The Man With No Shadow

By James Bernardo

He hates it when he wakes up before the alarm clock blares. The sunlight trickles onto his unkempt bed. He watches the fingertips of light creep up his blanket, moving ever slowly towards his face. He watches the shadows of things in his room glide quietly across the wall. The glare slaps and shakes him out of his sleepy stupor. He starts to dread the day ahead.

Like how all stories go, it was a day like any other day. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens to him. He wakes up at the exact same time as yesterday. He takes a shower then shaves. Puts on his pants one leg at a time. Drinks a cup of tepid coffee. And, he's off to work in the same beat-up red Toyota sedan he's been driving for ten years. There's nothing out of the ordinary, except today.

They call it Murphy's Law. To him, it's just plain bad luck. Traffic is unusually horrendous today. Today of all days, he has to be in on time for an evaluation meeting with his boss. The incessant blaring of horns and the mindless chattering of the radio DJ do nothing to ease his anxiety. He's had enough. He sees a small opening in between the vehicles fighting for centimeters of space to get through hell. He fears he will miss his appointment. The fear of losing his dead-end job weighs heavy on his mind. He drives into an alleyway lined with shanties that leads to a tunnel. It opens out to an almost-deserted stretch of road. He wonders why nobody thought of passing through here. He takes a detour down beside the old bridge leading to the old part of town. He's seen this place before. He remembers differently the decrepit gas station with broken pumps and rusty relics as it greeted him again. The street is lined with colonial houses ravaged by floodwaters when the river overflows. He imagines how majestic this place must have looked before the war. How the buildings would cast long shadows on the streets in the afternoon so children could play until the dusk merges with darkness. His tryst with his mind is interrupted when he feels the familiar death throes of his car engine. Murphy's Law. He curses under his breath as he exits the car. The sun moves past the horizon as he reaches for his phone. It's has flat-lined. Murphy's Law.

As he puts his phone back in his pocket, he suddenly feels light-headed. He steadies himself by placing his hand on the hood of the car. This is when he notices something odd. The sunlight is beating down on his back but he cannot, for the life of him, see his shadow.

A slow, creeping panic descends upon him as he desperately tries to find his dark companion. It feels to him as if an appendage has been cut off. The phantom pain is almost unbearable. He leans against the hood and checks his right arm. He looks intently at his hand. He places it directly above the hood but sees no hint of it. Cold sweat starts to trickle down his forehead as he quickly turns the key. He knows he must get out of that place. The car ignition squeals and chatters yet the engine remains lifeless. That is when he sees it from the rear view mirror- a dark figure standing only a few paces from the car. Instead of relief for seeing another being, the man feels dread. His instincts kick in at the same time he bolts up from his car seat. Feet upon feet carry him to a damaged wall where he crouches to catch his breath. He peeks from behind the structure. The shadows of towers loom above, casting a veil over his pursuer's features. He hears his own heartbeat as he tries to stifle his breathing, deathly afraid that this unrecognizable menace may zero in on his location. He hears shuffling and strange noises from afar. He anticipates the sound of footsteps closing in. His face tenses as he reaches for the nearest object he could find. A crooked pipe offers its rusty hand to the man. He feels that familiar chill in his spine as he trains his ear at the figure's direction. Yet, he hears not a sound.

He could always tell if someone is close by. Years of being picked on by bullies have sharpened his fight or flee response. He clutches the rusty pipe tighter, readying himself. The dark figure appears from behind. The man jumps back and takes a hard swing. The pipe slices through the shadowy entity like passing through air. Nothing. A dark fist retaliates and hits him square on the jaw. The man reels back. He swings the pipe again but all he gets is a kick in the gut. The man drops the pipe and his feet start to backpedal away from the perilous brawl. Blood trickles out from his nostrils. He starts screaming for help. The shadow gives chase. The man looks back. It seems that for every painful step, the shadow takes three. An old abandoned building lurks a few meters away, its framed doorway boarded up to prevent vagrants and vandals from entering. He finds the strength to dash across the empty street. The man kicks in the termite-eaten wooden boards, hoping to elude the shadow. Pinholes of light passing through the dust-encrusted windows offer little help to make him see the winding flight of stairs to his right. Paranoia overrides his senses as he clambers his way up. The shadow is right on his tail. The stairwell echoes the man's labored groans. He is almost at the top when ebony fingers grab his foot. He falls and hits his chest on the edge of the step. He feels the air leave his lungs while he tries to extricate himself from the shadow's clutches. With every ounce of his dwindling resolve, he manages to free his foot. He limps towards the door atop the stairs. He puts all his weight on his shoulder and charges through the door. Sunlight bathes him again. He lets the air fill his lungs. His eyes dart quickly from left to right, looking for a way out. He looks behind and his heart shatters at the sight of the shadow coming straight towards him. He runs and lets out the loudest scream he could muster. The shadow remains undeterred in its path. The man suddenly stops when he reaches the edge. About a hundred feet separates him and the ground below. It beckons him to her hard embrace.

They call it the infinite second. It's that miniscule moment between nearly there and not yet. It lasts between a nanosecond and eternity. Almost but no cigar, a hit or a miss, flawed perfection at its best and worst, the last step that takes you nowhere near your destination. It's that final breath you take before a sigh, the blink of an eye at that instant when you entirely miss the point. The man closes his eyes. He thinks of the sadness of things unsaid, the anger of failing at everything and the fear of loneliness. At that moment he feels everything and nothing. The shadow is but a few steps away and he knows he cannot win this fight. It is upon him, the inevitable. He keeps his eyes closed as he lets gravity take over. He anticipates the free-fall would take only seconds, with the ground rushing to meet him like a long-lost love. Instead he feels the kiss of the wind on his face. He opens his eyes and he's still standing on the edge of the tower. He looks around then trains his eye where he thought he would be by now. Sunlight caresses his shoulder and sends a wave of warmth. He sees his shadow stretched out on the street below. He raises his arm and waves at it. The shadow waves back.
The end.

Copyright © 2019 by James Bernardo

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