Intermission - Midnight Rain

*** Another intermission this week; I'm hoping to get some more Manifesto done towards the end of the week, assessments permitting.  Until then, this is a piece I've been reworking for a while now.  I think it's finally finished.  I hope you all enjoy it. - Jake ***

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway.  

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  A second frigid drop landed on the back of his neck, prompting him to consider the indoors a prudent next move.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and surrendered his position on the balcony to the midnight rain.

 

The ground looked so far below.  The urban sprawl seemed endless, motes of glittering lights stretching out from horizon to horizon.  Headlights were persistent specks, slowly pulsing and coursing through the congested arteries of a bloated metropolis.  Everything ran, night and day, in an endless cycle for which nothing was of any real consequence.  The city grew obese, the result of decades of sporadic and directionless development.  Millions of lives flared in and out of existence, swallowed and consumed in the concrete bowels of this diseased juggernaut. 

Soaring above it all, there was no need for a sense of self.  It was easy to become lost amongst the endless expanse of stars, stretching into eternity.  The wind caressed him like a child, held him aloft, bore him through the cool night air.  The moon hung overhead, gazing approvingly over the cloud banks.  Its light clung to the shifting tendrils of mist and cloud, bathing them in its luminous splendor.   

Up here there was escape.  Release from the endlessly grinding machine below him, the meaningless pantomime existence of its inhabitants, and the deeper knowledge that their charades mirrored his own.  

When it all became too heavy for his mind to bear, he flung himself into the night sky.  To lose himself in the depths of eternity was bliss, was freedom.  Here he knew nothing more than the stars above, the ground below, and the wind that ghosted through his soul.  Here was where he belonged.

The thought flittered through his mind for an instant, the words suddenly filled his being, becoming as heavy as lead in his veins.  It wasn’t like falling.  It was like drowning.  The words filled his lungs, and he was gasping for air...

 

The walls of the cubicle were a nondescript shade of grey.  They loomed tall and oppressive above his workspace, defining clearly his small piece of corporate captivity.  They were packed and ordered with precision, a bastion of uniformity in which drones hurried about their tasks.  They were slaves, all of them, to the faceless corporation.  The rigid enforcer of conformity that offered them the currency to indulge whatever vices gave them imagined relief from their mediocrity.  All that it asked in return was their hopes and dreams; a mental abortion of all the aspirations that had carried them from adolescence into reality. 

Jonah tapped away at the keyboard on his computer absently, having forgotten what it was he was meant to be working on.  His mind was elsewhere, grasping at tendrils of a dream almost forgotten.  He was never able to relive the feeling during his waking hours, but longed for it every moment of every day.  Only when he slept did he know how it felt to be alive.  
He suddenly became aware that he was being spoken at by his manager. 

“Jonah, are you listening to me?”” 

“Of course, sir.”” 

Jonah watched his manager’s lips forming the words which spilled from his mouth, an auditory quagmire that simply refused to become intelligible in his mind.  The man’s complexion had developed a blotchy red tone, as if his capillaries were struggling to emancipate themselves from his face.  Jonah vaguely understood that the man was irritated, seemingly intent on venting his frustrations on him.  The greasy office patriarch had been taking exception to Jonah’s increasing detachment in regards to his corporate obligations.  Jonah was behind on deadlines, his commitment less than admirable. 

Jonah was finding it difficult to concentrate on his superior’s wheezing drone.  His focus was drawn to an adventurous piece of spittle that had launched itself from the man’s thin lips and was now clinging for dear life to an immaculate, yet malnourished looking goatee.  It lent a ridiculous air to whatever it was that the idiot was harping on about, Jonah thought.  He found himself beginning to imagine what the man would look like were he a goat, being molested by other goats.  He felt the smile forming at the edges of his mouth but by the time he tried to cover his amusement it was too late.  

“Do you think this is funny, Jonah?  Your job is on the line, and all you can do is laugh about it?”  If looks could kill, Jonah’s ancestors would have keeled over retroactively.

“No sir, I don’t.”  Jonah realized he had forgotten this man’s name.  Had he ever known it?  It was a distracting notion.

“I don’t think it is amusing in the slightest, Jonah.  This last month you…”…”  

The words sounded muffled in Jonah’s ears.  He could not comprehend what was happening again; the sound of his manager’s voice was humming like some mosquito on the edge of his mental periphery.  His gaze settled on the little dictator’s eyes, saw malicious satisfaction in those darting orbs.  It occurred to Jonah that this was exactly what the goat-man loved about his job.  He would have been right at home organizing some great medieval slave cartel, brandishing a cruel and bloodied whip.  Here and now, however, this was the best he could hope for;  a paper crown in a rat’s nest of corporate slaves, brandishing imaginary power over those too timid to call his bluff.

Jonah stood abruptly, stopping the little man mid tirade.  The manager whose name he couldn’t remember flinched and Jonah saw panic flash across those sunken eyes.  He met the goat-man’s gaze and held it defiantly, noticing the tiniest beads of perspiration on his oppressor’s brow.  The manager’s mouth was flapping like some fish that suddenly found itself on dry land, gasping for words that refused to be conjured.

Jonah left the man gaping as he stalked off down the corridor that separated the cubicle cells of his fellow inmates.  He felt a savage sense of triumph knowing that he would never return.   

 

He opened the door of his apartment, kicking it with contempt.  It yielded, colliding with the adjacent wall furiously as if to sympathize with his mood.  Jonah almost tripped over the bag that was packed and waiting in the hallway, cursing loudly as he dropped his own belongings.  They thudded against the cold ceramic tiles, sliding away like some startled creature interrupted in the night.  

“Oh my god. I didn’t realize you were coming home early, Jonah.”  Charlotte stepped out of the bedroom, a pair of jeans dangling from her hands.

“What’s going on?”  Jonah gestured at the luggage that had caused him to stumble.  The words hung between them momentarily; Jonah felt as if he had just knocked a glass off some table and was watching it fall in slow motion, waiting for it to shatter when it hit the tiles.  Charlotte looked somewhat taken aback, but gathered her composure quickly.

“I’m leaving, Jonah.”  She shifted uncomfortably, like some cornered animal that had suddenly found itself no way out.  She was waiting to see how he reacted.  

Jonah felt his will drain away from him, his shoulders slumping as the weight bore down on him.  His mouth seemed like a desert, his tongue like sand.  His mind had already detached itself from the unfolding scene as his feet bore him to the couch.  His head was reeling as if some vengeful goliath had dealt him a hammering blow.  He was barely aware of Charlotte’s voice through the klaxon of thoughts assaulting him.  The world was spinning out of control with colossal centrifugal force, and he was powerless to stop it.

She was standing in front of him, her mouth moving.  Her voice slowly came into focus once again, and she appeared to be furious at his lack of response.  

“Doesn’t this mean anything to you?  Don’t I mean anything?”  She was screaming at him.  Feeling a headache growing in his peripheral vision, he lifted his eyes wearily to meet her accusations.  He held her wounded stare for just a moment, deciding not to give her any satisfaction.

“Does it matter?  You’ve made up your mind already.  Just go,” he sighed.  

She shot him a look filled with hurt and fury, then spun on her heel to where her bags lay packed and waiting.  She swooped upon them both, collecting one in each hand, and without another word stormed through the front door.

His head was pounding.  Thoughts roared through his consciousness, tearing apart his reality with explosive force.  He felt himself trembling, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  What was it that he felt?  He wasn’t even sure.  There were so many conflicting emotions battling for dominance, resonating in his head like a swarm of furious wasps.  It was all too much.

Jonah walked purposefully to the cupboard where he kept his liquor.  He gripped the bottle of scotch almost tenderly, lifting it from its perch and placing it on the counter.  He dropped a handful of ice cubes into a whiskey glass, and began to pour.  The ice cracked softly as it began to swirl in viscous amber.  The fiery malt etched trails of heat as it went down his throat, his trembling hands began to calm themselves almost immediately.  He took another sip as he shuffled to his balcony door, sliding it open and stepping outside.  

The events of the day unfurled in his mind, competing for attention, hammering against his senses.  He drank, allowing it to soothe his troubles momentarily, and closed his eyes to listen to the sounds of the city.  They echoed in his head, bringing to mind an image of gears turning in some colossal machine, a hideous bloated construction designed to imprison its inhabitants in their own designs.

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway. 

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  It was a reality he never wanted, a reality he never asked for.  He stared out into the gloom, straining to see the stars that were his salvation in his dreams.  He strived to remember the feeling of freedom they afforded him, the feeling that eluded his every waking moment.

A second frigid drop landed on his neck.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and placed it on the ground.  Another drop, then another.  The sky opened, showering him in the sum of a city’s regrets. 

Jonah breathed deep, tasting the rain on the air, and stepped onto the ledge.  His mind seemed clearer now for the rain.  It would one day be the salvation of this city, he thought.  One day it will fall, heavy and thick, and wash away the many sins of its inhabitants.  One day.  He thought to himself for a moment, and realized that one day may well be too long to wait.

Jonah closed his eyes, breathed a prayer, and flung himself into the night sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Jake Mannon]

Cheers Kips, I'm looking forward to getting stuck back into writing once the semester calms the fuck down. More manifesto, as well as a bunch of other ideas I've got floating around.

[Mr Kips]

wowsers. love it. remind me again when you started writing like this? The only writing of yours I remeber was your year 8 assignment entitled "Evolution, fact or fiction". Which was hilarious but nothing as good as this. Keep up the writing man. looking forward to more manifesto.