I guess this would be considered a developing fantasy of mine as of late...

I bent over the ledge of the window studying, chin propped on palms, her lonely bent frame splayed over the concrete, floors below.  The scene replayed in my head; a smile of deep satisfaction brushing my lips. 

 She meant the world to me.  But her methodical breakdown drove us two and our sanity far, far apart.  Her sickness spiraled into deeper darker places.  And by that thought, this was far from murder; merely an assisted suicide.

 I remember her chattering away before she flashed that striking blue at me; a window to her soul. 

I tried to read the words spilling over her face, but they were lost in the gap between us.  All that remained was the blank look she gave me.  A stab in the heart after all she and I been through together, and all she had put me through.  Just a stone cold betrayal. 

 I tried to fix her problems.  I asked her how I could help; what I could do to fix her; offer my support even if she felt she was beyond repair.  And she had the nerve to admit the presence of a problem, and then remain oblivious to any solution, whatsoever.  She acted as though I was the problem.  It was entirely my fault because I couldn’t read her mind.

 I loved her.

 It was too much to bear.  I spent far too long studying her, trying to figure out what it was she wanted only to find that she didn’t even know.  So, I throttled her, feeling the pressure as I squeezed her in my hands. 

 The window loomed behind her, projecting the neon glow reflecting off the streets below.  So I forced her there, carrying every bit of her plasticated weight.  To struggle was suicide.  I cradled her smooth skin, cool against mine, and then lost her to the breezy air outside.  Jutting a finger into the silence between us, I watched as she floated on an air current for a ticking moment before descending slowly down the dark well of the alley.  An operatic voice shrieked its climactic lamentations in an all too satisfying way as she sailed through the air.

 She hit the ground with a sickening bounce, spiraling through the air like an Olympic gymnast.  Her body lay crinkled on the ground, shattered to pieces, and a violent crack echoed up to me and I inhaled the sweet sound, eyes closed, embracing the relief.  Watching her, flying so acrobatically, I was reminded of the birds that often flitted about in the alleyway at the peak of spring, when the sun finally grew tall enough to clear the other buildings.  I felt like I knew their freedom.  I appreciated them more for it, too.   

 The sweetest smelling air poured into my lungs, as if I had been plunged into the ocean, kicking as hard as I could, watching the surface loom above me in the distance, and finally breaking it, my life finally able to begin.  Really begin.

 In my rage I could have just snapped her backbone, listening for the intense crunch that might have echoed for hours inside my head. 

 I remember wanting to pry inside her, to know how she really worked; down to the racing electricity under her skin.  Maybe it was just because I wanted to know what I could do to really make her suffer.

 I descended the stairs carefully, as I never let the image fade from the back of my eyelids.  I turned onto the sidewalk at street level with purpose and stopped dead.  I stood, looking down my nose at the mangled remains splayed at my feet.  The concrete was painted so gracefully; an artist even in death, I suppose.  I just stood, listening to the oblivious sounds of the street around me, staring at her motionless, broken body.  The freeing flight was over, the operatic voice long gone, so I just stood. 

 A moment or two passed by, I guess with the cars that cruised past like boats on the lake.  I should have run the tub.  I imagined sparks flying from her convulsing body and bubbles fleeing to the crackling surface.  I could have turned off the lights, enjoyed a private fireworks show.  Next time, dear, I thought.

 I finally knelt down at her side sweeping the tattered shards of glass embedded in her skin into the poorly constructed dustpan; both usually kept neatly just inside the door of the building.   A trash bag slithered from my bulging pocket and I collected the spattered key caps, gravel-torn shards of frame, and barely intact hardware components piece-by-piece.  With a deep breath I tossed the bag into the recently emptied dumpster listening to the otherwise terrifying boom that resounded within it.  I heaved another deep breath and then turned, leaving my beloved laptop behind to rot under the decomposing waste of all the oblivious people who would pass this very same dumpster.

 I whistled a bubbly tune as I measured the dimensions of my little window, careful to avoid the jutting shards of glass.  The Duck brand double sided sticky tape fell into place around the edges of the frame not daring to irk me with a ripple.  My scissors slid down the length of the folded plastic wrap, wisely leaving snags for another day.  From the alley my whistling slowly faded as I stuck the wrap around the edges of the window with satisfaction.  With a nod of appreciation for my expert work, I turned on my heels and skipped toward the bathroom in search of my hair dryer. 

The End

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