Happy Endings Are Not Real

Chapter 2

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Do you ever get tired? Do you ever get bored? It's hard to find fulfilment in my life nowadays without committing crimes. Once in my life, the thought of prison wasn't positive. But now, prison sounds more interesting. My alarm clock beeped loudly in my ear, causing my heart to race in anger. Beep after beep, I stared at my roof, replaying my life from the moment I murdered my mother to now.

120 years.

The clock beeped once more before I turned over in my bed and grasped it tightly, hurling it to the wall. The clock breaks upon impact causing it to stop beeping.

I wiped my hand across my face, sitting upward in bed, wishing my days were numbered.

My life constantly feels like a trap, a cage, a never-ending maze that only leads to dead ends. I rolled out of my bed and slipped into a simple jumper and pants, which were the easiest to put on. Exiting my apartment building, I stare at the sky, the new day's sun landing on my face.

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Do it again, do it again...

Walking to work, I walk on a bridge. Mental Note. The cars zoom past me on the road, the occasional whistle from men as I walk by along with their pathetic comments about me. Sometimes, I wish I could turn around and bash their head into the concrete and hope their blood stains it, to show off my success. That would give my life some colour. A deep, bloody red colour.

Arriving at my office, I stare at it. It is such a bleak place, so mundane and bland.

I shrug off my previous thoughts, leaving them outside as I enter the colourless building.

"Hi, Dolores." A coworker speaks, but I ignore her—better things to do, Britney, not sorry. I find my station, throw all my belongings on my desk and immediately bury myself in my work and the latest news. 

I was the best in my office, and everyone can agree. And if they disagree, tell it to my promotions and pay raises. I constantly strive to be the best at everything, not because I was insecure, it's quite the opposite. since I know I can be the best at whatever I want if I put my mind to it and I do, I put my mind to it. In addition, it's being on top of everyone else, an invincible superiority I have over my coworkers.

The problem with being so fixated on my work is that before I know it, my day is over and it's dark outside, or the sun hangs just above the horizon. Although, I don't think my focus is 100% the one to blame. 

Time feels warped when you're immortal. Mortals believe that time is slow and torturous, but contrary to popular belief it's not. Well, they aren't completely wrong. Though days may feel like seconds, it doesn't make it any less torturous. One second, I'm getting out of bed, and I blink, and the days are over, or a year has passed. So, at the end of every day, I document what I've done so I don't blend days. 

For example, I might think that something that happened centuries ago happened last month or even yesterday. My eyes flicker to the window, and I watch the sunset, colours of orange and pink splash across the sky. 

"Dolores!" My boss turned around the corner of my cubical, staring at my work.

"You've already finished a story today?" He smirks. "You're very talented you know that?" 

Talent isn't real. 

No one is naturally good at something, and no one comes out of the womb being the most outstanding violinist, drawer, or singer. The title 'Talented' is earned through years of work, whether it's intentional or not. Talented singers would have practised singing at a young age, progressively growing better as the years passed and the same with drawers, as they draw more and more, growing better at it, using advice from others to improve, same with singers. 

I didn't correct his miss wording though, all I did was nod and agree.

Leaving my office, I begin walking home. The streets were empty and peaceful. No whistling, no cars beeping constantly. Silence. Usually, the quiet would be reassuring, but it only made me feel wretched.

Life has no meaning until you give it meaning. These mortals say.

How am I meant to put meaning into life when everything has no meaning? I suddenly find myself on a bridge. The one I walked past this morning.

Jump.

My hands tighten on the metal railing on the bridge. One leg before the other, I stand on the railing, looking down at the running water below me.

Will it even work? Will I succeed?

The world around me went quiet. The crickets no longer chirped, and the wind no longer moved.

"Dolores!" A voice behind me calls, piercing the silence. I whirl my head around, curious of who dares interrupt my suicide, prolonging my suffering.

I gasp seeing him.

It's the mortal who approached me at the coffee shop.

"What are you doing here!" I yell at him, his pace quickening as he runs towards me, his eyes glossy. Why is he stopping me? I feel a tightness in my chest and throat. An unfamiliar feeling that I want to disappear. An unfamiliar feeling that makes me want to collapse under my weight. Lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice him standing before me, holding my hand.

"Dolores, don't jump." He pleaded softly, looking up at me. My breath quickened, a stinging feeling forming somewhere in my nose.

"Don't tell me what to do!" I roughly pull my hand away, feeling agitated that a mere mortal is trying to prolong my agony. He doesn't understand what I've gone through and still has the nerve to tell me not to jump. Suddenly, I lose my footing, falling backwards. At that moment, time slowed, my life flashing before my eyes. My childhood, teenage years, and adulthood, everything that happened from the moment I was conscious as a toddler to now. I don't grieve those moments, and I don't reconsider my choices or regret anything.

As I close my eyes, accepting my fate, a hand grabs mine, holding me. My eyes fling open, meeting dark blue eyes. Wide... beautiful eyes.

I was frozen. He... saved me.

Humans are the cruellest creatures on earth, yet he still saved me. I don't even know his name. He doesn't know anything about me, nor does he benefit from this.

He pulled me back onto the bridge, breathing heavily.

"Why did you try to jump?" He asked quietly. I stayed quiet. Confusion. A tidal wave of it washes over me, so much that I feel detached from this reality as if I'm dreaming. I heard him ask the question, yet my brain was so crowded that I couldn't process anything. Axel sighs softly.

"I don't trust you to go home safely or even go home without killing and or harming yourself." I remained quiet, continuing to choose not to answer.

"The first thing I need to tell you is my name." He paused, clearing his throat. "My name is Axel Bardales." I nod my head. Axel Bardales...

"Do you want to come back to mine, and we can talk?" I nod again. He believes I'm listening, though I am not.