Short Story: On the Ledge

On the Ledge

I never thought I'd be writing this. I never thought for one moment that I would know when, how or why I die. It's one of those unwritten rules and beauties of life. But not for me. Not anymore.

I've been standing here for ten minutes and someone is yet to notice. Everyone is continuing on with their pathetic little lives, unaware that I'm up here. But why would they look up? Why would they care to notice my existence? It has been an age since someone has.

A shout reaches me, and I look down, detached from the world that's abandoned me. A woman, clutching dozens of shopping bags, is pointing. She's pointing at me. Good. People need to be out of the way. No one else should suffer because of me.

The wind rips my uncut hair across my face, catching me in the eyes. A trickle of terror slides down my cheek and into my mouth. It wasn't fear. I was ready.

There are more people pointing now. The lady with the shopping is crying down the phone, still pointing as if the recipient will understand the words 'on top of a building' more urgently if she's jabbing her finger toward the sky.

It didn't matter. By the time the police get here, I'll be down there.

I'm writing a note, so you don't waste your time looking for the reason. Bury me next to my love and our baby. My mother might show at the funeral. She might cry and ask God for the reason why He took me. Or, she might look at the body with the stone-cold mask she usually wears. Either way, you can tell her why.

"Excuse me!?" 

I look over my shoulder. A man is standing at the top of the stairs, wide eyed and sweating. I close my eyes. This shouldn't have happened. No one was supposed to get involved.

Anger simmers in my throat at the man's good heart. He isn't here for me, though. His wife and children are probably down there, and it's his time to be the hero.

I take a step toward the edge, my toes brushing off loose brick onto the street below.

"No!" 

I'm sure the man is holding his hands out, begging me not to jump. I rock forward, looking over the edge. People are clearing my landing zone. They're ready. 

I'm ready.

I take a breath.

"No!" the man wails again. "Please, I can help you. Whatever it is, I'm sure it will pass. We can get you help."

I look over at the man, who's dangerously close.

"No closer," I say, finding my voice. "I will jump."

A promise.

"Come on, man. It doesn't have to be this way..."

"You don't understand! This is the only way," I insist.

"Tell me why," he pleads.

I turn back to face the street.

"I've written a note. Tell them to find it in my pocket."

I suck freezing air into my lungs, looking to the sky, and imagine what it will feel like to have the air ripping around my body for a brief period of freedom, before colliding with the pavement. I wonder whether my life will flash before me. I hope not. Living it once was enough.

I had everything. I was young with a beautiful wife, a miracle baby and a stupid, blind cocker spaniel. I had a great job that paid for our comfortable life. I had everything.

I hope the good memories flash. The memories of when I was actually living.

"They won't let me see it." This man is persistent.