The cities of Zoro county were paths well navigated by Arik. Often he would wander the streets and parks looking for new set pieces as inspiration toward his illustrations. Whether it was a dank alley, a busy intersection, or the birds fluttering from tree to tree, he found potential beauty in most things. But none more so than the forests lining the city borders.

The Woodstock Forest was Arik's go-to getaway. While the cityscapes and parks were nice in their own respect, the systematic tragedies that plagued his life in those cities made their setting remind him of those bleak events. He felt as if the life was being choked out of the concrete jungle in his eyes, and every bit more, he felt safer in the forest.

While it did feel strange to walk through town without wheels, namely his trusty old bicycle, Arik couldn't be bothered to focus on it. He was propelled forward through that stark determination he had mustered back in the hospital, and the enigma of his current medical status and recent memories absorbed his mind and attention like a starved predator tracking its prey.

Within 45 minutes, he had made his way across town to his apartment building, where the window of his room on the sixth story was covered closed with cardboard from the inside. A halt on the concrete sidewalk allowed Arik to analyze the ground for any signs of his fall.

Nothing.

Arik let out a shallow sigh while rubbing his strong jaw now covered in messy black beard stubble, grown out from his time in unwanted slumber.

'It has been almost two weeks. Any evidence of the scene would have been cleaned up by now. But maybe i can get something from my room.'

He made his way into the unkept lofty building and rode an elevator up to his story. The hallway was dimly lit and the air smelled of mold; in other words, nothing had changed here.

Each step Arik took toward his door grew a deeper pit in his stomach. He wasn't particularly sure why, as he truly didn't know what to expect from inspecting anything there. All he knew was that nothing was making sense to him and he had to get to the bottom of it. Maybe out of pure curiosity, or perhaps the truth was much darker and he felt that it was the only thing standing between him and more depression and suicide. Perhaps he was trying to understand this situation he had fallen into until he had mustered the courage to kill himself again, or at least attempt to. Whatever the reason was, Arik himself wasn't aware of it and was just entertained to actually want to do something again.

'Room 67.'

Arik felt around his pockets and pulled out one small key. He put it into the whole of the knob and jostled it around, but the key wouldn't fit. He fiddled with it a bit more, each second revving his impatience until his palm smashed into the cheap yet solid door with a boom and a shouted profanity.

"The bastard must have changed the locks while I was in the hospital," he growled.

He knew what he had to do. So he changed course and stormed off to the building owner's room on the first floor. He was more upset than he justifiably should have been, but Arik was extremely thin on patience and had long felt the world was against him. A rivalry that inevitably grew to hatred.

After the rickety ride back down the elevator, the man of intense emotion was facing the landlord's door, and beating it like a drum to war. A muffled yell was raised behind it along with the sound of tumbling clutter. The door opened up the length of a chain lock and a partially bald, scruffy face wearing glasses revealed itself.

A grimaced squint focused on Arik's gangly body as if waiting for his eyes to focus on his thunderous perpetrator.

"What the hell do you want?" he barked unapologetically.

"I want to know why you changed the damned lock on my door," Arik shot back vexingly.

"Your door?"

The door shut abruptly and metal locks jingled down the length of it. Then, the door swung open to reveal a sweaty meatball of a man, about five feet tall and almost that in width. He wore baggy black sweatpants and a white tank top that barely covered his unsightly nipples, but missed the mark of his voluminous black chest hair. The trademark pedigree of the one known as Mr. Mohill.

"Let us get this straight for the last time, Eric. That is not your room anymore, this is not your building, and I am not your landlord because you are incapable of paying rent and have been for Dick Cheney knows how long," he said waving around a piece of half eaten garlic bread.

"First off, my name's Arik. Second, I was in the hospital for almost two weeks," Arik exclaimed.

"Yeah, I know. You got there via six story window," he laughed. "But maybe if you didn't have such a shit record and attitude then I would have cut you a break. But I'm dry out of those for your sorry ass. Now get lost!" He finished his last words with a vicious bite from his bread.

Arik's eyes were wide with outrage. He took a step forward—

"You touch me and I will sue the living hell out of you, guy."

Arik's piercing gaze gleamed past the smelly landlord and locked onto a black leather jacket draped over a tower of useless junk that accompanied a hoard of trash in the apartment. It was his jacket that he had left on the counter that night, sitting in the landlords room.

Arik felt as if his wrath was tangible, as if he was coated in roaring flames that silhouetted him as a demon. And he knew it wouldn't take much more for him to snap and beat the tiny man to a pulp. They never liked each other to begin with, sure, but this was on a whole other level, and today was just not the day.

"You know it's people like your gen—" Mr. Mohill's words were cut short by a stiff arm to the side.

"Is that my jacket?" Arik shot out in increasing volume while charging through the doorway and approaching the item.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" The stout man dropped his food and waddled over to Arik. "I'm calling the cops, you little shit."

"To tell them that you stole my belongings? Huh?"

The landlord looked the jacket up and down before grabbing at it and pulling with all his might. "You cleaned out your whole room but left this jacket and some shitty drawings. You must not have wanted it."

Arik pulled with all of his might as well, but the small man was hefty and proved deceivingly strong. A quiet tear of fabric squealed from the jacket and Arik all but went blind with rage. His body felt indescribably light, or perhaps numb, and the ground beneath him became weightless. Mr. Mohill's already short body began to shrink even further and his face slowly turned from a crinkled exertion to sheer panic.

Before Arik could even process what was really going on, Mr. Mohill let go of the jacket and came crashing down to the ground with a grunt. Arik then rocketed upward into the ceiling, banging his head against it and plummeted to the ground as well, though his landing was much more graceful than the meatball's.

Arik stood up and rubbed the top of his head in stinging pain before looking up to the small dome shaped dent he left in the ceiling.

'What the hell just happened?' he thought to himself in bewilderment.

The landlord was on his back scooting away from Arik with a look of pure fear.

"S-so what are you? Some kind of g-ghost or some shit?"

"What?" That was one question Arik never thought he would be asked.

"You kill yourself in my building and now you're a ghost to haunt me, huh?" Mr. Mohill looked as if he was about to cry.

Arik stared at the crumbling man, unsure of what to say, again. He didn't know what had happened and what had been going on since he awoke in the hospital. The man's frightened accusation was as good as any at this point. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he was in the afterlife.

"Mr. Mohill, did I just fly?"

"Get out of my house, please... Get out!" he yelled rabidly like a cornered animal.

In a weird turn of events, Arik listened. He turned and walked out of the room slowly, as if moving too fast would make his body fall apart. Behind him he heard the broken breathing of a man who just had his reality flipped on its head. Once out, the door slammed shut and the scraping of metal devices clicked all the way up its length.

Arik continued walking slowly and expressionlessly out of the building until he was warmed by the suns bright rays. He looked to his hand which was beginning to ache and realized he was clutching the jacket extremely tight the entire time. He softened his grip and put the jacket on. It felt natural on him. It felt like a second skin that made him stronger and more calm.

He reached into the pockets and felt a paper. Pulling it out, he realized it was actually an envelope. More to the point, the envelope. The suicide note that he had written to his parents, ex, and friends. It was unopened, thankfully. Arik wouldn't have put it past Mr. Mohill to read it immediately, laugh at the patheticness, then throw it away. But he didn't so much as open it.

But its existence and current condition meant that none of the intended recipients had read it, and due to Arik's lack of death, he intended to keep it that way, at least for now.

"I guess there is nothing else for me here," he said looking up to the sixth story window once more.

The way he saw it, he really only had one option right now: going to his friend Kilvio's house to crash until he gets on his feet or overstays his welcome. Mr. Mohill wouldn't let him stay at the apartment, he couldn't go back to the hospital because they make him paranoid and queasy, his parents lived too far away and would pester him far too much, he didn't have any money to his name to get a hotel, and his ex was just so far out of the question.

So he did what he had to do, and walked halfway through town to the nice neighborhood that Kilvio lived in for the past few years.

The neighborhood was clean and proper, fitting for someone of Kilvio's budget and personality. He was an engineer, a civil engineer to be precise. As such, he liked organization and well thought out architecture. With one thing leading to another, Arik became a nobody artist out of high school while Kilvio went to college and chased the money. Which was fine. And Arik was always happy for him, but it led them down a much different path that separated the two for better or for worse.

But they have always tried to work on that and stay in touch. In fact, Kilvio was the last person Arik had spent time with before the suicide attempt.

Now Arik was at his house under much different circumstances seeking solace and shelter.

The front door opened about half a minute after he knocked. Kilvio's wife, Veronica, had answered it, confusion and surprise smeared upon her face. She welcomed Arik inside and shouted for Kilvio, who shouted back from the living room that he was coming. Kilvio appeared and his eyes widened with disbelief.

"Well what's up, buddy?" he sang as he came in for a brotherly hug.

Arik was silent and wore a face of shame and sadness, but managed a smile anyway. Regardless, he waved and went in for the hug as well. A few silent seconds went by and restrained sobbing muffled through Arik's face buried in Kilvio's shoulder. Kilvio just patted his back and hugged harder.

"You should have just told me the truth, man," Kilvio whispered.

The night went by fast, with a lot of games, alcohol, good conversations and even better food. They didn't talk any about what Arik was dealing with, but he felt the reason this time was far more benevolent than ignorance. They just wanted to have a good time and help forget about the pain for a moment, if only a moment.

But he knew that the next day he would be expected to open up about it. So Arik laid in bed, mentally preparing himself for that conversation. That conversation that he had rued the moment he would have to talk about it. About everything bothering him for the last few years and what eventually drove him to want to end his life.

And maybe, just maybe he would talk about what happened earlier that day at his landlord's apartment, if that was even possible. He didn't know what happened himself. And it was easy to see how someone would be thought of as crazy for talking about that. Just like what the doctor was talking about with that tumor thing.

These were Arik's last thoughts that night before slipping into a deep slumber, the darkness of the guest room taking over his sight and mind.

Arik dreamed of flying that night, high above the clouds. That, and a silver river splitting shadow.