The Tower

About a man that never exists.

            He was awoken abruptly by dirt splashing against his face. He jerked momentarily, but did not open his eyes. He reflected on the previous day. He cracked an eye. Looking at his watch he realized it had been an hour since he had first lay down in the park, watching the clouds form. They fascinated him, dark masses of constantly tightening swirls. Threatening, yet magical. Dangerous, yet captivating. A horror, and a wonder, tightly wrapped into the ever-swirling void.

            Slowly he stood up and yawned. He stretched, extending his arms to the sky, when suddenly the first rain drop hit his palm. He stared at it, watching the empty eyes in the reflection stare at him staring at it staring at him. His mind was empty, thinking about nothing in particular, save for the endless conundrum within the warm bubble resting on his hand. His not thinking was interrupted by another conundrum hitting his head. Then another on his arm, until they were falling all around, an impossible sea of confusion. He calmly began to walk to a nearby tree, when it was struck by lightning. It burst into glorious flames, slowly being digested by hell.

            He watched it for a while, then left the park as the fire began to absorb what was left of the once-beautiful public hub. He walked down a deserted sidewalk, whistling and kicking a pebble. A lost child ran past him crying, searching for a lost parent undoubtedly crying as well during these troubled times. He was thoroughly soaked by the time he reached his destination, so he hurried inside through a broken window.

            No one was inside. The ground was covered with shattered glass, partially from the windows, partially from bottles of alcohol. He reached behind the counter and grabbed a glass, then picked up a left-over bottle of scotch off the ground. He poured a glass and sat down at a stool. Taking slow sips, he continued reflecting. Casually he looked up at the television behind the bar. Once again his empty reflection stared back at him. After finishing the bottle he helped himself to a handful of peanuts, then left a twenty dollar bill on the counter.

            He stepped back outside through the same broken window. Rain was still pounding the sidewalks as lightning struck all around him. Wind was pulling trees and cars from the ground and throwing them around. He took a deep breath, almost enjoying the chaos. He looked up at The Tower one last time. He examined the dark clouds that were forming around it. He sighed, wondering what the world was coming to. He began to walk out of the city.

            He did none of these things. He did not walk out of the city. He did not look up at The Tower where I once worked. He did not enter my favorite bar through a window which was long ago shattered by a crowd of frightened people, nor did he look at the television that once displayed the evacuation notice. He did not walk down the street and see the same lost child I saw while escaping the city. He did not see a tree get struck by lightning, nor watch the park go up in flames. He did not feel the first few drops of rain. He did not wake up when I accidentally kicked dirt on him as I fled through the park. He did not wake up at all. He was cold, stiff, dead. He was an early victim of my experiment gone wrong.

            I wish he had done those things. I wish he had woken up and used my memories to build his own story. I wish he wasn’t dead, and I wish it wasn’t my fault.

            The good news is, it will never happen again.

            If you are reading this, then I have already made sure of it.

Author's Note

Big contrast from my usual writing. I started writing it a long time ago and finally was able to finish it. I'm sure there's some grammar mistakes, and there may be a noticeable shift in style from where I picked it back up. But most importantly, does the ending make sense at all?