The heavens fell upon David Garcia, as he tumbled through the rubble and debris cascading down around him. Falling from the 45th floor, he had the chance to really think about the sorry state of his life. He was nothing but a drug runner, barely making ends meet. When the gas pipe erupted underneath his decrepit apartment building, he was almost relieved. He gave no heed to his parents; not like they would care. He was a failure to them.
David slammed into the ground, and lay there.Â
Huh.
He hadn't died yet. Was this his body trying to keep him alive? He wasn't pinned down, he just really thought he should be dead.
What if I move?
David lifted his hand. Dirty, sure. But unharmed.
What the fuck?
What was this? He stood, shakily. This felt too real. He could see a leg crushed by a large chunk of concrete, blood pooling around it. Screams echoed across the site of the catastrophe. Distant sirens. How was he not dead?
David was ushered to an ambulance by police officers who stood around him whilst he was diagnosed by the paramedic.Â
"Were you on the ground at the time of the explosion?" the paramedic asked.
"No," David said, "I live on the 45th."
The policemen gave sideways glances to him.
"You're kidding me." the paramedic said.
"I'm really not." David replied.
"You have no immediately diagnosable injuries, somehow. Look, we're gonna get you to the hospital anyways, but even so, you probably shouldn't be alive right now."
I know that. He thought.
As David rode in the back of the ambulance, he never got rid of the prickly feeling of being watched. Even so, how was he going to explain walking away from a surprise demolition, of which he fell 44 floors from? His apartment was ruined, and the small stash of drugs previously in there were either crushed under boulders or being blown across the city skyline.