Leaving Home

The glass door slides silently over the well-oiled tracks as you pull it open, stepping out onto the 30th floor balcony. Wind whips your long, blonde hair around in a wild dance, thrashing your neck and cheeks, warning you to be alert.

You approach the railing only to realize you’ve left the door ajar; being a good daughter, concerned with your family’s comfort, you return to close the door. As an afterthought, you lock the door and break the key off in the lock. Just in case.

Despite the bitter cold, the comfort of certainty and warmth of expectation wash over you as you climb up onto the stone balustrade; sliding your feet to the precipice, curling your toes over the edge, you look down. With a shock, you recall how terrified you are of heights.

Shaking, you stretch your arms wide, lifting your face to the stars.

Ready, now.

A bright, red light washes over you from above, a gentle tug on the top of your head pulling you higher.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” you say, with conviction, to no one.

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