Sacreligious was a word that came to mind as he fell. All he had achieved had already coalesced into a neat photo album that he could casually flip through at a whim. It was okay that he was losing it all; the despair ripping through him was stronger than any love he still carried.

Falling was an interesting feeling. As the wind whistled he imagined it would match the sound of shrieking roses. Why roses? That was better left for another man to decrypt; a man with more time to ponder such thoughts.

He was able to count the stories as he fell. Intriguing that he could count down to his own death. Not many people would want that; to him though, it was fascinating. 32. 31. 30. 29, 28.

28. 28. 28. The floor lasted longer than the sting of a slap from a jilted lover, for as he fell he heard a ringing emanate from an open window. Impossible, the shrieking roses should have been too loud, and yet the ringing continued. Should he take the call?

A silly thought as he then remembered that he was already dead. Maybe the call had been some form of divine intervention to make him regret what he had given up.

He had never really believed in God, and when he did deign to think of him it was with spite. And yet the ringing continued in his ears all the way to the ground, filling him with regret, not for what he had done (as he expected that clever bastard God had intended). No, his regret was for the curiosity of the phone call that he would never get to answer.

Likely a damn telemarketer anyway.