I Slipped

He stands there shivering. His toes hanging off the edge of the rooftop. He peers down into the darkness.

Am I really gonna do this? he thinks to himself. His heart pounding as he scratches his scraggly beard.

Rain pelts his head. Droplets stream down strands of long hair, into his eyes. He lets them pool. Not bothering to blink. His white T-shirt and heart-print boxer shorts are soaked, clinging to his scrawny frame.

Gazing at the barely visible sidewalk below, he's stuck, frozen in fear. One more step is all I need...

He hesitates too long — the memory he was trying to suppress resurfaces. The memory of earlier that night...

~~~

He sits at his desk — same shirt, same underwear. The pumping bass of techno music rattles his headphones. The monitor beams the gray, green and blue colors of his game onto his glasses and pasty-white face. The screen's flickering lights, the only source of light in the room.

The bright red words "YOU DIED" flash on the screen. His bleak expression quickly twists into rage. He grabs his greasy keyboard and smashes it down on the desk. Keycaps fly into the air, soda cans fall to the floor.

Pounding shakes the door behind him.

“Stop with the banging!”

The loud, deep, and gruff voice of his father penetrates the door — even through his headphones. He takes them off and swivels in his office chair. Kicking garbage out of his way, he walks over to lock the door.

“You’re twenty-seven! You can't sit in that disgusting room all day!" His father's voice strains. “You need to get a job! How can you sit in there for five years doing nothing?”

He plops back down in his office chair, chuckling. He’s laughing… but tears well in his eyes. Nothing? I’m... doing my daily quests. The red words "YOU DIED" still flashing behind him.

The door handle jiggles, then, more pounding, “We didn’t raise a failure and a loser!”

~~~

The last stinging remark jolts him back to the present.

If I’m a failure and a loser, then no one would care. That old fart would probably celebrate with a beer… He shakes his head dejectedly. Who am I kidding? I’m too scared.

He skulks to the other side of the roof. He peeks over the edge, as if to confirm the fire escape is still there. He turns around and lowers his legs. Gripping the ledge, he feels the cement cut into his hands. Dangling, he again makes sure the fire escape is below him. He lets go, landing on the platform with a clang, the metal shakes. His legs aching from the impact, he begins down the rickety stairs.

I’m surprised I didn't fall on my face doing that. Where's my usual slapstick comedy routine? He almost cracks a smile.

Scaling down the side of the apartment building, the sound of scraping tires followed by a booming thud assaults his ears. He jumps, startled.

What was that? Did someone just crash? He hastens his pace, quickly climbing down the final ladder. The faint droning of a police siren grows louder in the distance.

He rushes to the edge of the sidewalk. Lying in the middle of the road, dimly lit by a distant streetlamp, a little shaggy dog. Its dark-gray fur, soaked — much like him.

The dog tries to stand, but its front legs don’t move — bent the wrong way, disfigured.

His chest tightens watching the dog struggle. Poor thing. His legs are broken. I gotta help him — but where? I don’t know any veterinary hospitals.

The siren grows louder. A police car speeds into view.

Whoa, that’s way too fast for a city street! He might not be able to stop with the rain. I can grab the dog before he gets here. He clenches his fists, steeling his resolve.

He rushes into the street, his bare feet slapping against the wet road.

He scoops up the dog and tries to dash to the sidewalk. But he trips over his own foot, scraping his toes.

Of course I slipped. Gravity must hate me, he thinks as he slams into the asphalt.

The siren blares. The car slams on its brakes — but it's too wet.

The headlights blind him. He staggers to his feet, the dog whimpering in his arms. He bolts toward the sidewalk, almost there — the sliding car slams into them.

Crash!

The hit reverberates through his skull. He skids across the street, skin tearing off his bare legs. Now tumbling, he curls into a ball around the dog.

He comes to a stop. Popping his head up, he looks around at the surrounding high-rise buildings, then at himself. Blood drips off his head, staining his shredded boxers. His legs peeled raw. I'm alive?

He looks down at his arms; the dog's shaking, whimpering — But still alive.

He stands. He wobbles, but makes it over to the sidewalk. He sets the dog down. "There you go, buddy. I'll ask the police officer for some help. You wait here."

He takes one step toward the car, then collapses.

His head is pounding, each pulse getting worse. His legs burn, each drop of rain landing on his raw flesh feels like a stabbing knife. His arms... he can't feel his arms. He tries to move them, but they stay still.

It hurts, it hurts — it hurts! are the only words in his mind as he lies there, convulsing.

His stomach bubbles, then churns. Vomit spills out of his mouth onto his shirt. The pain is unbearable. The pain consumes him — then... nothing.

What’s happening? Everything is black. Where am I?

Where is... me? I can’t see my hands?