Grey and dull brown hair fluttered down into the rust stained porcelain sink as the pair of shears flashed in the dim light of a sixty watt bulb. Sandra could no longer see her image in the mirror, tears blurring her vision, as she literally chopped her hair off. Frustration and the enormity of her ruined life had finally taken a toll on her delicate grasp on reality.

She let the shears drop from her fingers; they clattered into the sink, the tips slipping into the drain. Roughly she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands before lowering them to grasp the sides of the sink. Her cleared vision allowed her to see her handy work in the mirror; the image was distorted; now that most of the silver had faded from along the edges. Short tuffs of hair stuck out at odd angles, giving her the appearance of a worn out scrub brush. Her lower lip quivered, chin bunching up as she fought down the sudden urge to laugh, knowing, that if she did, she would never stop.

Sandra Wilkerson thought back over the last fifteen years, how it had all led up to this very moment. Rick, her husband of fifteen years, leaving her for another, much younger and vibrant woman. The divorce was quick, even the decision of child custody was hastily given to her, Rick not wanting children to ruin his new romance chances. All the assets they had, the home and summer place in upstate New York, were sold, everything liquidated and split fifty-fifty, with the exception of the family car she was allowed to keep. Sandy knew she wasn't going to be able to make ends meet on her share of the proceeds. Not having any work experience, she took whatever jobs she could to augment living expenses. Finally settling on working as a waitress in a busy bistro. The pay was little and her tips did little to help. She was reduced to going on welfare, food stamps and WIC. It galled her to no end that she would have to depend on public assistance to survive after all the years of living easy on Rick's ample income as a CEO for a major investment firm.

Their two teenage children she reared by herself, putting them through college with little to no help from Rick and endured the children's resentment. They thought it was all her fault that their beloved father had left them. Their youthfulness allowing them to go through denial of the paternal abandonment much more easily than it was for their mother. Now grown, having successful careers and with families of their own, they, too, had become estranged, cutting off all contact completely with her. It was only through their respectful spouses, that secreted announcements informed her of the birth of three grandchildren. Occasionally, Sandy would get a bad photo, ones that wouldn't be missed, of these babies.

Turning away from her hideous image, Sandy walked out of the tiny bathroom, a tuff of hair getting caught between the toes of her left foot. Her path was direct, passing through the only other room of her ninth floor efficiency apartment, pausing briefly at the bedside stand. On the rickety table was a plain lamp with a badly faded and frayed shade and a framed picture of her, Rick, the two children and Mickey Mouse, a memento of a better time at Disney World. With an angry growl, her hand swept the picture off the table, sending it flying across the room to crash into the wall in a spray of glass.

Sandy continued her short trip to the sliding glass door that led out to the small balcony. Struggling with the rusty latch with fingers that were becoming gnarled with the onset of arthritis, she was finally able to push the door open. It screeched in protest as it slid on the warped tract. A stiff wind greeted her, blowing the long flannel nightgown around her legs, attempting to hamper her progress to the railing. The bitter cold of the cement balcony stung her barefeet, the chill coursing up her spider-veined legs. Her fingers curled around the icy metal railing, pulling herself close to look out over the glittering vista of the city below and beyond. Faint sounds of traffic wafted up to her ears from the busy street.

A pang of regret constricted her throat, in turn, causing her to let out a strangled sob. Head turning slowly as she looked from left to right at the sprawl of the city. A place she had once loved for its fine restaurants, the excitement of the theatres and Broadway musicals she cherished. Now, she held only contempt for the seedy side of the city that she had been forced into.

Leaning forward, her attention now went to the streets below. Yellow cabs jockeyed for position up to the curb, to load or unload passengers coming and going to the lesser quality diners that lined the street. The shouts of two hacks arguing over a prime parking space sounded faint. Staring down at the scene, a wave of vertigo struck her, she leaned back, tipping her head to search for the moon, finding it silhouetted between two of the tallest skyscrapers.

With a swallow of heavy resolve, she lifted her right leg; her hip joint sent a painful jolt through her. Swinging her leg over the side, she strained to pull herself up to straddle the narrow rail. Clinging to the rail tightly, she slowly brought the left leg over, toes seeking out the narrow lip of the balcony on this forbidden side. Keeping her eyes riveted on the moon, she leaned out. The wind ripping up under her nightgown, making it billow out around a body that was once proud and fit, the envy of all her girlfriends through out her college days, now sagging and frumpy. Sandra let go of her death grasp on the railing, falling, flying, free for the first time in many years.