spreading across my face. If the storm leaves, she must leave. I’ll be free. No one will ever become aware of my part to play in this massacre. Suddenly there is a clap of thunder and the sound of rain battering against my window draws my attention away from the television.

There is a creaking sound from behind me and I sit rigid, unable to look. It’s her, I know it. And yet, there is a strange sound, like she is dragging something behind her.

“Peter,” a man’s voice croons. It can’t be. “You killed us, Peter.”

I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. There, crawling in through my front door is Carl and Scott and seven other men who’s names I had bestowed to the woman. Their bodies are broken and bent at unearthly angles. Scott’s head is lolling to the side and half of Carl’s face is missing. Blood slides out from beneath the men, staining my tile flooring.  “N-no, it, it wasn’t my fault,” I stammer.

“You betrayed us. And now, it’s time for you to fly.”

The men break into a chorus, chanting, “time to fly,” over and over.

Covering my ears, I turn to flee but a bloodied, deformed hand grabs my pant leg and I come crashing down to the floor. They’re almost on me when the black cloud appears over my head, the woman floating within it, her face twisted in delight.

“Are you ready to jump?” She blows a kiss, and black smoke envelops me.

The ground beneath me changes, no longer soft carpet, but rough and gritty. I look around and find myself on the roof of my apartment.

“No,” I plead as my body moves on its own to stand on the edge of the roof.

“Time to fly,” she commands.

My feet slip off into nothingness and I plummet towards the earth.

Turns out, I can’t fly.