Blue Cicadas

No wings

It had been in the summer and the heat had been agonizing. The heat consumed everything and everyone. Leaving behind the ever pressing presence of sweat and musk. The stench had been unbearable and the people of the bustling city of New York avoided each other like the plague.

The air was humid and suffocating reaching the temperature of 110 degrees. The people shut themselves in their homes, cracked windows, and blasted the air conditioning. It had been hot, unbearably so when Reed Moore realized that he was indeed dying.

It had been a slow realization. He had been reading a book, simply reading when he stood up and walked towards his open window and jumped out of his perch on the 11th story of a 12 story building . It had been something absolutely spontaneous, purely random. Now I must explain to you that no, Mirage was not suicidal, he was not mentally ill, and no he was not on something. He was just a boy who was reading a book and decided that he wanted to jump.

Well more precisely, he had wanted to fall. On the way down it had occurred to him that yes he was falling, and yes he was going to die. Mirage certainly did not want to end his life there. He himself didn't want to end his life at all. If he had to die, he didn't want to die in this heat especially. And so during his fall, Reed began to think.

Everyone was in their homes avoiding the sun, they probably wouldn't clean up his mess for awhile. Just let his body swelter and burn up into nothing. Maybe they would glance at his corpse and shrug, saying it was something that could wait. Maybe his body would catch on fire and be nothing but ash by the time he hit the ground. Maybe not, these were just the ramblings of a dead man.

He would have preferred a death in a bed, slipping into oblivion in his sleep. And if it were a violent death, maybe something like being swept up in a snowstorm as the warmth was eaten up by the cold. Snuffed out like the flame of a candle until he closed his eyes, welcoming the chilly sleep.

Yes, death by sleep was what he would have wanted. Instead he was wide awake, flailing arms and desperate fingers snatching up nothing. The rush of air was caught in his throat, silencing his screams and the intense heat burned at his back. His death would be ugly, pitiful and absolutely uncalled for. He would die just because, that's the worse type of death of all.

The feeling of nausea rushed his senses. All the chaos of falling stilled.

There was no colors, no white or black. It was something so unexplainable, if anything this is what he would describe as pure nothing.