FINCHES The dark, glassy lake vomited swells of a thick fog that chilled and canvased the city streets. However dense the fog, it didn’t keep the people who were on the street from seeing and hearing the death of Samuel Lueck. The crushing of his bones seemed to echo off of the tall, skyscraping buildings. It looked like maybe he tried to break his fall, but his arms landed akimbo to his body, legs twisted at an odd angle. It seemed, to some, that he transmogrified into this gross being before he hit the ground, but maybe they just never saw a dead man before. The blood looked like it ripped through the seams of his body, and as it spilled over the cold slabs of cement, the fog donned a pink color around him. From fifty-five stories up, where the roof of his apartment building was located, Samuel was falling. The night was cold as it rushed passed his face. The icy air licked his skin and burned it; he didn’t quite know whether he was afraid or not. He felt his body passing through space, but it was a strange, comfortable feeling: floating. The buildings looked like a blur in his eyes. Being the Art Historian he was, he couldn’t help noticing what the world looked like while falling. Had he had some oil paints and canvas, he would have loved to paint what he saw. The surrounding structures were smeared with dark blue, green, and purple. Flashes of yellow formed what looked like windows, and perhaps the light pinks and hot oranges would have been in the sky. Yes, this scenery would have made such a beautiful painting. Unfortunately, Samuel thought, he would not get the chance to paint it. He was going to die in a matter of seconds. He supposed he had time to think of memories and how it came to be that he was on that roof when the accident occurred. He closed his eyes, and his first memory materialized before him. A wonderful Degas exhibit was being put up in the museum. Brilliant colors danced around the walls, and Samuel could barely keep himself together. Degas was his favorite painter; he wanted to share with his daughter, who was a ballerina, all the paintings that Degas did of dancers. He was the one who organized the exhibit and set it up so that all the art work would be shown in a chronological way. On the day of the exhibit opening, Samuel brought his daughter early to see all the paintings. He wanted her to have a special tour while he had time to spend alone with her. Samuel brought her to stand in front of his favorite painting, his hand resting on her shoulder, smoothing over it encouragingly. “Dad, I like these paintings because they look like me,” she said, her pooling burntumber eyes peering at him. “Of course they look like you because you are a beautiful ballerina! I bet Degas would have painted you!” Delilah stared at the painting. Samuel noticed how her thick dark hair was twisted neatly onto the top of her head and how her petite, feminine characteristics reminded him of his wife, Annabelle. She was taken away due to problems, but Samuel would never tell Delilah that. He did, however, in that moment notice that Delilah looked exactly like his wife, and it caused a chill to cover his skin. “Do you see the man in the painting?” After a beat, “Well that man is in almost all of Degas’ paintings of dancers. I don’t think he is a good man. He always seems to be staring at the girls. It makes me uneasy. Can you see the way he uses cool colors, like blue, to paint him? He does that so the viewer knows he is not a good guy.” “Will he hurt the girls?” Her bell like voice, full of concern bounced off of the walls. “I’m not sure, sweetie.” Delilah did not say much after that. Instead she left her father’s side while he was wildly staring at the picture, and she went to examine the rest of the scenes that Degas painted. Her small frame floated around the room as she looked, and it seemed like she had deep thoughts that occupied her mind. When Samuel’s memory faded, he was much closer to the cement, the hard cold slab of cement that was screaming at him from below. He closed his eyes tightly again.
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