Life is the art of dying. That's what they say, anyway. I thought about this as my fingers struggled to grip onto the cliff face, and the sea raged beneath me. I closed my eyes and slipped, or maybe I let go?
It was September, and the chilly air bit at my nose, casting its cold fingers over my face. I wrapped my coat close to my body, shivering in the morning air. Frost covered the ground, forming a blanket of ice; the air, hurting my chest as I breathed in.
As I walked along the familiar path, staring at my feet, a sleek, ginger Tom cat padded out in front of me. My eyes met theirs before they scattered away into the bushes, leaves crunching beneath their padded feet.
I don't know why I felt that was an important detail to include when describing my story to you. It doesn't come up later, and I'm not using the symbolism of a black cat to shadow a coming event. Nevertheless, I think it matters to show how there were events in my life that didn't really matter when it comes to my overall demise.
I continued on my path, down the road, and left through the narrow archway covered in leaves. Another left and there it was. The green automatic gates loomed over me, and the absence of the normal rush of people either coming in or out made it seem almost haunted.
The school had been shut for almost two years since the incident. Despite that, I came every Saturday, watching the birds fly above, screeching their haunting cries. Stones had been chucked at the buildings from afar, shattering the windows. Without trimming, the weeds had grown out of hand and crawled up the walls. The pathway that I clearly remember walking on, scared and fearful on my first day, was now hardly visible beneath the overgrown undergrowth.
I often wondered what could have become of me if the school was still running, if it hadn't happened, if any of it hadn't happened.
