Going Your Own Way, but with Magic

Chapter 19

I am falling and I cannot think. I am falling and my magic eludes me and I am falling. I am going to fall, I am going to hit the ground, there is going to be a lot of pain for a very brief moment and then there is going to be nothing. I am going to fall, I am going to die. I'm sorry. If I was having more coherent thoughts I could think something heartfelt. Would it matter? I feel the air (last time), except it isn't the air. It's the edge of a spell. The edge of a spell.

Edge of a spell. Magic. I have magic. I don't think, don't say the words. Powers surges in me and I clutch at the air. There's no elegance to it, but I slow. I bounce. I pull, less desperately because air doesn't respond to desperation, and I go still. I whisper the word belatedly, my voice torn. 'Fly.' I am not in the mood for a lecture on unoriginality right now. I am floating. There is nothing beneath my feet and I am still held up. I am almost flying. I am floating, at window height, over a busy street. Nikki is going to kill me. Fuck. Nikki is going to kill me. I am going to be alive for her to scream at me, I am going to be alive for her to hug me. I escaped, I survived and now I'm flying. The burst of emotions almost shake the spell loose, but I hang on. I float down gently, looking almost regal. Time for a Mary Poppins remake, I think. I need an umbrella. Max, the girl that beat the odds and fell out of the sky. Well, shit.

Nothing will ever feel as good as the ground does beneath my feet. I am standing. The spell crashes away and I fall to the ground. The stable, solid ground underneath me. I could sit here forever. I am shaken out if my trance by a lot of car horns and swearing. I'm lying in the middle of a main road. I run out the way on limbs stronger than air but weaker than rubber. That would have been a very stupid way to die. But I didn't. I didn't die. I am alive, I am outside. I breathe deeply. Petrol fumes, overflowing bins. Beautiful. I am alive. I escaped. And I'm going home. I'm going home.

Payphones still exist. They stink of piss, but they exist. I dial Mr Bate's number with shaking hands. If the walls weren't so disgusting I'd probably fall asleep against them. He picks up almost immediately and I can't stop myself from thanking god. Bastard. Always taking credit that isn't his.
"Treasure and Trash Books and Antiques, how may I help you?" It's an impatient, impersonal greeting. It makes my heart soar.
"It's me. Max. Me. You know me. I got out." He hear him gasp. He tries to ask me about twenty questions at once. None of them become sentences.
"Where are you?"
"London. I'm calling from a payphone. I didn't know they still had those. Did you?" I'm rambling.
"Where in London?"
"Don't know. Down a side street. Isn't far from Cecelia's flat."
"I'm coming to get you. I mean- if you want. Obviously." He says the first part with utter conviction, and then realises he sounds like the child catcher.
"Please. I'll meet you outside Victoria station. It's charging per minute, so I've got to hang up." I need to say something. I love you is insane. Thank you is too casual. I see you as a father figure and I've realised my life has meaning and I think I partly owe that to you isn't less insane. "I'm so glad you picked up. Thank you. For everything." I hang up before he can reply.

I look like I'm crazy or on drugs, so I'll fit right in. My hair is vertical, my face won't hold a neutral expression and my clothes are torn to shreds. I sit down on a bench outside the station, sitting on my shaking hands. People pass in a blur of greys with occasional pops of colour and I can't get my eyes to focus. Daphne has gotten out of her wrap and is nibbling on my arm. It's nice, but not quite enough to ground me in reality. I am alive. I am outside. I jumped off a building. Nothing feels real. I am used to tomb-like silence, and now every noise makes me jump. It's cold. My hoodie is comforting, but it's also thin cotton. A couple of people look at me with vague concern, but none of them come over. Don't think about whether or not he's coming. All the euphoria has left me. I'm tired and cold and alone. I list things off in my head. Times tables, song names, countries. Bands from the 90s. I freak out that I'll miss Mr Bates in the crowd. I think I'm going to faint. I cannot faint. Awkward questions will be asked. I can't faint, so I don't. I pace, only stopping when my legs nearly give out. I hold Daphne close. She hasn't eaten well in a while; I've given her as many scraps as I can, but it's less than usual. She doesn't seem to mind much. I move to the 80s when I exhaust bands from the 90s. I pace and shake and hope I don't pass out before he gets here.