The Paradox of Living

Chapter One

“Death always comes too early or too late.”

            It was warm outside and the sky was dark. It was almost purple-ish and there was quite a bit of orange on the horizon. There was a reason I chose this method of death. For one, I admired the view of the city from up there. I liked the way the sky looked. I liked the colors and I thought it would be a nice final view. I sat with my legs hanging over the edge and I gripped the concrete edges so tight that my knuckles looked yellow.

“This is it Seneca,” I said to myself, “This is your chance to have control over your final action. It’s practically over. Just do it.” I looked down at the street below me. Everything looked small on the ground from that height. I leaned forward, willing myself to jump off. I was so high up and tears poured from my eyes. I was shaking. Just then, I heard a calm voice behind me.

“Hi there,” the voice said. It was a male voice. I shook my head and took a deep breath.

“Go away,” I said, “Please.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I sniffled, “Yes, I’m fine.”

“What’s your name?” he asked me.

“Stop it,” I said, shaking my head, “Stop talking to me.”

“You look like you could use someone to talk to,” he told me, “Why don’t you come off that ledge so we can talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said to him, “My life is over.”

“It gets better,” he said quietly, “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through but it can get better.” I laughed sadly.

“Not this time,” I said.

“What you’re doing…it’s never the answer,” he asked.

“How do you know what the answer is?” I asked, “You don’t even know the question.”

“Well then tell me,” he insisted. I turned around and looked at him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “Such a beautiful girl.” He was a slender young man with curly brown hair and a very unintimidating appearance despite his sprinkling of facial hair. He was handsome. Just the type of guy I would admire from afar. He had full lips and a kind smile.

“I’ll be dead at the end of this month,” I told him, sniffling. He frowned.

“You don’t have to be,” he said. I shook my head and picked my bag up from beside me, producing the brochures the doctor gave me.

“You don’t understand,” I said to him, “Whether or not I kill myself… my time is up.” He carefully slipped the paper out of my hands and looked at it. His face fell and he nodded.

“Hospice care?” he asked, “Are you sick?”

“I don’t feel sick,” I whispered, “That’s the sad part. A month ago I was perfectly fine and I had my entire life a head of me. Now, I have nothing ahead of me. I thought I’d make my life into the wonderful story…” I paused, “But the best stories don’t end so abruptly.”  

“What is it?” he asked.

“A malignant tumor,” I said, “It’s inoperable apparently.”

“Inoperable?”

“And even if I found someone willing to operate, I’d need ‘well over a hundred thousand dollars’,” I informed him, “I barely even have three hundred dollars in my checking account.”