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The wind sweeps across his face, pushing his long hair back as he falls. His descent, and his oncoming demise sparks within his brain a surge of final thoughts, recollections, feelings, but no regrets. This choice, this decision, was his alone, not anybody else’s besides the real Vincent.
Standing up on that rooftop for even a second longer would have been too much. His head just can’t take it any longer, that everlasting cloudy swirling that just won't stop swimming, circling around his brain. That cacophony endlessly repeating and echoing within his skull from the minute he wakes up. That tight but subtle grip around his heart, uncomfortably present in every waking moment. All of it… it just feels like someone had their hands around his throat and just refused to squeeze hard enough.
As soon as he took that step off the rooftop though, he felt incredible. Like he had torn his way out of a straitjacket with nothing but his own bound hands, and the wind passing him by now, he can feel it flowing, flooding through a hole that was left open in his chest, shooting through him and failing to keep up.
Nothing, nothing can hold him back right now. Even if the weight of the entire world were holding onto him, he’d pull his ankle free from those chains, sprint forward, and wrest control from the hands of fate. This is it. This is the highest form of control he could ever have, perfect control over his own life, liberated from the grip of anything else.
It almost feels like wings sprouted from his back as soon as he took a step off that rooftop.
It is in this moment that Vincent internally finds it slightly humorous that for the first time in his life, he really truly feels free, and that feeling has only come at the moment of his death. What an awful, wretched, cursed hand he was dealt by fate. He really can’t help but internally chuckle.
As he falls, a shadow passes over his mind, and manifests itself as a single, curious thought among the onslaught of flashing memories. As usual, he has nobody to discuss this idea with besides himself, but it’s not like he has any options.
A glass pane shatters before him. Fragments fly forth, taking care not to touch him as they whizz by with the wind, each and every one of them reflecting a different portrait of a certain boy. He takes care to look at them, to meet their gazes, to show them the recognition nobody else can give them.
What of the everyday Vincent Fennell? Vincent who always got along well with everyone, always lending a helping hand with his intellect. A frail image of a fake boy, carefully painted to fool as many as possible, as many as he could. What of the online Vincent? The author loved by his fans, worshiped like a god as he did his best to hide any crack in his perfection, any imperfect divinity. They might remember that boy positively, but that kind of hollow remembrance has no meaning to him. In truth, there will exist no memory of him.
This vessel will not be mourned, and the remnants that are buried will hold no weight for anybody. The Vincent Fennell that returns to the earth now is nothing more than a container or a birdcage, and within it slumbered his mind and soul. One of them was admired from outside the cage, captivated viewers peering at it like an animal in a zoo. The other was never spared a glance. It never even got a chance to leave the terrarium, nor an opportunity to sprout within it.
He could never be understood from any angle, any perspective, his soul remained shut away for 16 years as a hostage in a body that was itself a hostage of the world. Nobody really knew, not even his loyal fans and followers, trailing after him as he walked down the moonlit path. They knew of his mind, they revered it. They adored him and respected him and his work, they believed every lie he spouted and scribbled. They didn’t recognize him though, not him.
Maybe this was his curse. In exchange for his competence, he would forever live hidden behind the looking glass. It was oddly Faustian now that he thought of it, but it’s not like he made a bargain for this, nor had he ever been offered a choice…
Unknown in death, nor known in life. The real Vincent really is…
Alone?
His thoughts quickly circle back to the boy he had been standing on the rooftop with just a moment ago. His eyes show him that same boy staring down at his falling form, with an indescribable terror in his eyes.
Charlotte, he thinks, before correcting himself. Right, Charles.
It’s hard for Vincent to recall the feeling now, but that short five minutes on the rooftop together… there was something about it that felt oddly abating. Maybe it was because he was just a step away from freedom while standing on that ledge, but there was a certain solace in that short time they spent together.
That conversation, it was probably the first time in his life, but the real Vincent spoke. He was witnessed, beheld, and even though he can’t say that he was recognized and understood, it was enough to be seen.
He wonders how Charles is feeling right now, faced with the swiftly approaching reality of the situation that maybe hadn’t settled in just yet. Is he horrified at the oncoming sight? Disappointed Vincent actually went through with it? Maybe he’s disappointed in himself for not being able to follow him?
A little half smirk almost forms on his face. He doesn’t know too much about Charles really, nor does it hold much weight or meaning to him, but he hopes the boy won’t feel too bad about being unable to follow him. It was enough being witnessed for just those five short minutes. It was enough just being there to see him off.
Only a few inches left until impact. A part of him is afraid, afraid to face this alone, but he pushes the idea far, far away, freeing himself of resistance. He didn’t need anybody, he didn’t want anybody... He’s already decided, this is the only path. This is the only way. This is the only way anything could have gone. Imperfect harmony was always an impossibility, there is no light shining down from the sky. He’d wasted his time waiting for something to illuminate the night. Only one path was visible in the dark. Forward he marched, and with a step off that rooftop, he moved forth toward the arms of his one and only salvation.
His resolve gives way to a feeling he can only describe as being embraced by the world itself, in all of its infinity. The rough wind blowing past him kept its fierceness, but it felt more like he had finally turned his sail to the proper angle, and the tailwind was guiding him to where he wanted to be. The breeze now felt strangely soothing once he had accepted its invitations. It was always hard for him to appreciate the outdoors, but this moment gave way to a feeling of freedom so pristine, he can’t even remember the last time he’d felt anything like it… nature really was so beautiful sometimes. The world really could be so beautiful, and now he was finally in tune with it, his heart resonating in perfect harmony with the song of the world.
At that moment, the wind came to a sudden halt as something crumbled against the earth.
As his head ruptured open, he shut his eyes in solemn acceptance. A sharp, indescribable pain flared through every nerve in his body, his bones folding in on themselves like a crumpled and discarded piece of paper. A fitting comparison, he jokingly thought, the calmness of his thoughts juxtaposing the feeling lashing through his entire body, surprising even himself. His mind doesn’t feel any of it though, for him, that feeling of pain was the signal that the fog had finally cleared around his existence. His spirit moved past that pain, it held it’s ground and moved forth against the windstorm, blocking it out to reach for that blissful feeling of freedom he’d been chasing his whole life, and for the second time today, a smile found its way onto his face.
Red spills out of his whole body, painting the pavement crimson. He thinks he hears the screams of passersby echo within his skull, but they hardly register to his slipping consciousness. He won’t be caught by the chains of others anymore. He isn’t listening anymore, not to anybody but himself.
He’s been tired for so long, but it’s time for Vincent to rest now. Not C or any other falsity, but the real Vincent, the Vincent only he knows. Knowing himself and what he wants, making his own choice… had there ever been a time in his life he had felt as free as this?
Before his consciousness slips from his grasp, a hazy picture forms itself within his mind’s eye. A picture of a nightingale passing through a vast garden, and coming to rest on the finger of a boy. A single boy, alone in a garden, smiling among the flowers.
Good night, Vincent. Sleep peacefully in your own infinity.