heart.
The sun, still bright behind its barrier of clouds, stung his eyes. He blinked and turned to the right, catching a partial view of the balcony off the living room.
And he blinked again.
A man was sitting on the balcony ledge.
(the Pale Rider)
Xander’s eyes watered, and he frantically wiped away his tears.
There was no one on the balcony.
Of course there wasn’t, he told himself, and so what that his heart was screaming and his head was throbbing and it felt like he couldn’t breathe? There was no one on his balcony. The very thought of it—
(the Pale Rider comes)
—was ridiculous.
Panicked, and feeling stupid for his panic, he grabbed the baby monitor and ran into the living room, over to the glass door that opened to the balcony.
And there he saw a man in green and white striped pajamas sitting on the rail. The man was facing away from Xander, his long blond hair catching the wind and whipping around his shoulders.
In Xander’s mind, a dead man made of shadow whispered his name.
He squeezed his eyes shut—
***
—but he sees the glaring lights and a dark shadow reaching for him and there’s a face in the shadow a face made of shadow and he screams because there’s a voice whispering his name and telling him to kiss them all goodbye because today’s the day the world ends and—
***
“The Pale Rider comes,” Xander whispered.
He opened his eyes.
He saw a man perched on his balcony railing, ready to jump off the high board and plunge thirty stories into the cold. And he saw beyond that, saw that the man was not a man at all. He saw a ghost, like the blue nudes—trapped in a moment, frozen in rage and grief.
His heart thudding in his ears, Xander approached the glass door of the balcony. He unlatched it and slid it open.
“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding tinny and far away. “What’re you doing?”
The man’s head and shoulders bobbed, as if he was silently laughing. “Contemplating.” His voice was cold and deep, and Xander felt it echo in his bones.
“Okay,” Xander said, feeling very small. “Contemplating what?”
“The end of everything.”
“Yeah, I sort of got that, given that you’re sitting on the balcony rail. If people want to admire the view, they tend to do that from a window.”
“I’m not a person,” said the blond man.
“Yeah, I got that, too.”
And he did. Xander recognized him for who, for what, he truly was. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he didn’t question it. It felt right.
Just as the blond man sitting right there on the railing felt wrong—tragically, horrifically wrong.
Something was going to happen. Something bad.
Without knowing why he was doing it, Xander stepped forward. This close, there was no way to mistake the blond figure for a person; there was a presence about him, something alien that spotlighted his humanity as a mask, a disguise. Part of Xander wanted to retreat—actually, his brain was screaming at him to get the hell away and not look back—but he kept walking until he was next to the figure. He carefully placed the baby monitor on the floor, and then he leaned over to rest his elbows on the railing. He was terrified of being so close to the edge—it would be so easy to just lean down and let gravity take him.
But this wasn’t about him at all.
Xander looked over his shoulder at the man who wasn’t a man. He was thin with scruffy hair and beard stubble, and if he was nervous about being so high up, he hid it well. Then again, someone like him probably didn’t have to worry about accidentally overbalancing. Xander, a longtime Nirvana fan, wondered for a moment over the similarity of the man’s features to those of a certain dead alternative rock star, and he distinctly thought,
Kurt Cobain is about to take a swan dive off my balcony.
Except Kurt Cobain was dead, and the figure sitting on the balcony railing was not him and never had been; Xander knew this without understanding how he knew it. He also
The sun, still bright behind its barrier of clouds, stung his eyes. He blinked and turned to the right, catching a partial view of the balcony off the living room.
And he blinked again.
A man was sitting on the balcony ledge.
(the Pale Rider)
Xander’s eyes watered, and he frantically wiped away his tears.
There was no one on the balcony.
Of course there wasn’t, he told himself, and so what that his heart was screaming and his head was throbbing and it felt like he couldn’t breathe? There was no one on his balcony. The very thought of it—
(the Pale Rider comes)
—was ridiculous.
Panicked, and feeling stupid for his panic, he grabbed the baby monitor and ran into the living room, over to the glass door that opened to the balcony.
And there he saw a man in green and white striped pajamas sitting on the rail. The man was facing away from Xander, his long blond hair catching the wind and whipping around his shoulders.
In Xander’s mind, a dead man made of shadow whispered his name.
He squeezed his eyes shut—
***
—but he sees the glaring lights and a dark shadow reaching for him and there’s a face in the shadow a face made of shadow and he screams because there’s a voice whispering his name and telling him to kiss them all goodbye because today’s the day the world ends and—
***
“The Pale Rider comes,” Xander whispered.
He opened his eyes.
He saw a man perched on his balcony railing, ready to jump off the high board and plunge thirty stories into the cold. And he saw beyond that, saw that the man was not a man at all. He saw a ghost, like the blue nudes—trapped in a moment, frozen in rage and grief.
His heart thudding in his ears, Xander approached the glass door of the balcony. He unlatched it and slid it open.
“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding tinny and far away. “What’re you doing?”
The man’s head and shoulders bobbed, as if he was silently laughing. “Contemplating.” His voice was cold and deep, and Xander felt it echo in his bones.
“Okay,” Xander said, feeling very small. “Contemplating what?”
“The end of everything.”
“Yeah, I sort of got that, given that you’re sitting on the balcony rail. If people want to admire the view, they tend to do that from a window.”
“I’m not a person,” said the blond man.
“Yeah, I got that, too.”
And he did. Xander recognized him for who, for what, he truly was. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he didn’t question it. It felt right.
Just as the blond man sitting right there on the railing felt wrong—tragically, horrifically wrong.
Something was going to happen. Something bad.
Without knowing why he was doing it, Xander stepped forward. This close, there was no way to mistake the blond figure for a person; there was a presence about him, something alien that spotlighted his humanity as a mask, a disguise. Part of Xander wanted to retreat—actually, his brain was screaming at him to get the hell away and not look back—but he kept walking until he was next to the figure. He carefully placed the baby monitor on the floor, and then he leaned over to rest his elbows on the railing. He was terrified of being so close to the edge—it would be so easy to just lean down and let gravity take him.
But this wasn’t about him at all.
Xander looked over his shoulder at the man who wasn’t a man. He was thin with scruffy hair and beard stubble, and if he was nervous about being so high up, he hid it well. Then again, someone like him probably didn’t have to worry about accidentally overbalancing. Xander, a longtime Nirvana fan, wondered for a moment over the similarity of the man’s features to those of a certain dead alternative rock star, and he distinctly thought,
Kurt Cobain is about to take a swan dive off my balcony.
Except Kurt Cobain was dead, and the figure sitting on the balcony railing was not him and never had been; Xander knew this without understanding how he knew it. He also
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