Flying Solo                                                                                                         By Mark Alejos

                                                   

 

The shaken mother shielded her son, grabbing both of his shoulders and jerking him to safety behind her. She steadied herself . . . ready to strike. “You think you’re funny?!” she said. “Scaring a little kid? What’s the matter with you, you sick freak? Look at you!” She glared, blocking the child’s view. “I should call the police!”
 

Short trips out in public had become increasingly difficult. I was drawing too much attention, almost all negative. A life as “just one of the flock” had become a thing of the past.
 

The first sign of trouble appeared in the bathtub one morning. After showering, I began to dry off—doing the usual vigorous side to side, back side first, I swiftly moved the towel to the front of my body, when something snagged on my lower back, and then released. It hurt just enough to take a look. I was able to see the area in the mirror, and noted a small spot of blood. I dismissed it as a plucked random hair. With age, hair was growing in uncharted territory, at unreasonable lengths. I finished drying, and as I reached to close the shower curtain, noticed something that had no business being in the bathtub. I didn’t pay much attention until I picked it up to throw away—there was fresh blood on its tip.
 

It’s never a good sign when a boisterous group of teenagers notices you on public transportation. There’s always a ringleader, and the ringleader gains confidence with each laugh he or she triggers from the followers. Always unsettling for the victim of the group’s attention. “What’s with the costume? Are you for real? Aren’t you a little old? Wait . . . is it Mardi Gras? Were you actually born like that?” Other passengers looked on, thankful it was me, and not them.
 

The second sign of trouble came while I was changing my shirt, getting ready for bed that same evening. I felt a patch of something on my lower back. Again, I went to the mirror. And there it was—a small area filled with at least seven or eight. A space the size of a small Japanese hand fan. I tried not to be alarmed, but the noise in my head grew louder and louder. This was not normal. I removed the patch as best I could. There was blood, but nothing a few squares of toilet paper couldn’t remedy. I packed the paper in my t-shirt, covering the mystery, and went to bed.
 

After a restless sleep, I rose in the morning to a growing nightmare. My entire lower back was covered. There was too much to remove right then, so I took a shower and hoped the problem would wash away. It didn’t. I found my doctor’s phone number and paced around my apartment until his office opened. The woman who answered the call thought I was joking when I shared my issue, but the desperation in my voice eventually swayed her. She fit me in that day. “He’s going to love this one,” I heard her say to a co-worker, as she hung up.
 

He poked, prodded, and pulled. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Martin.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He breathed deep. He sat stumped, on a short rolling stool. He took his glasses off. He put his glasses on. He took off a latex glove and stuck a finger in his ear, turning it back and forth reflexively. He put on a new glove. “We’ll take a sample and send it to the lab,” he said, in an aha moment. “You’re healthy, Martin. Nothing says it’s going to spread. How’s your diet? Are you stressed? Have you been exposed to any foreign substances lately? What do we have you on anyway? Maybe this is a one-in-a-million side effect of some mixing medications.” He looked at his laptop, scrolling through my history. “Hmmm . . . nope, nope, nothing here. I haven’t prescribed anything for you in years.” He took off his gloves, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes with both fists, then looked again, blinking excessively. “Let’s keep an eye on it, and see how things progress. If, things progress. Aaahh . . . the mysteries of the human body . . . We just don’t have all the answers . . . yet. Stop by the front desk on your way out and schedule an appointment for next week. Good to see you, Martin.” We shook hands, then he escaped.
 

DIAGNOSIS:  Ya got me . . .
 

I didn’t schedule another appointment. But I did keep an eye on it. It was hard not to. My condition worsened over the next few weeks. When it became too much to hide, I took an extended leave of absence from work. I told them I had a “personal matter” that needed immediate attention. My boss seemed concerned, more about the work getting covered than me personally. No surprise there.

 

I slept. Not sure how, because that’s when it was happening the most. Other noticeable changes occurred. For instance, my eyesight steadily improved as the condition intensified. I’d worn glasses my entire life, but during that time, I saw with the sharpness and precision of the Hubble telescope. As a child I always dreamed of becoming an Air Force pilot—to fly with the birds. But before Basic Cadet Training even began, I was grounded permanently—poor eyesight. So the recent retinal good fortune was too late. My flying days had passed. Another notable change was that I was going to bed earlier, getting up at the crack of dawn—sometimes even singing—not because I was happy. The crooning came out of nowhere, which was even more frustrating. I was losing control. One night I spotted a mouse in the hallway and surprisingly, as well as what seemed like instinctively, swooped in to capture it. Before I could think about what I’d done, the mouse in my mouth, its tail wiggling frantically between my lips. In the moment, it felt so right. But in hindsight, it was a horrifying act.

 

Recently, I woke to discover that my forehead had filled out. There was too much to remove. I would have been a bloody mess. It would have made an incredible Halloween mask, but this, was not that. I quit my job over the phone that day. It was no use. There was no turning back. It was unexplainable, unacceptable, unmanageable, and unsightly. I couldn’t go out in public anymore. I had scared too many children and heard more than enough jokes and insults. I could have probably made a great can’t-turn-away oddball on a reality TV show. But I wanted to be invisible.

 

As time passed, my entire torso and thighs became completely covered. The condition worked its way up to my shoulders, and was starting to appear on my wrists and forearms. I gave up removing the thickening bushy-ness from around my ears.

 

The worst morning of my life occurred on my fiftieth birthday. At fifty, I expected to have a bird’s-eye view of my past, as well as my future. But when I awoke, I discovered a future in question. While sleeping, my fingers had transformed. Basically, I had no hands. My ability to perform fine motor skills was gone. I would never put on clothes or unwrap gifts again. I would never sign my name. I would never floss. Or change another light bulb. And worst of all, my mouth and nose had merged. I can’t explain it, they became one. Trust me.

 

I was a freak. A sideshow. A poster boy for the bizarro. I was terrifying. And terrified. There was still a chance that people would want to come toward me, but only for a double-take. I however, would never be able to move toward them. Whatever I had, “normal” people didn’t want. I could no longer function in today’s world. Life was over as I knew it. I was done. So in my fit of self-pity and hopelessness, I decided to climb out an open window onto the building’s fire escape, twenty-four floors above the sidewalk . . . and give up.

 

My plan was to end it. But endings don’t always go as planned. Oh, I went through with it.

 

I jumped.

 

But a funny thing happened as I plunged to my death.

 

I put out my arms, or more accurately—my wings.

 

And here’s the best part:
next time you see a bird circling overhead, or watching you from a swaying tree branch . . . it could be me.