“Sometimes, there is absolutely no difference at all between salvation and damnation.”

- Stephen King, The Green Mile

14 days earlier,

09:44 p.m

He never really understood the process in naming places. There were no roses on Rose Avenue and no flowers in Bloom Estate. Ridge Valley was nowhere near a ridge nor a valley either. Instead, it was located near the sea as a port town which was why the temperature each night froze. The chains of the swing set squeaked from the years of use as the three teens swung on a seat each, swinging in a rhythm so none of them would be at their highest swing at the same time. A cool breeze blew through the empty park and playground, carrying with it the scent of the sea. Futuristic white lights floated upon old lampposts, eerily hanging sparse across the park, floating fairies in the dark.

The group took comfort with rubbing their toes in the playground sand at the nadir of their swing. Stella especially, humming the tune of Colours of the Wind in bliss. The moon was a sharp crescent in the sky, flanked in all direction by separated stars. Dogs barks echoed through the neighbourhood followed by a long, pitiful howl.

Clay's cuts had been cleaned up and were now just lines of dried blood across his cheek. He was still bruised at places, though his black eye continued to be the most prominent. To their parents, the siblings gave the excuse that they had revisions to do at the library and lamentably missed pizza night. Despite that, he continued to ignore the physical injuries and emotional discomfort, the pain held at bay by the soothing atmosphere of that night.

“You have Sin,” Tim was the first to break the peaceful silence.

“Yeah,” Clay replied.

“Does your parents know?”

“Just Stella. And you now, I guess.”

They fell back to mute. With the crickets singing, the swing chains squeaking, their feet kicking the sands, and Stella's musical hum, the night turned into a peaceful rhythmic orchestral. The smell of the sea carried by the cool night air. The dim light that hung around the park like moons.

“People with Sin dies you know,” Tim broke the silence again. Stella stopped humming.

“I'll be fine,” Clay replied. “As long as I keep taking the medication, nothing will happen.”

“You barely have enough for the week.”

“I'll get more tomorrow.”

“And what if the stock runs out?”

“It won't run out.”

“If.”

“I'll find a way.”

“If there isn't a way?”

“You're starting to sound like Stella.”

The girl chimed in, “Not even close.”

Again, the trio entered their silent, minus Stella's musical hum. Slowly, the brother and sister pair slowed down their swing till they gradually grazed the sandy floor. Clay sat still and tried to bury his feet in the sand. Stella was shorter than her brother, and her legs swung back and forth, lightly scraping the sandy ground.

Higher and higher Tim swung, slowly gaining up to a horizontal swing. The wind rushed around his face on each decent, parting his hair, his troubles, his weariness. It was a physical lullaby. The day had been long and will continue to be. With thoughts of Clay's illness, his position on the air rifle team, and his impending return home, he took the short respite in life with a stroll.

To the tune of the Christian hymn, Will the Circle be Unbroken?, Stella began to sing, her voice carried loud and clear through the empty park.

Long ago far on a prairie, where the sun raised with the night.

He felt the smile that spread across his face. With each swing, the rush of the descending wind got stronger, cooler, calmer. Clay always said his sister's voice was magical, and he was right. The girl had an aura of tranquillity about her that shined such finesse and serenity that she could probably diffuse a bomb by her mere presence.

Where the moon sets with brightness, did the world slept through all time?

She never worried of others' impressions of her. Never took to make-ups and popularity to define her beauty. She shown her standard from all the simple actions of life that defined her. An airy walk, a sharp tongue, a gentle touch, an endearing gumption. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Clay leaning his head back against his spine, eyes closed, enjoying her light tune.

Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting, in the sky, in the sky?

It wasn't the original hymn, they knew that. Stella liked adding her own verses to classic songs and hymns and they never felt out of place. Tim felt his worries floating away. No Sin, no seniors, no loneliness. He closed his eyes to rest, kicking off each swing based purely on his instinct of descent.

Lost alone in the forest,

He breathed deeply, the fresh air sparking his heart and mind.

Which men built with tools and hands.

The crickets stopped cricking and the dogs no longer barked.

When the heaven scrapes starts falling,

Another descend. Another rush of wind as he swung back up to the zenith.

Will we rise or all descend.

Tim's eyes flashed open as the freezing gale rushed into his back. He was falling. Falling through a wide, open, endless blue sky that stretched across him as far as his eyes could see. There was no sun, no stars, no moon, just an infinite blue. Falling through the clouds. Falling through the atmosphere. Falling through the sky with the wind on his back, gushing past his ears in a roar.

Will the end of all be coming,

A female voice, soft, doleful, ethereal, continued the song. He searched for the source. Around him were others who were falling from the heaven, scattered far away at varying distance and angles. An old lady in a floral dress. A teenage male in a baseball jersey and a cap. A middle aged woman in a business suit.

live and died, lived and die?

A young boy in school uniform. A fat man in singlets and shorts. An older, well built-man in farmers gear. A young girl in a white dress. All of them, falling through the vast, empty sky. He wondered if there was something for them to land on after the fall. He tried to turn to face the ground but his body felt sluggish, sleepy, rejecting his attempts to move. A shooting star cuts across the sky.

Dreams of fire, salves of healing

The girl in the white dress. Tim focused onto her. She was smiling, her lips moving as the song echoed to his ears a second late. Her long snow-white hair trailed and covered her face.

are one thy,

He could hear the waves of the sea.

are one thy?

He hit the ground, though not as hard as he had expected. The crescent moon, with its blade sharp tail, hung in the Ridge Valley night sky, stars all around. He felt the sand at his neck, the grains in his shirt, and the granite felt cold to the touch. It felt like the world was a blur, moving fast, and when he stayed still, he swore he could feel the Earth spinning on its axle.

“You all right kid?” Clay and Stella's head popped into Tim's field of vision.

“What happened?” Tim sat up groggily, his head spinning, his back ached. He stretched to massage the outline of his spine.

“You fell out of the swing idiot, that's what happened?” Clay replied.

“Must have fallen asleep.”

“Is my voice that soothing?” Stella added seductively.

Tim didn't reply, for he was too focused on remembering the dream he had. He recalled another voice. A sad and lonely voice, echoing through the back of his mind. A drip of water in a hollow cave. He ran his fingers down his spine again, feeling the vertebrae. He remembered the fall from far above the heavens. He remembered the hymn. He remembered the people around him. He remembered hitting the water. He remembered the pain. He remembered breaking his spine.

XXX

13 days earlier,

00:03 a.m

Apartment buildings were abundant in Ridge Valley. Being a small town with heavy trade by sea, large numbers of workers were needed to handle the tedious physical labour of hauling cargoes and repairing vessels. One of the common problems with living by the sea was how fast metal rusted. Bikes, machines, buildings. Not one spared from the slow encroaching wrath of Mother Nature and time. So it surprised Tim still that he had to open the door to his apartment home as slowly as he did, since he knew the hinges would shrill despite the speed. Somewhere in his mind, he held hope that just once, the door would swing silently.

He winced with each creak, even as he stepped over the threshold and locked the door behind him. The living room was pitched black. With the curtains drawn, the only source of light were the red glow of the power socket indicator lights which watched him as demons would in the dark. Even the light that came from the drawn curtains were shadowed at best as they faced an alleyway behind.

The three room apartment was where Timothy and his father Joshua lived. It was small, with the kitchen and living room squeezed into the same 140 square feet. The singular stove, refrigerator and kitchen sink shared the space with a two seater couch and a coffee table where the odd stains marked late night dinners and rushed breakfast. They had a single bulky 21 inch CRT television that sat on a plastic storage box for entertainment, and a single cactus plant won from a carnival game as decoration beside it.

Sliding his sandals under the shoe rack, he made his way to the furthest of two doors that sided the television. The floorboards creaked under his light steps towards the first door, his father's room. No light seeped from the cracks underneath. He felt safer, knowing that the chances of his father being out working late or asleep was high, he took the next step with confidence. The door to his father's room opened and the bright yellow light flickered on.

His father stood with his back to the light, poised like a priest to a sinner. His short golden hair, messy as they were, glowed a ring of halo, his arms folded in disdain. Even though he simply wore a white singlet and grey boxers akin to that of a person stripped of all belonging, Tim could feel his father's overwhelming presence.

“Where were you?” his father spoke in a growl.

Tim timidly turned his father. Joshua Kleve was much larger in size than his son. Being a construction worker, he was a muscular man and exudes a debilitating presence of rage. His rugged face had forever been distorted in a frown for as long as Tim could remember. His amber eyes, yellowish in the dark, were catlike, stalking the figure of his son.

“Have you got any idea what time it is?” Joshua added.

“Twelve dad. It's not so late,” Tim replied, his head down, not daring to meet his father's gaze.

“You've got any idea what's going on out there right now? How dangerous it is! Where were you?”

“I was just out with Clay and Stella.”

“Oh, that makes it okay then,” Joshua replied sarcastically.

Feeling that his father had just taken a stab at his friendship, he found the rage within him to fight back. “Yeah, that makes it okay,” Tim retorted fiercely.

Joshua slapped his son across the face with enough force that it brought the teen stumbling back. “Don't you dare talk back to me!” the man yelled.

Tim's face throbbed with pain, probably red from the hit. His first instinct was to rub the area but held back, not wanting to give his father the sense of satisfaction that it hurt. In the darkness, his arm limped at his sides, numbed by the emotional turmoil, he boiled with anger. “Or what? You'll beat me again? Like all those times when you were drunk?” he growled.

He could tell his father had lost his tongue. The yellow eyes widening in recognition. Silence grabbed the man and wouldn't let go.

Tim nodded in the dark. “I thought so,” he turned and headed for his room.

He heard his father called out softly behind him. “Where do you think you're going?” a feeble last attempt at discipline.

“Where I'm safe,” the teen slammed the door behind him. He heard his father slammed his door as well. Like father like son.

XXX

His room was small, fitting only one desk against a bed that doubled as his chair, a small cupboard above his desk as his closet. The room had the cosy standing space of exactly two people with the door closed. One of the small comfort was that he had his own bathroom to the immediate left of entering which was equally small, as did his dad, which meant they need not see each other as often as otherwise. A single cord on his table was connected to and charging his cellphone, a simple mobile that could only call and send messages, capable of storing a total of 20 contacts if the names were not too long. Its special function includes a built in torchlight, something that he found modern smart phones to disturbingly lack; and the ability to be thrown at the wall in frustration yet still work. The only electronic he owned.

He had books, but not many. Most were loans from the library. A total of five stacked into the nook between his desk and the wall, a dozen scattered across the desk. A single lone novel leaned against the window sill. Outside the glass, he had the amazing view of the brick wall of the neighbouring apartment. But for a full half hour past noon and midnight, he could see the moon and sun through the cracks in between the roofs if he leaned his face against his bed frame.

Sitting at the foot of his bed, he had his air rifle disassembled and laid bare across the rest of his mattress. Meticulously, he cleaned each part with a cloth, dabbing them with a layer of oil from a small bottle once he was done. He found the process therapeutic, something to focus on other than life. Once done, he reassembled the gun, checking the safeties, the firing mechanism and the smoothness of the moving parts.

He pumped his gun, pulled the cocking lever, leaned the stock against his shoulder, aimed at the wall and let off a click. Everything was working. Everything was smooth. “Everything's normal.”