Read Online Kicking the Can by Scott C. Glennie - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott C. Glennie
Ads: Link
and revealing clothing.
The days leading up to her planned departure were filled with work and her one hobby. She wept the night before when she finished her self-portrait—an oil painting of a thirtyish woman, wearing nothing but black panties, lying dead, eyes wide open, blood trickling from her mouth, her small breasts exposed. She was cradled in the arms of a Metro patrolman stooped over subway tracks. Aplacard of Lujiazui Station hung in the foreground. She covered the painting with black silk cloth and left it on the easel. The easel was positioned in the corner of her bedroom so that it was visible from the entryway.
Tonight the residents beneath her apartment had paid a visit to complain about the loud noise above them. After thirty seconds of faltering speech, she gave up on the explanation—that she had been practicing walking in stiletto heels—and simply gushed that the noise would stop and she was sorry for all the trouble. She did not sleep. In the morning she called in sick. It was officially
death day
.
The city was a rich tapestry of sound. Jiang felt more alive than at any other time in her life as she walked nine blocks to Lujiazui Station. She shivered, ascending the escalator to the station, her body temperature suddenly cool, even though she was wearing a black trench coat. Her trembling hands made it difficult to scan her card. When she dropped it on the concrete, the man two bodies behind her communicated his displeasure in an unkind way. She quickly picked up the card and waved it over the sensor, pushing through the turnstile. Most of the riders were congregating toward the far end of the station. She stopped to read the warning sign illuminated above—danger: jumping off the platform is prohibited.
She positioned herself at the front of the station platform, knowing the train would not break for several hundred more feet before it came to a full stop. She glanced at the clock in the station. Two minutes. She bent at her knees to unclasp the buckles on her heels. Her tremor had not subsided, and she fumbled with the leatherstraps. One minute. She unbuttoned the three oversize buttons on her trench coat and tugged downward on the belt while at the same time rolling her shoulders so that the coat fell to her feet. She stepped forward, fully exposed, careful not to pull her feet out of her heels. She hoped she was smiling—but she really didn’t know what her facial expressions conveyed. Thirty seconds. Jeers, clapping, and catcalls from astonished commuters cloaked the roar of the approaching subway cars; cell phones were snapping pictures and taking video. The surreal scene was shattered by the shrill of a high-pitched whistle. Jiang turned to see a patrolman running toward her on the platform. He would not make it in time to intervene.
Time the jump to collide with the train in midair if possible
, Jiang thought. She kicked off her spikes and accelerated toward the barrier. At five feet seven she should not have difficulty clearing the thirty-two-inch rail. An elderly man lunged at her, but she escaped his clutches when the sheer material tore away from her body. She neared the edge, pushing off the concrete platform. Before her torso could clear the railing, her body was impacted by another human in a violent midair collision. They landed heavily on the concrete floor, and everything went black.
29
S heryl Vogel hesitated and then stepped back onto the dock. The dive boat pulled away. A wave of nausea penetrated her body. She was surprised and disappointed. A week’s worth of diving amounted to eighteen dives, and she was loath to miss even one. A light lunch seemed to have settled her stomach. Three quarters of the divers, including her husband, Nick, had elected to forgo the afternoon dive, and Island Fantasy, a forty-six-foot Boston dive boat was leaving the dock of Little Cayman Dive Resort with a skeletal crew. The winds were gusting to thirty-five knots during the second morning
The days leading up to her planned departure were filled with work and her one hobby. She wept the night before when she finished her self-portrait—an oil painting of a thirtyish woman, wearing nothing but black panties, lying dead, eyes wide open, blood trickling from her mouth, her small breasts exposed. She was cradled in the arms of a Metro patrolman stooped over subway tracks. Aplacard of Lujiazui Station hung in the foreground. She covered the painting with black silk cloth and left it on the easel. The easel was positioned in the corner of her bedroom so that it was visible from the entryway.
Tonight the residents beneath her apartment had paid a visit to complain about the loud noise above them. After thirty seconds of faltering speech, she gave up on the explanation—that she had been practicing walking in stiletto heels—and simply gushed that the noise would stop and she was sorry for all the trouble. She did not sleep. In the morning she called in sick. It was officially
death day
.
The city was a rich tapestry of sound. Jiang felt more alive than at any other time in her life as she walked nine blocks to Lujiazui Station. She shivered, ascending the escalator to the station, her body temperature suddenly cool, even though she was wearing a black trench coat. Her trembling hands made it difficult to scan her card. When she dropped it on the concrete, the man two bodies behind her communicated his displeasure in an unkind way. She quickly picked up the card and waved it over the sensor, pushing through the turnstile. Most of the riders were congregating toward the far end of the station. She stopped to read the warning sign illuminated above—danger: jumping off the platform is prohibited.
She positioned herself at the front of the station platform, knowing the train would not break for several hundred more feet before it came to a full stop. She glanced at the clock in the station. Two minutes. She bent at her knees to unclasp the buckles on her heels. Her tremor had not subsided, and she fumbled with the leatherstraps. One minute. She unbuttoned the three oversize buttons on her trench coat and tugged downward on the belt while at the same time rolling her shoulders so that the coat fell to her feet. She stepped forward, fully exposed, careful not to pull her feet out of her heels. She hoped she was smiling—but she really didn’t know what her facial expressions conveyed. Thirty seconds. Jeers, clapping, and catcalls from astonished commuters cloaked the roar of the approaching subway cars; cell phones were snapping pictures and taking video. The surreal scene was shattered by the shrill of a high-pitched whistle. Jiang turned to see a patrolman running toward her on the platform. He would not make it in time to intervene.
Time the jump to collide with the train in midair if possible
, Jiang thought. She kicked off her spikes and accelerated toward the barrier. At five feet seven she should not have difficulty clearing the thirty-two-inch rail. An elderly man lunged at her, but she escaped his clutches when the sheer material tore away from her body. She neared the edge, pushing off the concrete platform. Before her torso could clear the railing, her body was impacted by another human in a violent midair collision. They landed heavily on the concrete floor, and everything went black.
29
S heryl Vogel hesitated and then stepped back onto the dock. The dive boat pulled away. A wave of nausea penetrated her body. She was surprised and disappointed. A week’s worth of diving amounted to eighteen dives, and she was loath to miss even one. A light lunch seemed to have settled her stomach. Three quarters of the divers, including her husband, Nick, had elected to forgo the afternoon dive, and Island Fantasy, a forty-six-foot Boston dive boat was leaving the dock of Little Cayman Dive Resort with a skeletal crew. The winds were gusting to thirty-five knots during the second morning
Similar Books
