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IT'S NEARING ONE-THIRTY a.m. and Jeremiah has downed all the drinks he possibly could. In other words, he's had a sip of some alcoholic beverage he can't remember the name of before discarding the drink because of its abhorrent taste. Now, he's standing on the rooftop of a thirty-story building with hands stuffed in the pockets of a jean jacket that once belonged to his cousin, his hair blowing aimlessly in the wind.
He thought the one sip would be sufficient enough to prompt adrenaline to course through his veins and make an irrational decision he won't be around to regret. But, his thoughts are coherent and nothing of what he's about to do makes sense. His fingers are curling around the fabric of the jacket, gradually unraveling a loose thread.
People litter the streets below, but they're impossible to distinguish. They move in massive crowds, squeezing into late-night coffee shops, state of the art restaurants, or high-end bars. There's no cessation to their course of movement, no conclusion to their nights. Jeremiah envies their energy and enthusiasm.
He curves his fingers inward, coercing them to claw against his skin and he feels the pain—a never-ending reminder that he's still alive. He digs his nails further, a soft shriek exiting his lips.
The rooftop gives view to skyscrapers that are just as tall as the building he's standing on top of, but some of them stretch even higher almost as if they're overpowering him. The building's security alarm still rings, background music to his show.
His feet are as close to the edge as possible, his heart beating irrationally fast, his hands gripping the interior material of the jacket with intense pressure. It would only take one step. One step to bring the city to a standstill, to provide a brief interruption that would catch everyone below him off-guard.
His shoe traces the outline of the vehicles directly below him and his breath gets caught in his throat when he almost loses his balance. One second, his right foot is tracing the edge of the concrete rooftop, and the next he's being pulled back.
Her nails are painted black—they have been for the entirety of the week—and they're chipped a bit at the edges. Her hand is tugging him back urgently, safely away from the parameters. She's wearing the bracelet on her wrist that he had gifted her on her birthday last year. He remembers coercing his sister into shopping with him just to find the silver chain with the tiny apple charm that looked like any other piece of jewelry in the room. Now, with the city lights raining down on her, he realizes how the apple symbolizes her in a way words could never; within reach, but always impossible to grasp, emblazoned with a forbidden factor.
"What the hell are you doing?" she reprimands, exasperation outlining her words, her tone sharp and her eyes wide and shimmering under the moonlight. The smell of alcohol and traces of vanilla linger on her. She's talking to him and pulling at his jean jacket, but he can barely register her words, his eyes soaking her in instead. She brushes her wild and untamed dark brown hair behind her ear with her free hand, biting her lip nervously, tapping her foot against the pavement, but failing to show anything less than confidence.
