Free Fall

How did I get here…? 

His thoughts trailed off. The office was still. Pipes creaked in the wall. Heavy shoes stamped down the hallway. A figure approached the door; their details were vague through the translucent glass. The knob turned and the door swung open. A woman stared at him; her expression was jumbled. She wore a juniper-colored dress and a berry brooch pinned to her breast. She carried a stack of papers and folders. Her face grew red. 

“Who are you!?!” She exclaimed. She rushed to the desk he was sitting behind and slammed the stack of papers on it. “How did you get in here?!”

“I was having a meeting, but you rudely interrupted.” 

“You’re having a meeting in my office?” She snapped.

“This isn’t your office, it’s mine.” He replied feeling sure of himself but didn’t know why.

“No, look at the nameplate.”

He smirked. “Okay, let’s look at it, shall we?” He turned the nameplate around. It read Emily Shafer, General Accounts Manager. He grew puzzled.

“Is your name Emily?” He was silent. “I think you should wait in here.” She spoke. “I’ll be right back.” Before she turned around, she held her button to the desk phone. “Holly, call the cops.” 

Why are the cops being called?

Before he could ask, the woman exited the room in a flash. She slammed the door and locked it from the outside. He got up and began to pace around the room. His breathing accelerated. 

Think. Why am I here? 

His memory of the last 24 hours suddenly sharpened. It had happened again. The first time it happened, he woke up in someone’s kitchen, halfway through a bowl of raisin bran with a shotgun cocked in his face. Behind the barrel was a grizzled old man with a white and stubble mustache. “Who are you?” The man asked. “And why shouldn’t I kill you?”

He had thought a moment. “Because I think I’m sick.”

The old man lowered his gun, “How’s the bran?”

“Pretty good I guess.”

“That’s good.” The old man rested his gun on the wall. “Finish up while I call the cops.” He served three months in county jail for breaking and entering. If he were recharged, he would get up to five years.

He sat back in the chair again. The woman had been gone for a minute or two. He ruffled his brown hair into a mess. The main floor grew quiet for a second and he could hear his pulse.

They know the cops are coming. 

He couldn’t go back to jail. He popped up out of the chair and tried the door. The knob twisted, but the latch didn’t release. He jiggled then pulled the knob more, but it wouldn’t open. The room spun around him like blades on a fan. 

Behind the desk he opened a pair of french doors to a balcony overlooking the street below. He remembered a breathing exercise his therapist taught him in jail. Five things you see. “Red car. Blue car. Woman talking on the phone. Man eating a hotdog. Loose newspaper tumbling down the street.” Four things you smell. “Hot dog. Gasoline. Ink. Frying oil.” Three things you can touch. He latched onto the weathered rail, clinching the ivy leaves between his fingers. He felt grains of rust collected in the grooves. His heartbeat began to slow and then suddenly it came to him. “I have to jump off the balcony.” He assured himself.

I must make a great escape.

He walked back to the desk and turned about face to the balcony. His breathing grew at a determined pace. He bellowed and slapped himself. “DO IT!” He screamed. He took two bounds and hopped over the railing. In a moment he felt like a bird stretching its wings after a long hibernation, the sun energizing every skin cell exposed on his body. In the next moment he began to fall, gaining speed and momentum like a boulder rolling down a hill. And in the next moment he felt his head smash on the concrete; hairline fractures spread over his skull like wildfire. In the final moment everything grew dark.

About the Author Darren Faughn

Darren Faughn placed 9th in the Napkin Microfiction contest in May 2021 with his winning micro piece Free Fall. Darren won a $20 cash prize.