. . .
It feels like he's on a bed of nails. His head is pounding, and sweaty hair sticks uncomfortably to the back of his neck.
When he opens his eyes, his vision is blurry. He's lost his glasses somewhere along the way, but he has no trouble making out where he is.
Gravel bites into his palms as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He swings his legs around and dangles his feet over the edge of the rooftop. He isn't too worried; he somehow managed to find his own building. He wishes he knew how he got here.
He envisions himself from the viewpoint of some random bystander, watching in disbelief as an unconscious man hurtles through the air. It isn't funny. It's actually pretty goddamn terrifying, but he laughs until his sides hurt.
. . .
The next morning he finds his eyeglasses sitting innocently on his nightstand.
. . .
A week later, he's washing the windows. Keeping busy usually helps, so he's been doing a lot of that. Something's not right though, because he's feeling dizzy and faint. Then his feet give out from under him and he finds himself falling upward.
"Shit," he says when his back bumps up against the ceiling. He lets his rag and bucket drop to the floor. At least that's another project, another mess to clean. He's not sure what set this one off. It takes a moment, but he does put it together. He'd been listening to the TV. He let his mind wander while the newscaster read a story about a recent string of robberies.
He decides he isn't going to listen to the news anymore.
He hasn't perfected the art of falling yet, but the inside of the house has walls to kick off from, and he is able to propel his way over to the staircase. He grabs hold of the banister and slowly works his way down. His feet alight on one of the steps, and he lets out a long breath when they stay there.
He doubles over and does his best not to throw up.
He narrows his eyes at the television. He knows how he is going to keep himself busy for the next half hour.
. . .
It doesn't take long before two young men show up. They park their car in front Dan's house; make quick work of hauling off the television set and the AM/FM radio. The TV set is too large; it won't fit comfortably in the trunk. The two men argue about how best to fit it inside, but they do manage it eventually. The car peels out, leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber. Watching them reminds Dan of the way criminals take off when they know they are just inches from being caught. He crinkles his nose at that. It's not exactly an appropriate analogy when he was the one to set the stuff out in the first place.
There isn't any evidence the television had ever been there, except for the sheet of paper marked "FREE!" left on the sidewalk. From the safety of his living room window, Dan watches as the wind catches it, sends it dancing down the empty street. He closes himself off from the world with the pull of the curtain.
. . .
Music helps. He plays his records constantly now that the television is gone.
He plays his jazz when he is doing busywork, but he plays classical music when he can't sleep. The classical seems to have the calming effect he desperately needs, but it seems less effective at keeping him grounded. He's pretty sure he doesn't actually stay on the bed during the deepest parts of sleep.
He convinces himself the grooves of the vinyl are going to wear out before too long, and then he'll have nothing to listen to. It's a stupid thing to worry about, but he's fixating on it.
He finally decides to call the record store. He asks if they would be willing to have someone come and deliver a few replacements for him. The kid on the other end seems to have no patience for him, brusquely tells him that yes, they could set aside whichever records he wished, and no, they would not deliver.
He's disappointed, but not really all that surprised.
He slumps down into the sofa. Stares at the telephone for a long moment. He can hear his mother's soft voice in his memories; how she always worried. Always reminded him to keep his feet on the ground, and not to get too self-absorbed. He wishes he could just pick up that phone and call her. He has no one to talk to about this.
There is a rock in his stomach. He's grateful for that weight, focuses on it. Anything that anchors is good, even as the dam breaks.
. . .
He's eating a lot more now.
During one of his cleaning sprees, he'd come across an old wooden box full of his mother's old recipes. He'd decided he'd try his hand at making at least one everyday.
Cooking isn't as difficult as he'd always believed. He used to joke during college that he could burn water, but he's finding it isn't too different from engineering. Just follow the instructions and assemble the parts in the right order, and you're good to go.
He's gained quite a bit of weight, but he's grounded now. He still doesn't leave the house, but that's okay. Hollis comes over to his house now for their weekly visits. The old man brings his own beer, but Dan abstains. He manages to convince the other man to take home some of whatever it is he's been cooking up, and it becomes a sort of game. Hollis politely declines, but is easily convinced.
. . .
This becomes his life, and that's okay.
. . .
One day Rorschach stops by. Tells him of The Comedian's murder.
After his old partner leaves, Dan stands on the sidewalk outside his front door.
He finds he can't fly away even if he wanted to.
. . .