I wrote this for my Writer’s Craft class; it is a short story based on Toni Morrison’s book Song of Solomon. It contains spoilers from the book, so if you ever plan to read it, don’t read this.
I’m going to do this, ‘cause I love them all, thought Mr. Smith as he made his way home from yet another day of collecting insurance. He walked up to his door but didn’t enter his small yellow house. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small paper and a pen, and wrote:
At 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday the 18th of February, 1931, I will take off from Mercy and fly away on my own wings. Please forgive me. I love you all.
(signed) Robert Smith,
Ins. agent
He pulled a bit of tape out of his bag, and stuck the note to the front of his door. Then, Mr. Smith walked into his house. He went into the little sitting room and examined a pile of light blue silk.
***
Mr. Smith sat on a chair holding a shot glass filled with bad scotch, staring at the brilliant blue wings that he had made from the silk. There’s no way that I’m going to fly today. I’ll just fall to the ground, he thought. Maybe I won’t feel nothing; or maybe I’ll feel a whole lot. He quickly downed the scotch, and rinsed out the glass. Then, Mr. Smith folded the wings, put them into a large bag, and departed for Mercy Hospital. As he walked, he thought: I’ll never see this house again. I’ll never collect insurance again either. I wonder who’ll take my place? Maybe that young man named Porter, or maybe no one will collect insurance. That would make everyone real happy. God, I hope they’re happy. I love them so much.
“Mr. Smith, you alright sir?” Mr. Smith heard a young child ask.
He hadn’t realised until now that silent tears were falling down his cheeks. He looked to his left to see a boy staring at him. “Hello Guitar. Yup, I’m fine, just in a hurry. I’m going to fly today.”
“Oh. Well, bye then. Don’t go too high,” replied the boy worryingly.
“You have a nice day, Guitar,” and Mr. Smith continued walking.
Finally, Mr. Smith had arrived at Mercy Hospital. Maybe the name is a sign: God will have mercy on me for what I’m going to do. No, he won’t. I wonder what hell is like. Will I burn forever? Probably, he thought to himself. I wonder if Lindbergh was thinking these questions four years ago. He slung the bag that held the wings over his shoulder, and began climbing the fire escape. Mr. Smith felt his heart racing, and tried to calm himself by concentrating on the rhythmic movements of his hands and feet, and he got higher and higher. He briefly closed his eyes and focused on the feelings of the gentle breeze and warm sun against his face. This is the last time that I’ll feel the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the wind. He was nearly at the top of the ladder when his foot slipped. No, it’s not time yet. Soon. He pulled himself up, onto the roof.
Mr. Smith slowly took the blue wings out of his bag, and began straightening them out. I wish I could just fly away from all this. I guess, in a way, I will. He started the tedious task of strapping them onto his body. Then, Mr. Smith walked until he was above the front entrance to Mercy Hospital. There aren’t as many people today as there were for Lindbergh, but I don’t care. As long as someone sees me, then they can pass it on until all of Not Doctor Street knows that I’m dead. He examined each face until he found what he was looking for: All six of them are here. Well, I guess all seven, since I’m the seventh. I wonder what they think of this. Will all of them, one day, commit suicide as well? Or will they keep killing ‘til they’re old and frail? He looked up into the blue sky. He could feel his hands starting to sweat, and took deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating.
Mr. Smith returned his gaze to the crowd. Suddenly, a woman dropped her basket, out of which spilled beautiful crimson rose petals. The colour reminded him of the last killing he had done for the Seven Days, which led to him having to fly from the rooftop of Mercy Hospital. Three weeks earlier, a black pregnant woman had been raped and murdered. It was Robert Smith’s job to do the same to a pregnant white woman. That poor girl. Why did I do it? I could’ve just said that I wouldn’t and I could’ve gone back to my everyday life. For some reason the young lady had been walking alone, in an empty park, on a Wednesday. It was his day, and Mr. Smith saw his chance, so he took it. There was so much blood. He remembered her trying to fight back, her screaming and finally, her pleading. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her pained expression as he stabbed the knife into her womb. I hope I don’t somehow go to heaven. I don’t deserve no mercy from God or anyone else. I killed that woman and her unborn child. I will suffer.
After he had taken the life of the pregnant woman, he felt immense guilt. He was haunted by the image of the lights leaving her eyes. He had learnt that instead of going to the police, he had to kill himself to protect the Seven Days. The former was not a problem, for he believed that he should die, and in fact would, whether he went to the police or not. Also, he had no desire to expose the Seven Days to the police, because he did agree with what they did. It had just been that last kill that had made it too much. Thus, there he was, on the roof of Mercy Hospital.
Mr. Smith stretched out his arms, and felt the silk wings catch the wind. Down below, a woman started to sing. Well, at least I’ll be sung off. He thought the voice was beautiful, despite the fact that he could hear sniggering down below. They wouldn’t be laughing if they knew what I’ve done. They would be weeping. He leant towards the wind, and briefly lost his balance. He grabbed a piece of wood that stuck out from the copula and managed to pull himself back up. The singing was suddenly louder:
O Sugarman done fly
O Sugarman done gone…
Robert Smith braced himself, and for the last time he thought: I love you all, and he jumped.
Tags: Blue Silk Love Song Of Solomon Toni Morrison
