Year 2178
A very dense, overpopulated city
Approaching the Winter Solstice
Day 3,621
The way the glaring sun reflects from the windows of the towering landscape of buildings is supremely inconvenient. Every few seconds a glint of light will flash from a rectangle of glass and bore into Harry's eyes, provoking a moment of blindness that forces him to redirect his route abruptly. His tiny heart speeds up with anxiety until he feels steady and able to pull a full breath into his lungs to calm his racing mind, his eyes refocusing on his route and his body steadying as he soars through the air with his wings spread on either side of his figure.
The city is really breathtaking from this view; far away from the chaos and brutality of the streets, the hurried bodies packed like sardines on the sidewalks and schooling like barracuda as commuters board buses and monorails, the shrill beep of a scooter or car horn, the constant bustle of people talking, shouting or whistling at taxi cabs. Up here there is only peace, the brush of wind, perhaps a distant airplane and the stray introspection of how serene the hush of thin air feels.
There are very few trees in which one would notice the change of seasons below, aside from the scattering of groves that were planted by city workers within park limits. They are well into taking on the burden of fall, with their oranges and reds shimmering brilliantly against the rays of sun that greet them in the afternoon light, most of their foliage dropped to the earth below in heaps that beg to be scampered through.
Harry closes his eyes and draws in a breath, allowing himself to relax as he glides and swoops in an attempt to enjoy this tranquility while it lasts, knowing from experience that something inevitably tragic is in the midst but he's practiced enough to know that there is next to nothing he can do to predict what it will be or how to prevent it. He supposes there isn't much else to expect since he chose to give in and fall asleep last night, plus he hasn't had a dream in color for several weeks now so he knew he was due for one sooner rather than later.
The buildings are quite massive; city planners having decided decades ago to build up rather than out as transients flocked to this area from all over the world for its modern architecture, the hip and young populous and the varying range of entertainment it has to offer. From restaurants and upscale shopping to underground club scenes and art museums to dive bars and quirky hole-in-the-walls, there was no lack of ways to enjoy yourself, people to meet or alleyways to hide in. Harry personally was mostly interested in hiding.
He glances at his wings again to determine exactly what type of creature he's become this time and by the color of his golden and ebony feathers, he guesses he's most likely a sparrow or a song thrush. He can't tell exactly how large he is, but considering just how cumbersome the skyscrapers seem, he assumes he's pretty small and agile. He glances upwards and considers for a moment how close he is to the heavens; closer than he can ever recall being since he's only flown in an airplane once before and he sets his corporeal logic aside for a moment to revel in his proximity to his one true love: the cosmos, interstellar space, the universe far away from the turf he's bound to.
Harry angles his nose down and bombs several stories just to experience the sensation of his stomach flipping. The sunshine echoes another head-splitting slice of light directly into his eyes that causes him to curse internally and veer off his course with a snap, suddenly wishing the sun would disappear all together and hide behind the comfort of the rain clouds as it typically does during these months.
When he rights himself again and recalibrates his surroundings, he becomes conscious of his speed and the proximity of the approaching window much too late. He holds his breath and braces himself for impact, his little heart whizzing in his chest so quickly it feels like it'll burst before he even makes contact. His eyes pinch shut at the exact moment that he slams head first into the glass, his neck snapping and bending unnaturally upon collision, his entire body seizing in pain before the world around him bleaches black and then there is nothingness.
Silence so quiet that it's deafening; no thoughts, no pain, no gravity and no spirit. Just static, halcyon cessation. Sooty, wordless death. Emptiness. Void. Oblivion.
Translucent light appears as a blip surrounded by a veil of slate far off in the distance and it's coupled with the sensation of falling. The brightness reduces to the size of a pinpoint until Harry is met with the perception of colliding into his bed with a harsh whack. He sits up in the same instant that he inhales a gasp, his eyes springing open to be greeted by the familiar surroundings of his claustrophobic studio apartment and all at once, he's violently sick to his stomach.
His feet are twisted and tangled in his sheets, his back and neck moist with sweat as he whimpers and fusses with his linens. He can feel bile creeping up the back of his throat and just as he releases his limbs, he's cupping his hand over his mouth and clambering to the bathroom. His kneecaps smack against the porcelain tile flooring as he removes his hand and empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet, his cheek resting on the cool seat as he lulls his eyes and catches his breathing. The astringency burns his esophagus as he swallows over and over, the blood slowly returning to his cheeks while he swears to himself that he won't be sleeping again tonight.
Harry decides that dream was particularly malignant because it had started off and carried on in a state of repose for so long that he had almost forgotten the imminent doom. He had been wrapped up in viewing the city from that perspective that crashing into the window was an awful shock, churning acid in his stomach and forcing it to the brink.
He adjusts and presses his forehead to the cold ceramic before sitting up and frowning at the contents swirling in the water, finally dragging himself to his feet and sending the substance away with a single click of a button on the tank cover. Harry spends the following five minutes hunched over the running water in the sink, brushing his teeth, rinsing out his mouth and washing his face as he reflects on his dream and refuses to look at his sallow skin in the mirror.
Harry shuffles the few steps back to his bed, plucking his phone from the sleek charging dock incorporated into his nightstand before illuminating the screen; no missed calls, no texts, no voice messages, a sad cluster of spam e-mails and one calendar reminder to pay rent in a few days. His eyes are so tired that they burn and suffer as he tries to focus on the small screen in his hand, the depressing physical evidence of his loneliness unbearable as he throws it onto his duvet cover and returns to the bathroom to shower.
The dream plays over and over like it's caught in a loop, the scorching hot water from the shower head soaking his hair and back while Harry stands motionless with his chin angled down; the rush of wind against his face and the heat of the sun on his back. Water rushes through his tresses and slips off in unbreakable streams, little beads pilling and dripping from the tip of his nose and eyebrows to join the rush of water down the drain; the sun blinding his vision, the dreadful pulse of panic through his veins when he realizes his life is over.
He presses his palms against the tile opposite him and allows his head to dangle between his shoulders; the foul crack of a broken neck, the aching cavity of dark eternity. Tears sting behind his eyes and burn in the bridge of his nose, he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and wills his sadness away with the thought of psychologically preparing himself for work. Sometimes he wishes his job were more mentally stimulating to force him out of these inner spirals, but then he remembers how fitting it is to be working a job where no one is dependent on him, the requirements are undemanding and the owners are willing to pay him under the table in cash - no questions asked.
Harry holds a washcloth under the burning heat of the water, soaking the flannel and draping it across his back and shoulders to let the warmth seep into his muscles. He groans and pushes his hair from his face, feeling his tissue loosen up with the help of the steaming fabric. His body isn't used to such long periods of dormancy so when he does give himself that permission, his bones and tendons tend to ache for the rest of the day, or at least until he can work them with physical activity.
The electronic timer on the shower head beeps signaling the two minute countdown until the water automatically shuts off. For nearly a century the planet has seen depleting water sources and for the entirety of Harry's life, the earth's usable water level has been labeled as "in shortage", meaning that each household and business has government mandated timers and limits on the amount of water they can use in a day in order to keep from widespread premature depletion.
He glances over his shoulder and pouts when he sees the timer switch from 1:47 to 1:46 through the small illuminated screen, cursing himself for allowing the sink to run while he ran the entire course of his dream over and over again. He would kill for another five minutes under the steaming spray of the nozzle, but rather than dwell on it he chooses to spin around and close his eyes, consenting the coarse water pressure to melt his hair back against his scalp and leech into his skin.
He opens his mouth and sanctions it fill to the brim, his eyes twitching from behind his eyelids when the water turns off with a harsh adjournment, his body breaking out in goosebumps from head to toe at the sudden sweep of frigid air, his thoughts as chilled as his nerve endings. He spits the water from his mouth to splash against his toes, his chest softly elevating with breath as he reaches for his towel and steps from his warm, fiberglass cocoon.
His mirror is stifled with a thick layer of condensation, his hand swiping across the glass as his watery reflection comes into view. He tucks his towel around his waist, his eyes roving over the person in the mirror as water ripples and drips from his body onto the bath mat below. His skin appears anemic and waxen, the circles under his eyes bold and sickly, his lips dry and chapped. He concludes that he actually looks more tired after having rested, which is contrary to what most people would think about sleep, but your body acclimates to the lifestyle you choose for it whether it's natural or not.
The dark stubble littering his upper lip and jaw are a contrast to his fair skin and he battles internally with whether or not he should shave his face or wait another couple of days. He decides after a good, long stare to clean up his face, convincing himself that he will feel at least a smidge more presentable if he puts in half an ounce of effort.
He dresses in his usual attire; black jeans, a white t-shirt and a gray hoodie, his hair damp as it air dries around his cheeks and a single silver band wrapped around his middle finger with the word "peace" etched into the center. He packs his bag with everything he needs for his after work routine, shoving his beanie into his sweatshirt pocket and slipping his phone into his jeans.
He is still too nauseous from his dream to eat and decides to just scarf something down at work on his break that he usually opts to take outside in the dark and baron alleyway. It's a move he does more often than not, even though he promises himself to put more effort into taking care of his body and mind but never seems to keep his word.
On his way out the door, he glances around the puny space once more - his twin size bed that he keeps clean and tidy daily, the exposed brick wall and a fundamental, built-in shelf with books and an assemblage of vinyl records, the café table and one chair folded and tucked away for space, the worn wooden flooring and finally, the curious sunlight pouring in from his window.
He clicks his tongue and mutters a flat parting phrase to the flurry of black fluff scurrying across the floor before removing his keys from his hook on the wall and charging down the hallway towards the stairwell. He almost never takes the elevator even though he lives on the twenty first floor - it's small and distressing, too risky and when he takes into account the dream he had that one time a few years back, he vows to never gamble getting stuck in one ever again.
Harry keeps his eyes trained on his feet as he clonks down the steps, never once raising his attention to anyone he passes even though they live in the same building together and probably have for years. He can feel his neighbors' hard gazes burning through the side of his face as he races down the steps, his cheeks flaming red in embarrassment but he has already established a culture of non-communication with most people and it would be too erratic and bizarre to change now. This is yet another reason why he doesn't take the elevator, the notion of being trapped inside of a box with a stranger is almost too overwhelming to bear.
He tugs his oversized studio headphones from his bag and stuffs them onto his head, flicking his hood up over his ears and hair just before his palm slaps against the glass of the exit door. His fingers lift up to tie the strings of his hoodie tight across his neck into a bow as if to create a shield to protect his most sacred organ, his brain.
The sunshine is garish as it reflects off of the surrounding cage of high rise buildings and their windows, each skyscraper jutting into the sky for a thousand feet above everyone's heads. It's supremely unusual for the sun to be this alive at this time of the year - normally the sky is nothing but layers upon layers of gray, alternating between a fine mist of rain clouding the air or a heavy downpour that soaks you high and low.
Harry walks a fine line between panic and comfort when he finds himself in the active city streets, dodging hundreds of passerby and tourists as they gawk at the multitude of oddities and attractions around them. He feels panic because sometimes it seems impossible to draw in a deep, uninterrupted breath and he feels comfort because it's so crowded and hectic that no one would possibly notice him.
Neon lights outside of storefronts and businesses illuminate and flash all day long, desensitizing everyone's senses to advertisement and the original purpose of their draw. They create a chaotic glow at nighttime, like the entire city vomited hundreds of years of Christmas decorations all at once and decided to keep them up all year round. Harry happens to enjoy the way the city looks at night, a cloak of black enveloped in a neon rainbow, surrounded by towering steel trees lined in thousands of lemon rectangles. Or perhaps he has come to appreciate it because it is the view he sees most often due to his schedule.
The general population's clothing choices tend to agree with the obscene light-show surrounding them; unnatural and stiff, angular fabrics, magenta, lime and flame retardant orange, shoes that make everyone several inches taller and hair colors and styles to clash. Harry's best guess is that the city is so gray that it's inhabitants choose to dress like peacocks to remind themselves that the sun still exists behind the clouds. He has never felt out of place dressing in colors that mute him from the world around him, his mind is colorful enough to light up an entire metropolis.
Harry can see the train station coming into view and when he peers down the road, he can make out the top of the electric train making an appearance above the busy street just over the horizon. Someone rushing past on his right knocks into his shoulder and jostles his bag, silently mouthing an apology to Harry as he passes - or at least it appears that way since the only thing he can hear is the click of electronic music in his ears. He nods in understanding, readjusting his bag on his shoulder and suddenly his entire body bursts into a cluster of stinging feather quills from the inside out.
He presses his eyes shut, squeezing them together and wishing he could somehow close them even further. His heart begins to race at the realization of what's happening, his sweaty fists unclenching at his sides as he dares to peel one eye open followed by the other. He stands frozen in the center of the sidewalk, not caring that he is in everyone's way as they rush home from work or to their important appointments and meetings.
Their movements blur in his peripheral vision as he slowly directs his gaze towards the sky, his vision flicking left and right for just a moment before he locks eyes with the bird. It's definitely a swallow as he had first assumed, it's tiny wings stretched out in a show of grace as it glides through the air bathed in warm sunshine. It probably feels so glad for the sun to be making an appearance, it's feathers soaking up the heat and it's mind clear until the spark of the sunshine drills into it's vision.
The bird swoops but it can't see where it's going, Harry's heart speeds up and all of the dread he felt just a couple hours ago comes rushing back like a dam that's been broken with the force of an ocean behind it. The bird slams head first into a window hundreds of feet above Harry's head, it's body freezing like a block of ice, it's wings bending to convey pain and it's neck curved into a sickening and aberrant wrench as it begins it's plunge from the sky.
Tears rise and choke inside of Harry's throat as he watches it fall, his hand rising to slap across his eyes to block the sight and bear the brunt of the impact. The bird falls several stories and not a single person notices until it is deposited right in front of Harry's toes on the sidewalk, the small sound of it's insignificant weight hitting the ground followed by a few upset gasps and a woman's shriek.
Harry pries his trembling hand away from his eyes and first takes in everyone's reaction around him; horror and sadness, lots of frowns and some people bending at the waist to get a closer look. He dares a glimpse down and swallows the lump in his throat at the sight of the mangled and dead bird, his feet side-stepping the macabre sight before he takes off running to catch his train pulling up to it's stop.
Oh hello!
Thank you for moving over to a new book to support! I felt like this one deserved its own big, roomy space. ;)
Xxx Birdie
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