He’s not afraid of heights.

Out on the ledge, shoes finding little purchase on the rain-slick concrete, he wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he’s doing.

Gloved hands curl tightly around the window-molding; sharply blue eyes are squeezed shut as the wind howls around him, plastering wet black hair against his forehead and cheeks.

The white shirt is plastered to his pale, wiry frame; he knows he’s seen colder winters, but at this moment, he’s chilled to the very bone, listening to the music of the storm as it shrieks around him, whipping through the canyons of glass and steel, screaming along, angry banshees dragging sharp claws through the night, hungry to touch and maul.

He’s not afraid that he’ll fall.

He looks past the toes of his shoes and blinks water from his eyelashes, trying to concentrate.

So far down that he’s not even sure he can see the rainswept streets for the water and wind that sting his eyes, he knows someone’s there, watching. Eyes on him.

So far down into the shadow that the dark has swallowed them whole. Unsatisfied with just that, it calls to him, sings and seduces and waits.

He’s afraid that he’ll jump.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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