He is dead.
And it's all my fault.
Dead . . . by his own hand. The guilt finally taking its toll.

I'm standing by the balcony doors looking out over dark, angry skies. Storm clouds are gathering in the distance, rolling menacingly towards me. I can feel the prickly, charged air as my breath steams the window pane. Soon, thunder will clap and the rain will fall in sheets onto the asphalt below.

I think of Kenneth Hislop, of how our lives became intertwined forever one evening, twenty years ago.
I took the life of my boss that night, swiftly and coldly. Unknown to me, Kenneth had stayed behind to fix that annoying dripping tap in the wash room and as he came out of the tiny closet he saw me with the knife in my hand. I stared at him in horror until my nerve went and I ran, expecting him to follow, but he didn't.
The next day we were individually questioned and I knew I would be arrested but . . . Kenneth never told, even though the police talked to him for days as the last person to see my victim alive. For five years, we worked side by side with no mention of it. Then, one day, he left and for the fifteen years since I have been waiting for that knock on the door, convinced that nobody could ever hold on to a secret that big for long.
But it never came . . . until now.
Who would have thought that Kenneth Hislop kept a diary?

I am standing by the balcony doors and they are calling my name over and over. The banging will stop soon when the lock breaks.
I start suddenly as, overhead, the thunder roars and I open the doors. Great globules of moisture smack onto the balcony as I position the pretty iron bench my Mother bought me.
I climb up. Onto the bench, onto the ledge.
Behind me I hear the door give and they are shouting, imploring me to stop.
But it's too late . . . for I am flying . . .

flying . . .

like an eagle . . .

like an angel.

Into the wind . . .
Into the night . . .
Into oblivion.