The Moment Before It Ended

Disclaimer: This story contains sensitive topics involving issues from mental health, physical harm, suicide, substance use, and divorce.

The moment before it ended. That’s what it was, and everything brought me here to it. I looked out at the sea, sitting at the edge of the cliff. I could see the birds in the distance of the sunset, slowly melting into the ocean horizon, the sea breeze carrying a salted wind against my face, almost pushing me back, but it was too late. I had made up my mind.

I checked my phone, the date: August 8, 2019, and below it taunted me, eight missed calls from Ma, and a day old message from Dad. I sighed, shoving my phone in my pocket and pushing away the thought, and stood up, pressing my hands against the rocky ground below, and readying myself to jump. I told myself, Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t. Look. Down.

I closed my eyes, and let out a slow exhale, before leaping from the cliffside, and in a moment, all the wind was rushing around me, raging against my ears for what felt like an eternity, for I was falling.

And then it all seemed to stop.

I opened my eyes, my hands braced around my face, I thought I was still falling, my body felt like it was, a state of weightlessness, but there was no wind, no water, no cliff, no sound, no light. There was simply, nothing.

Except for me.

I looked around, to little avail, for all I could make out was a dim light in the distance, if it could be called that, for with nothing around there was no concept of reality, however there was something about it, something familiar, comforting. It was almost like it was calling to me, beckoning to me from the deepest reaches of my mind, as if I was a marionette to the taught pull of its strings, so I pulled back, and suddenly, it rushed towards me, engulfing me in light.

I was back in my old room, the pale yellow wall cracked and peeling, the floor a mess, as I usually kept it for my own sanity, my old bed against the wall, crooked as always to make space for the outlet, and the dresser under my window, littered with mementos of all my old interests. I remembered it so well I could’ve recreated it by memory, and as much as it was comforting, it was frightening, for out of all I remembered, I held on to the pain the most, a pain I thought I let go of.

Almost on cue, I heard the front door creak open, another one of Dad’s late nights, but this one was different, I couldn’t forget this night, the night they were arguing. This isn’t when it started, they always had nights like this, nights when Dad would get home late, past when I was supposed to be asleep, and they’d argue, but each night I’d go back the next day and it would look fine, but not tonight. I tried to forget that night, I tried to pretend it didn’t happen, to pretend it wasn’t real, and so I didn’t have to blame myself.

After hours that night, sleep took hold of me before they could stop arguing, and when I woke up there was finally silence. I crept out of my room, down the hall, and to the living room, which while normally quite tidy, had now been in a state that could’ve rivaled my room, the couch was off-centered, broken glass on the floor, with the burning smell of alcohol lingering in the air, it was clear they were drinking again, they both were, but this was much worse than normal. I shuddered at the sight of the room, before heading over to Ma’s room, where I heard her crying, her door left ajar. I pushed it open, and called out, “Ma?”, to which I saw her turn to face me, her face was red, she’d been crying. A small streak of blood dripped from her brow, and her bottom lip was swollen, as she looked back at me and said, “Son, I’m so sorry…”, as she then buried her hand back in her hands. I was always used to her being so strong, she seemed like she could take on the world, and seeing her like this, something died inside me. Then her phone started ringing, it was a call from Dad, among eighty two other missed calls from him, my breath hitched, as I picked up the phone, which now had many more cracks than it ever did before, and I declined the call. The date read: June 26, 2019.

I looked back up, “Ma?”I asked, though she didn’t reply, “Ma? Does Dad love us?”.

She stopped, eerily still before saying “Son, I… we, both love you so much, your Dad just… he just also loves another family, too.”

She was sobbing again now, still not looking up.

“Ma? Is it my fault?”

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t, not through her tears. I wish I understood that.

And then I left, too upset to wait for her, too confused, too scared.

I checked my phone, July 24, 2019, my 13th birthday, my first day as a teen and he wasn’t here. He was supposed to be here. I don’t know why I wanted him to be here, I heard everything he did, I know who all he hurt, I was one of those people, but I wanted him to be here. I didn’t want to miss him, but I did, and that hurt me more. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, there was a message from Dad, sorry son cant make it. i can be back in 2 weeks maybe. wish i could be there. happy birthday!

I wanted to throw my phone against the wall, but this place was new, the walls weren’t peeling, and I knew Ma couldn’t afford any damages. So I cried, I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.

When I opened my eyes, I was falling again. Back at that cliffside, I saw the jagged rocks at the bottom, washed away from the waves, and approaching fast. My eyes widened, I didn’t see the rocks before, not that survival was my original goal anyway, but a part of me hoped it just might have happened. I screamed, though before anything could be produced from my body, it was already too late. I fell against the rocks, stars flashing at my eyes before everything was gone.

August 9, 2019, a body was found washed up on shore, partially bisected. The only belongings found with the body was a cracked phone that was almost unsalvageable. Its voicemail box filled, and it held a singular message sent two days prior that read: Son, I’m here, please come back, I miss you.