The Fall

Gaze out of the window and into the moonlit night. Forget the boyfriend who left for another girl, forget the university which kicked you out, forget the parents who left each other and you as well. Forget them all; while away your grief by gazing at the abandoned building across the street. Stare at its dark windows like black holes, consuming the silver light and giving off none. Gaze into those cavities. And see — there she is, the teen-aged girl standing by a third-floor window, her white nightgown a beacon in the shadows. She’s peering over the street, staring at your house, looking at you. She disappears; a minute later, you see a white blur on the rooftop, see it fall off the edge, see the girl plummet to the ground.

Leave the house in your bedtime dress. Cross the street, enter the forsaken edifice, satisfy your curiosity. Go up the floors, stop at the third. Take hurried steps, then more, knowing that each one brings you closer to her. Enter a room — she’s not there. Look out of the window, see your house across the street. Leave the room, go upstairs, up to the rooftop.

There she is — see the white-dressed girl fall off the edge, run to her, run run run, run to the edge, trip over a jutting piece of tile, and fall off the edge, fall, plummet to the ground as a teen-aged girl in her white nightgown, a wishing star blazing through the moonlit night.


[I think I wrote this one a long long time ago for a sudden fiction writing contest (max 250 words). Of course, I lost. Harhar.]