Okay, let me say this. If I lost my husband, and the next day a little owl flew to my window-sill and said, "Tom, it's me, Harry. I'm back.". What else could I say? I suppose I would believe it. Or would want to. I'd be stuck with an owl. But other than that? No, I am a man of science: I don't believe in that stuff. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my morning run...
The sound of the man's shoes crushing the snow beneath his feet and his occasional labored breaths were the only things that penetrated through the eerie silence of the wintry landscape. Scraggles of brown vegetation and proud beech trees stood out against an otherwise pure white frozen tundra. What sparse patches of bush there were had a fine coating of powdery snow, most of it having fallen between the leaves. Footprints from people who had awoken and seized the day earlier than he had stripped away the frost and exposed the black asphalt of the road. The man could clearly see the tire tracks from where a plow cleared away most of the snow. He rubs his left arm.
A scraping sound brought him out of his musings and he looked up. A pack of three- no, four- dogs ran in front of him, paws scrabbling for purchase in the thick snow and lean muscles rippling under fur coats. They squeezed through a gap in the fence that outlined the park's many diverging paths to rejoin their owners. It's the sort of thing Harry would've appreciated seeing, the man mused. Harry always did have had a special place in his heart for all things canine-related. Probably got if from that layabout godfather of his. The man let out a snort. He himself had no patience for most other people at the best of times, thus allocating space in his small regard for mutts of all things was nigh unfathomable. The man faintly realized he was now passing through Heckscher Playground. He rubs his left arm again, the faint discomfort from earlier turning into pinpricks of pain for some reason.
Ignoring it as best he can, he turns his attention back to the road in front of him. His breath fogged up the air in front of him, hazy puffs of pearlescent air. 1, 2, deep breath in. 1, 2, deep breath out. He had gotten used to the delicious, almost burning sensation the winter's chill provided, both on his skin and in his lungs. This morning, however, the chill exacerbated an already clenched sensation in his chest he'd been feeling for the past five minutes. Perhaps he hadn't warmed up as much as he was supposed to. He was, after all, on the other side of forty.
Up ahead, he could see a familiar cobblestone archway. The entrance leading to the arch was lined with massive rocks the color of jet that jutted out from layers of snow. He had to admit, the contrast between the two colors did make for an aesthetically pleasing sight. He rather liked the color black. Nice. Clean. Simple. It went well with almost everything.
There was a large patch where the snow gave way to a thin veneer of ice, and the man's shoes made a skidding sound as he ran over it. As he passed through under the archway, daylight temporarily dissolved and-oh-gave way to darkness. But the moment passed, and a second later the man was back under the cover of a cloudy sky.
He's about to hit the point where the road begins sloping down in a series of twists and turns leading to Greyshot Arch. From there, he has the choice of running along the outer lip of the park back to his 5th Avenue apartment or save some time and cut through the park. He checks his watch. 6:02. He'd like to go home and take a quick shower before Harry wakes up, generally around seven. The man decides to take the shorter path. His tongue darts out to wipe at chapped lips, and come back with a taste of salt.
He reaches the peak of the incline and makes a left. There were scatters of trees beyond the fencing on his right. The elm looked particularly unsightly this time of year; all bald and bare-faced and scaly, with none of the vibrant greens of the adjacent white pines. The white pines' needles remind him of the way his husband's eyes fanned out in malachite beams near the pupil, before darkening into emerald. His heart throbs slightly at the edges, and he shoves the thought away.
Once he reaches the first bend in the road, he has an unobscured high angle view of the arch. The white-gray gneiss at odds with the sandstone, which was usually several different shades of orange. This morning, however, it settled on a medium brown colour. Winter does have a habit of making everything around it look darker, the man muses. Like the cold seeped into and washed the light out of everything. He could see the top of the balustrade's heart-shaped stylizations. The path levels out and he's afforded a straight-through view of the tunnel. In four wide strides, he clears the entrance and is ensconced in darkness once more. Its eerily silent, save for the roaring of blood in his ears and the sound of his heartbeat.
thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump
…
...
…
…
…
…
...What the hell?
He slows down to a complete halt, expecting the tightness in his chest to gradually lessen and lessen, but it only seemed to be getting worse. It was like being touched with a hot poker, but instead of concentrating on a single point, it was spreading across his entire chest.
Between the haze of pain and the flames scorching through his body, bewilderment shoulders its way through. Had he not worn an appropriate amount of layers to fend off the cold? But he had always worn similar outfits to the one he was wearing today on his morning runs, and it had never been an issue until now. Had the immense cold somehow stopped the circulation of blood? The man kneads his hand, arm, pectoral muscles, ribcage- anywhere the pain is.
A wave of nausea crashes into him, almost doubling him over, but he manages to lean against the tunnel wall. He blindly reaches for phone in his pocket. If he can just manage to call the ambulan-
(whatshapenningtome-)
A sour, almost bitter taste rising up in the back of his throat was the split-second warning he receives before he begins vomiting the contents of his stomach. If the nausea hadn't been enough to bring him to heel, then the spew was certainly more than capable: he falls to his knees, and retches what feels like liquid fire.
(hecouldntbreathe-)
And he rolls over on the ground, head narrowly missing the pool of his own sick. The cool asphalt feels like bliss on his skin.
(whydidithurstsobad-)
The pain slowly ebbed away, leaving him exhausted and twitching in its wake. His vision blurred, and what faint light he could see coming from beyond the mouth of the tunnel swam in and out of focus like a kaleosidcope. And when he tried to move his arm, tried to jolt his strong, powerful legs into action, all he could sense was a complete detachment from his limbs. Even the frosty chill was beginning to losing it's grip on him, the cold nodding off into an ambient temperature.
Not...ready…..to…..die…..yet
His vision finally surrendered to the evanid darkness that had been taunting him at the edges of his sight. He no longer felt the solid weight of the asphalt beneath him. Could've been a cloud sailing through icy altitudes for all he knew. Only his hearing remained, and even that was beginning to slip away.
People say that, in the moment before one life ends and whatever comes next does, one is allowed to become a spectator and watch their own life through rewind and experience it anew in an infinitesimal unit of time. It's supposed to be a moment of catharsis, reliving the age of innocence and the age of sin. Moments of unadulterated passions, of ecstasy, of hardships, and the subtler, homier moments in between. It wasn't quite like that for him. His life was full of nothing but enmity, envy, and tears. Certainly sin. Still, a part of him thinks, it wasn't all bad, and thinks back to a certain pair of eyes and a smile.
A second before the nothingness washed over him, before he loosened his grip on life and went into the void, he swore he could hear -feel- the exact moment his heart stopped.
thump…...thump….thump….…..thump….thump…...