The Spite of the Wind vol. 2

I watched, as if from afar, as he fell.

He wasn’t graceful. He dropped like a stone, pirouetting once as the wind flipped him over, spinning him round like a rag doll in the arms of a bored child.

Jesus Christ, it was a long way down.

It was a long way down, but it didn’t take long for him to hit the ground. I looked away with a grimace as the horrible noise of the impact echoed up to me, not wanting to see the mess the man had made inside his hi-vis builder’s jacket. He’d landed face down.

The poor soul had been taken by the wind. It was hardly surprising. Few knew of its anger, and few knew of its spite. It was a terrible thing, the wind, for when it smells fear it comes for you like nightmares come for your peace.

I felt lighter, somehow.

People were beginning to gather around the body, and even from as high up as I was I could hear the screams. The wind picked up, relishing the chaos.

I decided to chance another look over the edge of the scaffolding. I hadn’t known the man, but I’d seen him around the site, I was sure. At least there was something unnervingly familiar about the glance of his face I had seen as he plummeted towards the ground.

The small crowd around the man parted slightly. He was in remarkably good shape, for someone who had fallen prey to the spiteful wind. One man flipped his body over.

Even through the press of bodies, I saw his face, and I recognised it as my own.

The wind chuckled.