When September Ends

(Hasn't It Been Fall Forever?)

What the hell? I'm back on the cliff, and my hair is wet, and I've laid my coat out beside me because it's heavy from cold. How did I get back here? I clutch my elbows to my sides, shivering. The wind sure likes its tricks – I'll give it that, floating me up here again as it did. This doesn't make sense. I should be dead, but this frosty sun is shining on my cheeks, and my boots stand in front of me where I left them. All I feel is a little greyer. Worthless.

• • • • • • • •

I suppose the weather really hasn't changed since ten years ago. I come back to this cliff too often, not like it's my choice. The boots tie me here, my last bit of self I left behind. Sometimes I wish I'd left them on the clear starlit nighttime rooftop of some plant-covered building in the city. It'd be less lonely, I think, though they still wouldn't be able to see me. This curse is a cruel one, forcing me here in this countryside by the sea to remain alive and conscious and here, aside from my infrequent outings to the village. Can't eat or sleep or breathe either, or at least I don't have to since I've no corporeal body these days, and I guess I hated all three of those things living anyways. Most days, I sit with my knees dangling over the edge, kick the heels of my socks against the rock face back and forth because there's nothing else to do.

My mom noticed when I died, I believe. Surprising little tidbit, and maybe if I'd known she would, I bet I wouldn't have done it so quickly or readily. Still, no one's found me here.

And I go cliff diving a lot, to pass the molasses time. I haven't felt anything for a thousand years, cold weather or hot sun or even an itch on my nose, so I figure if I imagine the wind rushing by my face as I fall, something will finally happen. Like the current can just sweep me away like it was supposed to, and I can finally leave all this behind.

So I stand with one leg in the air behind me, balanced like a flamingo, about to do a spectacular series of flips on the way down. A boy's got to get entertainment some way, right? 

Just as I tip myself over the edge, there's a crinkle in the leaves behind me, and I twist around. The leaves always remain untouched up here. But there's this boy, glancing around in some blue-eyed brazen-haired wonder at his new discovery (I was here first, little boy!). He's got some aura about him, like all the world is new and if it weren't for common sense, he'd be rolling around in the pile of leaves now, that neat little pile I so carefully swept together with my hands because I can touch or move things, sometimes, when I'm alone. Which is a lot. He steps forward again, and I cringe at the sound of more crushed leaves. God, won't the wind make him leave? I can't deal with being unalone right now, not after all this time. And I'm thinking all this as I tip over the edge, and I'm falling, and wow, so much for a fancy landing because I'm halfway down, mind still burning with the image of that boy.

I close my eyes when the waves hit.

In a second, the dropping feeling disappears and I'm back on this damned cliff again, next to those same old boots. After all this time, they've barely worn.

"Whoa! Who the hell're you?" 

I turn my head to look at the boy, who's staring at me wide-eyed, ready to run. How does he see me? 

"You just...appeared out of nowhere. I was alone here, and then you appeared. Who are you?" He's shaking slightly, like my harmless presence in this place is making him nervous. He looks about the same age as I was back when, and I know I wasn't this jumpy then. I hope he calms down, because he's making me jumpy, too. There's a ghost around every corner, I want to tell him.

I cough, try to clear my throat. I haven't spoken in so long. "I'm Dan." 

He just looks at me, stepping closer with his hand outstretched, like I'm some kind of novelty item in a gift shop. Maybe an aesthetic snowglobe with a classic London-esque phone booth, all red and shiny and frosted glass. I've seen myself in mirrors since after I first jumped. If anyone could see me, I don't think I'd look much different. Again, a little greyer, but against the background of this dreary mountain, who could tell the difference?

I tap my foot impatiently. This kid needs to get out and stay out. "And you are?"

"Phil. I am Phil. Are...those boots yours?" He points slowly at my shoes, sitting where I've left them. The years have passed so tricklingly, and the only proof I have to show for it on my person are the strings of moss climbing their way up into the laces and heels of my boots. 

"Certainly," I say. 

"They're beautiful. Uh, mind if I take a photo? I'm a film student at university, and I need inspiration for my dissertation, and I've been wandering around and looking for a place to film, or a story to shoot, and this place is beautiful. Wow, how'd you find it?" The boy, Phil, seems calmer now, and that's a bad thing. If I'm stuck here, it doesn't have to be with company the likes of him. 

"That's a story you don't need to know," I say. I'm tired of him, and I turn around again to gaze off into the misty distance. I'm dramatic, for sure, but he seems like nothing less of a drama teaser, himself. Five minutes, and he's filled the air with more words than I ever needed to hear.

He says, "There's never a story I don't need to know," and he puts down his things, his black bag presumably full of lenses, and his tripod (stupid thing to carry around on a nature walk). He keeps only his camera, cradled to his chest, and he comes over to the edge and sits by me, a few inches away from brushing against my shoulder. Thank god, or he'd be asking a lot more questions. If he can see me, I might as well pretend he's supposed to. 

He doesn't say anything now. All he does is look out before him, the layers of fog and the crashing sea below. I watch his warm breath come out in puffs, softening the frost hanging in the air. 

Suddenly, I want to reach out and touch his cheek. Maybe he and I are both real.