He hit the wall and his body went limp. His skin and clothes snagged on the porous and jagged red brick as he slowly slid to the ground. Scraping and tearing sounds harmonized together, voicing its pleasure in his pain.
Just after hitting the cement, he tried to rise. He rolled off his left side and hit the wall, this time at a much lower velocity. This knocked his 200 pounds over on its back and he rolled onto his side and fell onto his front. Noticing the cool pavement on his cheek, he took that pleasure away from himself and pushed up with both palms planted firmly on the ground. He lost his balance twice, once from his head swooning. The very wall that had aided in his self immolation helped him up, getting a scrape across his palm for good measure.
The security light at the top corner of the building clicked on, highlighting his efforts.
He stood as a drunk stands taking a break from his sojourn home: One arm propped out, a palm supporting his swaying body on the wall, head bowed. The blood ran down the front of his face and dripped off his nose. It flowed from his head. The skin on his bald head burned and tingled from scrapes and lacerations.
The security light clicked off.
"Don't turn off the light...One more time coach," he slurred, "I swear, do good papa. oranges in the can until Sunday. "
The irony was that he could not drink anymore. Every time he drank, he drank to a stupor. The memories were clearer when he was drunk. The real life monsters morphed into unspeakable beings of darkness and pain.
He took a deep breath and, waking up the security light, shuffled past the end of the cracked pavement onto the sparsely grassed dirt of the playground, fifty feet from the wall. He turned and face the building.
He swiveled his head, and jumped up and down, shaking out his hands and arms.
"Watch this, you...ahhhrgh"
He sprinted as fast as he could and slammed into the wall, his head taking the brunt of the force.
Sister Mary would find him in the early parts of dawn. Seeing him out of the corner of her eye, she thought it was the drunk that sometimes fell asleep on the grounds, so she did not notice his bloody face or his caved-in head until she looked up from her keys and locked her gaze with his dead eyes.
