I came across a writing prompt that intrigues me. Here goes:
You don’t know where you are, and you don’t remember anything about yourself.
You just know that right now, you can choose to either go up the stairs or go down.
Well, it seems you are insane, since you choose to jump out the window.
The sun is beating down on the landing where I stand. A window, stretching up and down at least three floors above and below — that I can count — allows the light to flood into the white, sterile-looking building. Is that a mid-morning or a mid-afternoon sun? My purpose for being here eludes me, as if I walked into a room forgetting what brought me there. I would retrace my steps, but I do not know the direction from which I came in the first place. The realization that I can’t even remember my own name swims through my head, but I swat it away. I have more important business to attend to.
An overwhelming urge to run comes over me, but where to? I have no memory of this building or why I’m here. I know that danger lurks, but in which direction? The need to get out grows stronger and stronger within me and a debilitating idea tangles in my mind. The thought is so strong that — to my dismay — I know that it’s a fact. The danger is throughout the whole facility. My mind calls it a “facility,” but what truly takes place here? Impending doom fills me, weighs me down like a thick molasses. I frantically look up and down the stairs, praying for a solution to make itself known. My eyes, becoming submerged in blurry confusion, come to rest on a white, leather arm chair, but will it be heavy enough?
There’s no time for debate. The sound will, no doubt, alert them — who are “they” anyway? — but if I continue to stand here, they will eventually come. I hoist the chair up in front of me, like a battering ram, and run at the window. The sound of breaking glass echoes through the stairwell. I skid to a halt, absentmindedly grabbing onto the jagged glass to aid in my stop, and watch the chair tumble out before me.
“There she is! Get her!”
I only see the top of their bald heads, running for the stairs from two levels below, for a moment before I launch myself out the window. The air twists my hair like a hyper child trying to braid for the first time as I fall, and for a moment I hear a song that my grandmother used to listen to play in my head. Wait! My grandmother! She raised me. I remember. Her name was… Lucy… Lucy Wilson… And that makes me Patti. Oh, how I’ve always hated my name.
To see it portrayed in a cartoon, it looks pretty easy. The goofy cat goes falling ass over teakettle into a well-placed canopy, bounces a couple of times and lands on his feet. This is real life and, more than that, my life though. Well, at least there’s a well-placed canopy. My ass is the first to tear through the fabric, and as a last minute, desperate effort, I grab on. It does slow my momentum, however, it also rips my shoulder out of its socket in one violent act, but I won’t let it hinder me. I hit the ground in a painful thud, jump to my feet and run for the trees.