Entry #64

Little Wing
by Selma Sergent


The scarred part on my wrist throbbed as the trains trundled past. The skin grows over the wound but it doesn’t make you forget why it’s there.

I looked at the tracks. Hot metal smell like burning fat. I imagined myself falling, being crushed under the power of the machine. I saw a disposable cup blown to safety by the speed of the train’s passing. What if I was light enough to be blown to safety?

I couldn’t risk it.

So I headed for the roof. Twenty storeys up. Once you were falling from that height, you kept falling. No chance of a reprieve.

The escalator gave off a blue sheen. The colour of the centre of a match flame. Everything was different in this light. Faded 8mm film. I wondered how the critics would review the ending.

A little girl on the down escalator waved at me as we passed, both at exactly the same point for an instant, neither down nor up. ‘It’s a moving staircase,’ she said. Quaint, unexpected turn of phrase.

I turned around and saw her getting on my escalator. Going up. She had on a long blue dress with a pale blue sash. All dressed up.

I alighted, opening the door to the fire escape and freedom. She was behind me, shuffling up the stairs.

‘I’m lost ,’ she said.

She held out her hand. Such a small hand, gentle as a wing. My resolve shifted.

‘I’ll help you find your way,’ I said.