Plummeting

by Nathan Nicolau

I thought she had wings.

When she jumped, I expected them to jut out of her body in their full glory, like a mother bird about to hug her young. She plummeted ten stories onto the grey concrete instead. Her body flew down rapidly, almost forcefully, and was free-falling for only a few seconds. Had I blinked, I would have missed her flight. The scene looked like a series of projected photos, with the first photo showing her standing on the roof and then disappearing in the second. The third photo would be my blank face watching the scene unfold from a train stop not too far away. 

If detectives had looked at those photos, they would have seen my cold demeanor and suspected I had something to do with this tragic situation, but I’m completely innocent. All I did was wait for my train. For some inexplicable reason, as she was inching closer to the edge of the building, I felt assured. “She has wings. She’ll be fine,” I said to myself, as if I lived in a fantasy world where bird-human hybrids existed. This struck me as an interesting idea for a short story. I plotted out the opening to this story while the ambulance wailed:

A birdman with a beak and black wings flew up to a birdwoman with a beak and blue wings. They both landed on the rooftop of a tall building to rest.

“How long have we been flying?” asked the man with black wings.

“Hmm, I’d say two days,” replied the woman with blue wings.

Somehow, it felt longer than that. The man and the woman watched below as non-winged humans walked, biked, or drove to their destinations.

“They wish they had wings to get to places faster, yet they already have all of these different ways of transportation. Humans are never satisfied,” the woman said.

“I wish we could fly as fast as their jet planes,” the man said.

“I’d pass. Traveling is all about the journey.”

“With no destination, we’d all be wandering without purpose.”

“Why are you always like this?” the woman said. They then both fell silent as a gust of wind fluffed their wings…

Just then, a rail worker dressed in black came up to us and interrupted my story. “Someone jumped and landed in the tracks. Sorry for the delay.”

It came out of his mouth like it was another Tuesday. It was funny that he had to tell me.

“Yeah. I saw,” I said.

The worker scrunched his eyebrows at me and walked away. Did what I said offend him? Was I not supposed to see the jump? Perhaps I spoke more coldly than him.

The train arrived not too long after. During the silent ride, I thought more about my story…

The birdman with black wings and the birdwoman with blue wings were soaring across the skies and over the ocean.

“How long have we been flying?” asked the man.

“Hmm, I’d say a week now,” the woman replied.

“Are you sure? It still feels longer than that.”

“I’m very sure. I keep track of these things better than you.”

“No need to be snarky,” the man grumbled.

“Then don’t be impatient,” the woman said.

“I really want to go home and see my relatives.”

“You spend more time with me than with them.”

“I’ve had a change of heart.”

The birdman looked at the vast blue below him…

Before I knew it, I was already opening my front door. It never occurred to me how fun coming up with a story was. My wife and leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken greeted me. I wished she had made dinner instead. After we ate and did some small talk, we sat on the couch and watched a cop show. I haven’t mentioned the falling woman at all, but it got me thinking about us.

“What would you do if I were gone tomorrow?” I asked.

“Are you sick of me already?”

“No. We’ve been together for how long now?”

“Five years now,” she said.

“It feels longer than that. Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure. We married right after your niece was born. She’s five years old now.”

“She is?”

“You don’t keep up with your own niece?” she asked.

“That’s my sister’s fault. She never tells me anything,” I said.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Go ask her yourself.”

“I have. She calls me every week,” she said.

“And?”

“She worries about you.”

“That so?” I asked.

“Don’t you care about your own family?”

“I do.”

“Then just give a quick phone call.”

“They won’t answer.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

She got up from the couch. “Why do you fight everything I say?”

“I don’t.”

“There you go again,” she said.

“You’re doing it too,” I said.

She slammed the bedroom door. The cop show was ending, so I turned it off. With the couch now having a pillow and blanket on it, I’d lost count of how many times this had become a familiar sight. The three pictures of the woman’s first and only flight replayed in my mind, but they soon morphed into new, photoshopped versions. The first picture, my niece. The second photo, my sister. The last photo…

The birdman and birdwoman were finally close to their destination: a remote island. They had said nothing for the remainder of their trip. The birdman didn’t know how to feel. He had kept his gaze on the sea the whole flight. Then, he stopped flapping his wings and wrapped them around his body in a hug. Like a diver, he descended to the water and landed with an unassuming splash. He then sank deeper as he let the waves swallow him. First his waist, then his torso, then his head, until he was gone. The birdwoman swooped down to the spot where he drowned. While most would go into a panic to try to save their partner, she hovered over the spot as if waiting for him to return.

“He has gills. He’ll be fine,” she said.

“I thought she had gills,” the birdman thought as he sank into the dark unknown…

These thoughts followed me to the kitchen. My medication stood alone on the counter. I’ve been on these same antidepressants for months and haven’t noticed much of a change. My psychiatrist said to come back and see about a different medication if that happens, but I’m not sure. Maybe that’s why there’s a girl in our bedroom and I’m not there. Maybe that’s why I was so apathetic this morning. I poured a glass of water, opened the pill bottle, and dumped the pills into my hand, looking like tiny white islands on a flesh-colored sea. The islands landed in the trash as I drank my water.

 

 

Nathan Nicolau is a writer/poet based in Charlotte, NC. His fiction, poetry, and essays have been featured in numerous publications. Find out more about him at
https://nathannicolau.wixsite.com/nathannicolau