Maiden Flight

Kevin lies prone on the damp mildew stinking sofa, pinned down by stale fag smoke laden air, struggling against mould clogged nostrils and tar filled lungs. A clatter of empty bottles at his feet. Takeaway cartons. Pizza crust. Dog ends, blunts and butts cascade from the ashtray, spilling over the sticky threadbare carpet.

He boasts a floridly flaking forehead. Greasy pores. Sullen skin. Rotund hairy belly flesh protrudes from the space between his cum stained joggers and unwashed, grubby, long since too small top. He stares up vacantly at the peeling paint of the yellow brown ceiling. Half dreaming, a grey upon grey vision of an enticing expanding void, hurtling ever closer, it is hard to resist.

You were born to fly.

Startled, Kevin's eyes open wide.

Kevin lives alone.

Fly. You could if you tried.

Crumbs scatter and limbs windmill as Kevin heaves himself upright.

Go on, go to the roof, give it a go.

I believe in you.

Kevin’s head ricochets as he seeks and fails to locate the owner of the voice.

It’s time you did too.

The lift is out of order. Panting profusely, he climbs-puff-climbs-pant-climbs-wheeze, eventually squeezing through the fire escape. His heart explodes. Down below, the town stretches out to the edges of its magnificent urban decay, merging into fuzzy felt fields and forest smudges, beyond which he imagines the M whatever, as the oceans’ roar. The setting sun colludes with the sky to create a sweet instant intoxicating cocktail of colour inducing inebriation.

Kevin exhales. He finds himself on the brink of the roof, standing firm, arms flung wide.

Much to his surprise, he soars like an eagle.

Majestic.

Powerful.

Sensuous.

Kevin never returns to Flat 183 Sunset Towers. It is nine months before anyone realises he is gone, by which point the stench is overwhelming.