Free On Unfaithful Wings by Bruce Blake Page B

turned his head, Alfred’s blood on his face, and lost his dinner on the rubber mat-covered floor. The others stumbled over one another to grab the ends of the bar and lift it off their companion. It took two on each end. They removed it too late.
    10:47 p.m.
    My head swam, my throat constricted. I stared.
    Oh my God.
    The sight of the man’s blood running from his face, dripping from the edge of the bench, and the coppery smell of it mingling with the pungent odor of sweat made my stomach roil. I wondered if Sister Mary-Therese felt the same when she found me dying on the grass under the oak tree. The carnage of Alfred Topping’s face--worse than any horror movie special effects--held me transfixed, the way a car accident does.
    What the hell?
    No one else noticed the child sitting on Alfred Topping’s chest. Correction: sitting in Alfred’s chest, as if the man were a wading pool. The boy’s disheveled blond hair looked as though someone had placed a bowl on his head and cut around the edge; his short-sleeved button-up shirt looked like he’d arrived here from an episode of Leave it to Beaver. His expression suggested he’d woken from a long nap, face pinched and eyes hooded. He stretched and surveyed the action around him, his manner changing to surprise.
    Everyone in the gym gathered, some to help, some drawn by morbid fascination. The good Samaritan side of me wanted to join them, help attempt to save his life, but their massive bodies left no room. And I knew their attempts were futile. Alfred’s body twitched as nerves fired for the final time, his arms finally falling limp. The boy stood and removed himself from the noisy throng.
    No one noticed.
    “Call 9-1-1,” someone yelled.
    “I’m a nurse,” the woman said and a couple of men moved aside to let her through.
    The boy backed away from the panicked group, his eyes never leaving the crowd collected around the body of Alfred Topping. I could no more look away from him than he from them.
    “Alfred?”
    The boy looked toward me, tears overflowing his eyes. As I looked at him, I realized he wasn’t completely ther e. What’s the word: translucent?
    Ghostly.
    “What happened to me?”
    “You died.” The words left my mouth before I considered how they’d sound. Not much of a bedside manner.
    “No.” He glanced back at the blood-soaked bench. “I don’t want to be dead.”
    I shivered. Me either.
    “I don’t think you have a choice.”
    “No.”
    “You need to come with me.”
    “No.”
    He took three quick steps toward the door and it struck me this might not be as easy as Gabe said. Thoughts raced through my mind about God and life and death and the nature of insanity making it difficult to concentrate on him.
    “Whoa, hold on a second, Al. Can I call you Al?” I held my hands up in a gesture of surrender, showing I wouldn’t hurt him.
    “Alf.” He took another step toward the door.
    “My name’s Icarus. Call me Ric. I’m here to help.”
    He shook his head hard enough to send tears flying. I took a tentative step toward him and he bolted.
    “Shit.”
    He slammed through the door and out onto the street before I reached the entryway, barely avoiding the brick wall receptionist as he emerged from behind his clear partition to ascertain the source of the commotion.
    “Hey.” His fingers caught the sleeve of my jacket, nearly pulling me off my feet.
    “There’s been an accident,” I said pointing toward the bench press corner. His gaze followed my finger; I looked, too. People backed away, avoiding the pool of blood spreading beneath the bench, others trod through it, tracking it across the rubber mat as they attempted to help. The gorilla’s face blanched. If I stayed any longer, I’d probably see him either faint or puke, but his grip on my sleeve loosened and I didn’t hang around to see which.
    I burst through the outer door, the autumn night a slap in the face after the muggy air in the gym. I glanced both directions in