The wind howled fiercely while grey, ominous clouds blanketed the sky. Standing at the edge of the precipice, I could just perceive the dark churning of white-capped waves far below. It is hard to imagine that just six months ago, I deemed this to be the loveliest place in the world.
Mum drove us to the mountains, to the place Dad had proposed. She said it was a part of my heritage that I should know. The road twisted and turned, passing under arches of moist, fertile foliage. Shards of light filtered through to form elaborate patterns on the cool bitumen. Bird calls filled the air, the only noise in this otherwise silent haven. Rounding a bend, a spectacular vista spread before us. Soaring metal curved into glorious shapes above a rushing, rumbling river. The purring engine cut off as Mum glided smoothly to a stop.
We walked over to the edge of the bridge, and mum dissolved into tears as she finally realised they would never again bless this sacred place with their love. I attempted to comfort her, but there would never be a replacement for dad. He had been her world, and always would be.
I will never forgive myself for what happened next. Instead of hugging her in this time of insurmountable grief, I surrendered to my male insecurities, and walked away. Her hands paled on the gleaming rail. The beautiful aqua of the jewel-like water seemed to draw her in, for she slowly tipped further and further forward. As I bounded to her side, her hands released the shiny steel, sending her plummeting through the still, sun-kissed sky. Belatedly, I grasped at thin air, desperate to return her to the relative safety of infrastructure.
The last I saw of her was the coffin lid sliding closed over her chalky features.
Throughout this bleak time, Miranda was the main pillar in my crumbling ruin. Regardless of how much I sulked, she drew me along the path to hopeful redemption - the doctor's grey flagstone driveway.
Countless pointless tests ensued. Some focused on my mental aptitude, while others required information about my personal and private life.
Apparently, as she was my girlfriend, Miranda was also obligated to complete these bothersome forms. Doctor Taylor gave the numerous papers a cursory glance, before arrogantly arranging yet another futile appointment for the same time next week, assuming I could attend.
Regardless of my reluctance, I was forced to dance attendance on the pompous ass. This time he'd adopted a grave demeanour, and informed me I was clinically diagnosed with Dysthymia. Viewing my incredulity, he grudgingly explained it is a depressive mood that typically endures for years.
Then he palmed me off to a different doctor, using the excuse that Doctor Watson was more experienced in cases like mine. It almost sounded as though guilt-ridden, clinically depressed male orphans seeking help were an everyday occurrence in their practice.
Strangely, Jim and I managed to strike up a rapport almost instantaneously. He explained that he understood how important personal development was in my inevitable recovery.
To allow for this, he prescribed anti-depressant drugs, and then politely inquired whether the same time a fortnight later would be agreeable. With a compassionate witch hovering behind my right shoulder, I was compelled to reply in the affirmative.
Even though I consumed copious amounts of drugs, I found my mood remained without change. Life became bleak, as though all colour was leached from the world. My thoughts became sluggish, and my body unresponsive. Jim discussed my lifestyle and habits at our bi-weekly meetings. His haunted eyes and gaunt face belied his promising words.
I discussed my disbelieving conclusions with Miranda after this phenomenon first appeared. She calmed me by explaining that even though he was a doctor, he would have problems other than those of his current patient.
However, even after that original observation, his expression never changed. He obviously gave no credit to my plausible recovery.
My situation grew steadily worse, fuelled by remorse, guilt and grief. I still grieved the loss of my parents, and felt remorse for not granting the guiding hand Mum so desperately needed. My guilt stemmed from everyday occurrences. I was unable to show Miranda the gratitude and love she deserved. I had become a shell of my former self, unworthy and incapable of any relationship.
My thoughts gradually returned to my current position. Moisture glistened on the sleek silver steel and condensed on my white knuckles. The slight ledge on the far side beckoned alluringly, so my sneaker-clad foot shifted to perch there precariously. My eyes remained trained downwards as I transferred my weight entirely to the narrow strip of granite.
As my arms started to extend in preparation, doubt besieged my mind. I wondered if there were any deviations from my chosen path, even as I knew I was harbouring a false hope.
I refused to force Miranda into a life of unacknowledged servitude to a despondent ghost.
I could emulate the ghost I had become and fade away. The battle was nearly over, and whirlpools have a tendency of devouring all in the vicinity. Yet the struggle was only worthwhile due to the relieved smiles that unfurled across her angelic face whenever we received a positive report.
If I left, I would never live again. Instead, I would merely endure, plodding along the tortuous uphill path of existence.
As this realisation bloomed, shouting pierced the fog-filled recesses of my mind. Panic struck as my sweat-filled palms relinquished their tenuous hold on the icy metal.
The air whistled past my ears and numbed my face before my head and shoulders broke through the turbulent water.
*****
"Dad, why did you make him do that? As a psychologist, you should realise better than most the tricks that his psyche would play on him. He remembered." Miranda murmured.
"I did realise. I don't want you marrying a man who is still lost in the past. Bungee jumping here was the only way of completely freeing him from his demons."
