One Hundred and Thirty Nine

A cry of metallic pain and then nothing. A man hangs from the railings of a fifth floor balcony, spanning the brick like poison ivy as a reel of coloured birthday banner floats to the ground to wait beneath him. He wriggles to outdated beats as his fingers squeeze steel in hope. He is going to die to the music of Tom Jones. Strangers are gathering. They wait for him to fall.