The Winchester Code

Chapter 18 - The Fall

Chapter 18

The Fall

It’s sort of strange isn’t it? I’ve been stabbed, chocked, tormented, sleep deprived, cut, burnt to the core, and buried alive. None of those things have killed me. Now I’m flying; the one thing that every girl dreams of doing – ever since I was young, I had wished to be able to fly. I would love to be able to sprout wings and flee from trouble. Now I am flying, and that’s what’s going to kill me.
It happened so quickly. Sam, switching forms from him to the devil, he had grabbed me, taunted me, and he showed me that this is the best thing. This is the way that he will leave me alone. This is the how I will see my family again. By flying over the railing down three stories to the hard concrete floor. I wonder if I’m ready to die. Will it really be that bad? Will there be a white light? Will it be quick? Will it be slow and painful? I don’t know, and quite frankly I don’t want to. I want to enjoy this moment, flying. Even if it is to my death.
I see the ground coming towards me. I hear Sam call my name. I hear myself scream. But something inside me clicks. Everything happens in slow motion and I’m at peace.
You know how they say that just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes? It’s a final burst of energy. You feel happy. You feel content. You know that this is what is going to happen. You know that this is it. This is my time. This was my time. This was my life.
Flying.
When I was four years old I was convinced that if I flapped my arms hard enough, I would be able to soar like a bird. At six, I realised that this wouldn’t happen. If I wanted to fly, I would need to have wings, or at least some sort of a parachute. I used to tie streamers to my arms and legs and hang them from my shirt. I also used plastic bags and tied them under my arms, letting them fill with air. I would jump on the trampoline, convinced that I was going higher and higher.
Flying.
When I was seven, my dad found me on the roof of our house calling for him. That’s the first time I realised I would never be able to fly. I’m scared of heights. He climbed up to get me and hugged me as we sat on the ledge, our legs hanging over the gutter. That’s the day I realised that maybe staying on the ground is better.
Flying.
At ten years old, we caught a plane to Oregon for a ski trip. I was scared as hell, but mum told me that it was ok. She explained what was happening the whole time and a stewardess helped calm me down. When I was sick with fear she took me to the cockpit and the co-pilot explained how to fly. I decided to test what I learnt on the slopes, not deliberately, but as I stumbled over a snow mound, I knew that flying would be better than falling. I spread my arms, my fingers pointed upwards and sprained my ankle when I landed.
Flying.

Our lives consist of memories all strung together to form a timeline. I used to think that because I couldn’t remember being born, I never was. I didn’t know that I had birthdays until I was five years old. Our whole existence is just memories. If no one remembers the person who made the telephone, or what it was like before them, how would we know that it didn’t make itself? How would we know that it didn’t just appear one day?
If no one remembers you, how would they know that you ever existed? There are over seven billion people in the world. What about those that no one knows? What about those that have been forgotten? What about me? My family is dead. Soon I will become just a memory to the people that I’ve met. The people at my school, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve forgotten who I was already. The estranged family members that I haven’t seen since I was six, do they still think about me? The people that I’ve met in the past months, how many of them will keep me alive in their memories? How long will it take until I’m nothing but a bunch of bones in the ground or ash on the wind? How long until I disappear completely?

I pass the second story, the wind rushing through my hair, the scream still on my lips. I can’t hear Sam, but I know that he’s up there. He just witnessed me being pushed over the edge. I have finally tipped the scale. I am crazy, flying to my death. Arms spread wide body twisting through the air, wind rushing in my ears. This is it.
When I was seven, my family and I went caving. We went on a tour and I was told to stay close to my parents. I obeyed, staying between mum and dad the whole time as we crouched through tunnels and crawled along ridges. We saw stalagmites and stalactites and we saw the river rushing underground. I was mesmerized by the glow worms hanging from the roof of the cave. They sparkled like the stars in the night sky, and I stared at them, imagining myself walking among them, flying from star to star, dancing in the light. It would be different flying in space than flying on earth. In space, you wouldn’t be able to fall. You could just dance around and swim through the atmosphere. There would be no danger of the heights because you wouldn’t be able to hit the ground. I loved watching those lights. When we finished the tour, my seven-year-old self decided that I would go back to see the worms. I wanted to dance among them. I didn’t care about the wet and slippery rocks. I would be careful. I was always careful. Just not careful enough to realise that the sound I could hear over the water was the beginning of the end. I was scared. I couldn’t breathe because the rocks were crushing my chest. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t do anything, and when the second bunch of rocks fell, I thought that I’d died. I saw a bright light. I thought that that was it. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t dead. I was in the hospital. It was a miracle. I was alive. I wasn’t hurt. Everyone called it a miracle. It was a miracle.