Just His Time to Go

I

"Well, what? Now, I've got something to live for? Nah. You know I fucking don't," he spat, giving me a look of disdain. "You know I fucking never did."

Will's eyes were bloodshot, dark bags around them, faint evidence of almost-dried tears on his cheeks. He looked as if he'd been sobbing his eyes out, but none of that was evident in his voice. Will spoke calmly, pleasantly, as if we were only discussing the organising of a luncheon and not the end of his life.

He had an empty bottle in his hand, the last dregs of whatever intoxicating substance he'd been abusing all night completely drained. He was groggy, sure, and fatigued, but I didn't think he was drunk. However difficult it was for me to accept it, Will was feeling this way despite his own sobriety.

The light from the street below illuminated him as he paced back and forth along the balcony, and I saw his face in the light again. There was real anguish etched onto his features, and something caught in my throat. What the fuck was wrong?

Below us, on the busy street below, cars raced by and people strolled along, completely oblivious to the drama being played out seven stories above them. Will saw me looking down over the edge of the balcony and raised an eyebrow, "You think they'll be able to identify the body once I jump?"

"You're not going to jump," I murmured.

Ignoring me, he went on, "Man, if I jump from all the way up here, will the body even look human? Can they ID a whole ... I don't know ... mess o' human soup splattered on the concrete? Just wondering, 'cause, I don't want to give 'em any difficulty, right?"

I paused again, studying his expression. Was he serious?

"Will, you're not fucking jumping. Get away from there before you hurt yourself." I made a grab for the guy, but he stepped back, moving further towards the edge.

"I'm not kidding, man," he said, and I think he meant it. "This is the end of the line for me... Almost."

"Almost?"

"I got to quickly do something first, but then ... then I'm out."

He pushed past me, leaving me alone on the balcony and striding purposefully back into the apartment. I followed him, perplexed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Will was in the kitchen, opening drawers, counting the cutlery and the crockery inside and closing them again, then moving onto the next. I watched him as he did the same with the fridge, and then the pantry. As the man moved over to one of his windows to pull it closed, I decided I had to ask –

"What are you doing?"

"Final checks, man... got to do the final checks before I jump..." he said absent-mindedly, as if I was supposed to understand whatever the hell he meant.

"Final checks?"

"Yeah, man, final checks. Making sure everything's all neat, tidy, put away and proper before I go. Can't be uneasy or uncertain about nothin', cause otherwise, I'll end up a restless spirit. Become a poltergeist or some shit."

"A poltergeist?"

Will looked over at me, latching one of his bedroom windows closed. "You ain't want to fuck with poltergeists, boy. Trust me. Poltergeists ... they the real deal."

Exasperated, I made a grab for his shoulder, but he brushed me off. "Listen," I pleaded, "What the fuck are you saying about poltergeists and shit? We need to get you some help, Will. You're not jumping tonight. Don't be ridiculous. Just pack your stuff and come with me, we get in the car now, we can be gone before morning."

"Nah, I'm out," he said, failing to even make eye contact with me. "I tell you I'm jumping, I'm going to jump. You know I don't lie."

"Oh, for ..." I massaged my temples briefly, trying to stay cool. "You've been in worse shit than this before and you never threw yourself off the damn balcony. What's so different this time?"

"What's so different?" he slammed his desk drawer shut, flicking off the lights as he left the bedroom and I followed close behind. "Man, you know what's different. This shit is changed. I can't cope how I used to."

"I can help..." I said, but the words caught in my throat. I knew it wasn't true even as I said it.

"No, you can't, Thomas," Will gave me a look of deep, deep sympathy. "No, you can't. It's just my time to go. You can't do anything about it, I'm sorry."

"It really doesn't have to be like this."

"Oh, but, it does. I don't want this fucking ... this ... this fucking..." Will stopped for a second, slumping into a nearby armchair. He put his head in his hands and let out a long, deep sigh. "I don't want this pain no more, man. I can't... I just can't take the shit, you know?"

"William, please..." I sat down next to him, frowning deeply, "It... I... can't you just... you've never been like this before."

"It's a cumulative thing," he mumbled into his hands, "I've had enough, Tom. I've just had enough."

"What do you mean, you've had enough?"

"I'm a bad fucking person, Tom. I'm a really, really bad guy. I've hurt a lot of people, man, I've hurt too many people, and the basic facts is that I ain't want to feel what I feel no more."

I paused for a moment, trying to work it all out. All these years, I'd never seen Will like this, never so affected, never so emotional, never so broken, never so guilty. I could only really think of one explanation, and it felt as if I'd been punched in the gut.

"Did you know her, Will? Did you know that girl?"

Will's whole body tensed, his head still buried in his hands. I studied him, trying to figure out what he was about to do next. And then, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, his entire body shook with the force of one long, drawn-out, heart-wrenching sob.