He brings his fist to his face. Nothing. The red agony remains and now lurking somewhere behind that god awful red cloud is the irritable, if notbothersome, pain of a newly broken nose. Not that it matters. All that does lies hidden within the red turbulent cloud of agony residing in his head. All he can see is-
Red
-the pain. . . the agony. A million deaths at once. Head thrown back, a cry. . . no a howl like that of a dying wolf, issues from his tightly drawn lips. With that he drops to his knees, like a marrionette cut from it's strings, not feeling at all the pain which shoots through his legs and into his crotch.
All he can feel is-
Red.
Above, the clouds resemble solemn jurors engaged in angry conference, thunder and lightning accentuate the already heavy air. The smell of ozone is everywhere as the City huddles itself against the verdict of the clouds. Slowly, mercifully, a light drizzle begins. The heavens rumble as if pleased with the verdict. Lightning splays the sky.
Suddenly, without warning, the slow drizzle metamorphes itself into a heavy shower and the shower to a veritable monsoon.
The verdict has been guilty.
The wind rises from it's deep slumber and begins to scour the land with hurricane force.
On the streets of the City not a soul is to be seen; all are anxiously awaiting for the storm's fury to abate within the seemingly safe harbour of home.
In a dark alley, down West and fifty-seventh, a lone naked soulless figure kneels not feeling the wind and rain tearing at him, only seeing the Red which encompases his mind. The sheer agony from which there is no escape. Slowly he stands.
The rain is leaving hige red welts on his body. He does not feel this.
Not knowing what he is doing, following. . . listening to the Red Cloud, he walks to the end of the alley and looks up.
The rain hammers onto his face, pain awakens upon his battered nose.
The Red Cloud grows.
Thunder booms across the sullen sky.
A rusted green fire escape is above hime. Slowly and deliberately he climbs it with a stiffness of one afraid of heights.
The muscles in his thighs flexing. . . relaxing. . . flexing. . . ; a tick is jumping on his left cheek.
He has reached the thirteenth landing. There is only one window. Inside a television set is on, the screen shows only snowy static. There are no lights.
The wind and rain pick up in intensity.
Agony, all encompassing. Anything to be free of this agony. Temples begin to throb sending sharp needles of fresh pain into the Red Cloud.
One hand on the rusted green rail he crouches on the railing of the fire escape, a stoic figure against the world. . . and mayhaps himself. His face a mask of deep concentration never betraying the pain. . . the agony of his mind. The wind howls in contempt.
Letting free of the fire escape he dives into space. . . hoping against hope to escape the agony forever.
The wind mockingly throws him back, harshly, through the window.
Slowly, as if from another plane of existence he hears it, getting louder, cutting through the Red Cloud and piercing the delicate brain beneath. Opening dull black eyes he espies an old hispanic woman of sixty. She is screaming.
The screaming now is all too clear. Quickly, with the speed of a wolf, he rushes to her. With a massive backhand he sends her flying to the floor. Unsatisfied, he grabs her and throws her to the far side of the room.
The crash of her landing on a crystal table and breaking it push him over the edge.
Kneeling, one knee on each of her outstretched arms, he slowly pulls his right arm past his shoulder and lets the fist fly. Pulling back a bloody fist past his shoulder he lets it loose again. . . again. . . and again.
Thunder booms it's appeasement.
The Red Cloud has engulfed him.
Morning.
A collective sigh of relief can be all but heard; the storm has finally ended. The feeling of helplessness against the unfettered fury of nature is gone replaced once again by man's undying egoism.
On the streets, harried business men rush to offices as mothers hastily kiss school bound children good-bye.
Normalacy has returned to the City.
In a certain alley on West and fifty-seventh a naked man is lying on the ground, dead. Blood has trickled from his mouth and nose, a bloody hand lays flat against the pavement. A smile is upon his pencil thin lips.
He has escaped the Red Cloud.