Content Warning: Substance Abuse  

He was flying. 

Well, perhaps he was hovering. Feet planted on his apartment balcony, his midsection was pushed over the railing, preventing him from falling. His arms were wide open, eyes closed, but he could imagine it. He wasn’t here, not in this rotting city. He was elsewhere, standing on the edge of a cliff surrounded by nothing but thrashing winds. He wanted to fly, he wanted to soar, but he knew he couldn’t. Now he was on his tiptoes. He would have flipped right off the balcony if he was any taller, and for once, he was glad he was on the shorter side. He pulled his arms together and pressed his heels back into the concrete floor, opening his eyes. The city was beautiful, but it wasn’t for him. He wanted to be elsewhere, by himself, without the responsibilities passed down to him. He wanted to be free, though he couldn’t imagine that happening. It wasn’t realistic. Instead, he pulled open the sliding glass door and sat on the only piece of furniture in his living room; a couch given to him by his brother. He was alone here, no one to lecture him about his bad habits or his wild imagination. He thought of the wind, how harsh it would be on top of a cliff. He imagined the ocean below, the water slamming into the rocks with such an impact that it would crush human bones.  

His hands were shaking as he finished rolling his joints. He made three tonight, and all would be gone within the hour. He didn’t get high to feel good; he got high to forget. If only it were permanent.  

Now is when he began to think of the one who raised him. So strict, so uptight. Was there an ounce of love in his father? No, perhaps there wasn’t. That pissed him off. Lighting up in the middle of his apartment, he inhaled so sharply it made his eyes water. He stifled a cough, pausing before looking back out to the balcony. He didn’t want to jump. He wanted to fly. He wanted to become superhuman and fly right out of this shithole to somewhere more exhilarating. Maybe Ireland? No, he wasn’t a fan of the United Kingdom. Somewhere in Scandinavia possibly, then...that would be nice.  

He was crying. Three joints weren’t going to be enough to make him stop thinking. He needed an immediate solution. Alcohol? Maybe, he could get it delivered. A stronger drug? No, he was through with that. There was nothing left to do but play the waiting game, sitting pathetically on his couch waiting to get that jittery feeling he always got when stoned. He passed the time by holding his fingertip over the lighter’s flame, scratching at his scalp until it hurt, and staring out at the balcony wishing he were elsewhere. Eventually, it hit. 

He was flying. 

Alex Jones

Alex Jones is a second-year student in the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. He enjoys works by Stephen King, James Patterson, and Maggie Stiefvater. He often spent time alone in his room, avoiding the constant patter of his sisters.