The Beginning to The Edge

If you look back far enough, you can see where it began. The hollow feeling that starts in your chest, spreads down to every branch of your life; the emptiness, the lack of completion or satisfaction with it all. If you look back far enough, you can see it, so clearly as if it were a weed growing through your childhood– invasive, unnoticed, destructive. It starts quietly, subtly, in those nights as a child where you're alone and feeling so far away. That's when the dissociation starts, the alienation from all those other happy little kids. Sometimes it comes from the parents, or the environment, but sometimes there's simply a… hole, in your heart, that will only grow. Like a wilted flower, a spot on one single petal that hides under until it's too late.

If you look back too much, you can’t see a time when you were happy. Not really, not truly. Not unconditionally. Every smile feels faked, now, through the lens of the present retrospect, even if it felt oh-so real in the moment. Even if that weight was lifted off your shoulders, it doesn't mean the emptiness was gone, it was only temporary. Only hiding, for a moment, like the sun behind a cloud. But then it comes back. It always does.

If she looks back far enough, she can remember the emotions–and lack of– that she had as a kid. When it began. The quietness, the empty feeling that she could never explain to the counselors, the way she lashed out when it became too much. She was called “unruly”, a strange child that was not unlike a stray cat, a problem that everyone else had to deal with like a burden. Of course, the eyes of those people only made her feel worse– her emotions were clearly a burden to everyone, including her– so she only learned to hide it, more and more. If she looks back far enough, a child shouldn't be that sad. That alone. That empty. But the spot on the petal only spread, and everything wilted.

“Kid, Did you hear me?”

The voice that snaps her from her thoughts is not kind. In fact, he is rather irritated with her… Although that seems to be his primary emotion to everything.

“.. Yea. I heard. Just take the trash out and I'm done with the shift?”

She tries to sound okay and casual, but if someone actually cared to hear her tone, she was unconvincing. Alas, Jason didn't care even if she was visibly breaking, as long as she got the work done. He owned this small little run-down store, anyway. Maybe that's just what store owners are like. “Make sure to get both bags.” He snapped under his breath, his idea of “responding” to her question.

The bags were not too heavy; she could sling them over her shoulders, and leave through the small back door. The dump is gross, of course, unkempt and repulsive, but she didn't even need to plug her nose anymore. The trash bags tossed into the bin with a dull sound, but now that she was alone, she did not really hear it. Not really. She was already walking away before the echo; walking down the sidewalk, that is. She couldn't afford a car. Not that it mattered after tonight.

Usually, she stared at the ground as she walked... But tonight? It was the stars that took her. Though, both options mean she's just as blind to what's in front of her.

Click

The buttons in the elevator, at the apartment building, always make a ridiculously loud click. She had clicked the button for the third-to top floor, 22. It was the sound, though, that gave her a moment to realize she was already home, considering she couldn't really remember that walk. She wasn't all there, dissociating, though she didn't have the word for that. Speaking of, it seems like in no time at all was the lonesome elevator stopping at the aforementioned floor. She was already pulling out her phone before she reached her door, though the keys–when had she grabbed them?– were already in her other hand. Her apartment was startlingly empty, to most people. Quiet, dark, and oh-so empty.

She was already dialing when the door clicks shut against her back, not bothering to turn on the lights. She feels strangely… resolved. Determined. She simply takes a deep breath, and waits for the phone to finish ringing, not expecting it to be answered; After all, K is almost always sleeping by this hour. It’s the voicemail she's waiting for. This was the whole plan. “Hey, it’s Kery, leave a message… if you want to, of course.” Beep. The voice, from the phone, is friendly with a light playful lilt. She will always remember that recording.

“Hi, K… I hope you had a good day.

… I’m sorry for this.”

She doesn't sound as sad as she should feel. She sounds… tired. Remorseful, sure, but she thought she would cry. But she's not crying. The tears don't come and her eyes simply feel tired and heavy.

“... I'm sure you know what that means already. And I really am sorry. I’m just… done. I’m so done. I just needed to leave you this, ok? Because you are… a good friend. We don’t hang out much, I know, but I just needed you to know that you were a good friend. Kay?”

She didn't rehearse these lines, yet they come naturally anyway. These types of words tend to form without true thought. She feels weak, physically. The flower is wilting.

“... Goodbye.” She hangs up before she could hesitate, or say anything else. That was all she needed, the last thing. Her other letters are on the table; written preemptively, left out to be found later by someone else. Her steps are slow, as she walks over to the table, and sets her phone down along everything else. Her keys, the letters, and the last thing she ate from yesterday: a bowl of cereal. She doesn't clean it.

If she looks back far enough, she can see a time where she had the energy to clean. Even if then felt somewhat performative.

… She leaves her apartment. The hallway lights are on, unlike inside her place, but they're all dying and dim anyway, emitting a buzzing sound. They hurt her eyes. She walks down the hallway to the stairs: After all, the elevator doesn't go up to the top floor. And even if it did, it's more likely for someone to encounter her on the elevator. The last thing she wants is to be talked down. The last thing she needs is for someone to only now notice.

She walks up the stairs quietly, small taps from her shoes echoing down said stairwell. The whole building is run-down, but up here it's less touched by people, less marks on the walls; but they're still old anyway. Every step, oddly enough, feels lighter. If she looked back far enough, she could see the door to her apartment. She didn't have much to miss, anyway.

The door to the roof is rusted and heavy, metal, but she knows the janitor always forgets to lock it. She checked, she counted. She pushes it open, and the chilly air hits her arm first, making the hair stand on end. But it feels nice. It feels so nice. She steps out, letting the door thud shut behind her, the steel clicking back into place. The door handle leaves a smudge on her hand, but she pays no mind– The view has taken the attention of her eyes; the twinkling stars, the few clouds that float around the moon. The city skyline feels less impersonal now. It's a beautiful frame, one she finds herself appreciating so much more than she ever had before. This, for whatever reason, is the moment her eyes decide to water. But she doesn't feel sad. She feels like everything's about to get better.

She steps up to the ledge. The street below is empty. The petals on her flower are finally falling off.

If you look back far enough, you can see that it never could have ended any other way. She looks back, and sees this truth has always been with her. From the beginning, to this edge, it was one straight line. This is where she was going, for as long as she can remember.

And when the wind starts rushing past her face, and she forgets hesitations for the sake of taking one step forward, she can only see the ground as a liberator for her story. If she looks back far enough… She can see the edge; and she realizes she's been falling off it so long before now.

She doesn't hear the sound of her hitting the ground.

The End.