Spare parts

There is something liberating about looking down on the world. Especially when accustomed to the world looking down on me. I suppose that's why I always sat on that ledge, so high up that the problems of the world were unable to reach me. Passerby's took no notice of me, or maybe thought me to be a suicide risk. Either way, nobody cared enough to bother me. 

Others have compared the sight of tiny people far below to that of ants. But I have always thought that comparison gave to much credit to people. Ants tend to work harder. To me, those people seemed more like the moving parts of a machine, mindlessly going about the things they were supposed to do to keep the world running. What many people are unaware of is that most of them are spare parts; completely useless until they are needed.  

I myself was aware that I was a spare part. No one missed me when I disappeared. No one waited up for me to get home. No one needed me. I was okay with this. Being unnecessary only hurts when you want to be necessary. And I enjoyed being free, doing what I wanted. The trick was to never let myself get bored. Because when I got bored, I got lonely. 

Most people believe that dead is the worst thing a person can be. But people are wrong, as usual. The worst state a person can be in is bored. At least death is an adventure. 

Which is where my story picks up; on a day that I was maddeningly bored. I sat perched on the highest building in the small city (or large town, depending on your opinion) of Mansworth. My feet hung precariously over the edge of the happenstance of bad architectural planning I was sitting on. The misshapen building reminded me of the structures kids erected in school. None of the builders cared how lopsided or unsafe it looked, it just had to be taller, taller, the tallest! 

I came out of the building where I was taught what x equals and who won a war some year, and I sat on the ugly, tall feat that some architect was proud of. My dirty chucks hung over the side, swaying in the breeze. If I leaned far enough forward, I could see their reflection in the windows of the building. I sometimes wondered if some person, some part of the machine, ever looked out to see a pair of converse dangling before their window. I wondered if they were ever curious as to whom the shoes and legs belonged to. But no one ever looked out of that big, misshapen building. Which made me wonder, sometimes, if I was the last person with enough curiosity to look. 

The only thing I liked better than tackling boredom was being proven wrong. Which is exactly what happened that boring day I sat on the ledge wondering if there was anyone left who had an imagination. It started with a prickle on the back of my neck. It was an awareness that I'd felt before. It was the feeling that someone was staring at me. 

I scanned the rows of people bustling about their business that they each believed to be important. For a moment, I couldn't find the source of the stare. Then I met the eyes of someone. The face was too far away for me to possibly tell, but I imagined that the eyes were brown, a deep brown that spoke of wisdom and understanding. She was just standing there, far below me, her head craned back to look. The people surrounding her were forced to walk around. She was standing in the way, and didn't seem to care. She was wearing a yellow coat. 

I stared back at her, confused by the sudden awareness of how strange I must seem. I must look like a lunatic, I thought. I had never thought that before, never cared. The girl raised a hand over her eyes to protect them from the glaring sun. Then, impossibly, she waved. In shock, I raised a hand to wave back, a bit too zealously. My stomach dropped to my dirty converse as the wave set me off balance, making me lean too far forward. I sucked in a breath and leaned back. I had never lost my balance up there before. 

The girl moved on, walking away with her sunshine-colored coat. I was left behind, knowing that there was someone in the world who still had enough curiosity to look up.

About the Author

Emmalee Gagnon is an eighteen-year-old aspiring author who is currently an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing at Arcadia University. She has completed three novels, one of which has been completely edited with her writing mentor and freelance editor, Patty Zion, and is in the process of being published. Emmalee was the youngest person to ever be selected to attend the New York Pitch Conference, and had the opportunity while there to have her work critiqued by editors and agents. She has won multiple poetry and short story contests, and some of her work will be published in a book during the spring.