South World (Part 1 of 7)

Part One:

Richard paused.  The last remnants of the late autumn sun crept down, hiding behind the World Bank that lay three blocks to the west.  The wind, a chill that crept under the skin and touched the bones, whipped Richard’s overly long hair around his eyes.  These eyes, chocolate brown with a particular sadness to them, had seen far too many things.   Richard eyed the toes of his shoes as they inched toward the yawning precipice that called to him.  Heights had never bothered him, and they didn’t do so now.  Even with the stiff wind that canvassed around him, Richard stood firm.  435 feet above the street that meandered below, Richard stood watching the evening traffic in its steady crawl.              The few people still out bustled about with their meaningless little lives and Richard took a deep breath.  His eyes, rolling back into his head, closed as his chin lifted toward the evening sky.  He started his lean forward, a single step into eternity, when he felt a slight touch, as though a hand had begun a gentle caress across his sternum.  Richard exhaled and opened his eyes.  He still stood, alone, on the 50^th floor of pure capitalism.  Tilting his head back down, Richard’s eyes fell upon a single piece of paper, a small sacrifice to modern man, struggling under his right foot.  Richard stooped and retrieved the lone struggler.  Turning it over, it contained a small ink drawing of an ibis.  Richard sat down on the edge of the building and wept.