When the door slammed—
and she was really gone—
he folded in on himself,
right through the chest,
like a party balloon
with a slow puncture.
It started small:
air leaking through his nose, his ears,
his fingertips.
Then came the tremors.
The twitch.
The full-body shudder.
And suddenly,
his lips burst open
in a glorious, disgusting explosion
of spit, noise,
and full-body collapse.
He lay there, flattened.
Done.
Spent.
Utterly gutted
in the best way imaginable.
It was over.
Over.
Over, over, over.
He’d done it.
He’d told her.
He’d held the line.
And now—
colour.
Flavour.
Smell.
LIFE.
His ass stuck in the air,
hands awkwardly tucked under his knees,
one cheek mashed into the filthy floor,
Arthur took his first breath as a free man.
It was mostly dust.
He nearly choked.
One brutal coughing fit later,
he was at the window—
flung wide,
welcoming the ice wind
and the internal fire now raging
from lung to limb.
He pointed.
At nothing in particular.
There.
Then over there.
No—there!
He flung both arms up.
There!
Everywhere!
He was leaving.
Tonight.
This hour.
Now.
One leg swung over the ledge.
His toes sank into rooftop snow,
thick and quiet,
blanketing his childhood.
In one move,
he was up.
On the roof.
Roaring like a primal idiot.
From his bare shoulders,
steam curled skyward
like incense at a pagan wedding.
Below,
a soft snowy cushion
waited like a good dog.
Before he jumped,
he howled to the whole village:
“MUM! DAD! THANK YOU FOR THE LIFE!”
Then quieter,
but with the kind of quiet that means everything:
“I’ll take it from here.”
