under

The doctor stood back, admiring his office around him. There were pictures and certificates that lined the walls and filled the cracks of dark wood paneling. The desk against which he leaned was neat and contained few items that were need for deskwork, few items at all. The doctor looked every where but at the patient who sat in front of him. He reached behind him and pushed a button on his intercom. Moments later, a woman entered and handed him a thin manila folder. The doctor opened it and leafed through it absently. He seemed happier to have something to focus on. The patient looked at the ground near the doctor’s feet. He was young, thin and scruffy. He seemed to be in his late twenties but when he looked up, his eyes seemed like those of one twice his age, but with half the experience. A dark line appeared between his eyes and furrowed in worry and concern.

“There seems to be nothing here that explains it.” The doctor said with some cheer. As if the absence of bad news was good news in and of itself.

Moments later, the patient was standing on the roof of the clinic. The tips of his shoes hung over the edge of the red brick precipice that bordered the rooftop. The terrified murmurs and calm, too calm, urgings of the doctor and the small group of on-lookers behind made up for a small chorus. Like white noise from a late night TV left on, whose white static snow cast shadows on the sleeping face on a sofa, the chorus washed over the patient’s shoulders and fell unheard eight stories to the street below.

It was like plunging into a cold swimming pool. The air rushing to splash his face and beat his hair and clothes back. The chorus died in a rush of wind as his heart leapt to the top of his head and pulled him up. He rose higher and faster as the ground dashed towards him.

It was soon only cool and dark.

“Wake up”, a damp breath whispered.