The jump. - Vanda Q (ebook reader ink txt) 📗

 The jump.

When I was young, in high school, everyone told me that everything will get better with time, that I will go on to be this tall, imposing man, that I will find a girl and sweep her off her feet and propose to her in the most sappy and romantic way and… I will be happy. That time will solve everything for me. The problem with expectations is that they are, most of the times, betrayed; the problem with dreams is that they are, most of the times, broken. And growing up and building expectations and dreams and seeing them bleed out after a backstab or give their last breath under the ruins of your own unstable plans… It hurts. There are only so many things a soul can take, there are only so many things a mind can bend under its power to make it what it’s not. And I have no idea if my soul and mind can take another disappointment, if they can withstand another push, another blow, another…

I wish I was stronger. But I’m not, I’m standing here, the line between death and life so clear and feeble, in the same time, and with one step, I could cross it; leap across time and space, let all my precious memories be deposited only in faded photos lost in albums that sit in a corner full of dust. And perhaps in the future someone will pick it up, probably my mum, will look through it and cry and wonder what has she done wrong. I don’t blame anyone; that would be absolutely selfish and if there is one thing that I truly hate, that is being selfish. And what I am thinking right now is that the last thought I will ever have is that I am tremendously selfish right now, that by crossing that line and taking that step, I will make so many people suffer; probably. But I’m unimportant. Stars will die, planets will still be formed, graves will be taken over by weeds as always and the pain will fade – eventually.

If you’ve never seen London at night… You missed quite a sight, to be fair. Everything is moving, bursting with life and the lights are flickering all around me and the breeze brings on its waves fragrances from all over; the cigarette smell from three floors down where a chav is having a beer and laugh with his mate; the smell of fabric softener from the next building, lavender and jasmine… And in a moment, this will be all gone for me. It’s kind of pathetic, really; how we only notice the small things when we have nothing to lose anymore, how we discover the simple pleasures when anything that’s materialistic and Dionysian isn’t there anymore to pleasure us. But that’s how humans work. We ignore the fact that we don’t need things and ‘stuff’ to fill our lives in order to forget about that hobby we had in college that could have been our career instead of driving every day to a tall building, sitting in a chair and staring at a computer, getting annoyed with the noisy, obnoxious colleague that we secretly envy… This is who we are. And I despise it; so, I am going to end it. My foot dangling above empty space; I take a last, long, blurry look at the darkness beneath me, a last look at the stars and I close my eyes and here we go…

“Do it.”

Instinct kicks in and I find myself gasping for air, not knowing until then I was holding my breath; my legs are shaking and my fingers are looking for support. The voice behind me is now silent and I want to just jump, but I don’t do it. Instead, I turn around and my body crumbles under the pressure, I’m dizzy and I’m starting to wonder if I actually did it and this is just my mind, trying to reassure me in the last seconds of my life. He is standing tall, imposing, smiling at me, as if this all is a joke, as if… I am the joke. The snicker on his face turns my stomach upside down and I want to punch his beautifully white teeth until all he has left is blood and a scared stare. My lungs are hungry for air and as I breathe, I feel my chest constricting against them, as a cage, as a trap, ready to end me. The adrenaline is still coursing through my veins and I can hear loudly the beat of my heart, a solemn march, a drum against my temples.

“Who the fuck are you?” I stutter, my lips in a fervour and I just realise my face is wet; sweat and tears are glistening silently in the dim light of the city. He doesn’t respond immediately, as if knowing I need time, I need to compose myself a tad before even comprehending what is happening to me. Then he makes a few steps, effortlessly, without sound – or maybe there is sound, but I can’t hear it over the voice of my panicked mind. He crouches next to me, the hood of his jacket covering his features and he stares up; his arm extends and I can now see through his long fingers the stars flickering against the black mantle of the sky. I want to ask him again, but as my lips open and my chest gets ready to yell, to ferociously shout at him, he stares at me, his dark eyes measuring me and I feel… Vulnerable, like a child, although he looks much younger than me.

“I’m Time. Nice to meet you.” His accent is foreign, as if he’s been everywhere and picked sounds and letters from all over the world; his lips then settle in a tight smile, one that you give to your long-lost cousin when you see them at the Christmas party; that air of awkwardness when you go on a double date and you really wish you stayed home and played Outlast 2 for the tenth time. And then the answer registers in my mind, is neatly put into a file, processed by my adrenaline possessed brain and I am lost. Fleetingly, I ask myself is he really Time and what in the world is he talking about, is this a game and so many questions are being screamed at me.

“Why didn’t you do it?” He talks again, voice deep, without inflexions, a flat line that the annoying chemistry teacher has while talking about atoms or reactions and acids, as if he’s a lecturer you never listen to, really, as you’re too busy planning your next hangover in your head. “See, if I were you… I would have more of a reason to jump. Imagine the fucking headlines the next day. Man in his twenties commits suicide while brave hero tries to save his life. Fucking gorgeous.” His words somehow manage to anger me, get a reaction from me and although he’s sitting at an arm’s length from me, I feel him closer, as if he’s always been there and he’s always been so close, yet so far away; incomprehensible, unknown, greatest mystery of the universe.

“What’s your problem?” I ask and my voice sounds raucous, as if I just woke up from a bad dream; and that possibility crosses my mind: this is all but a mere scene played by my tired mind.

“I have a problem?” He laughs and when he does, his hand reaches out for his hood and now I can see his expression, looking down at me, but with the kind of compassion you have for someone that just lost a child. “You were just about to kill yourself. I think if someone here has problems, that’s not me. And as we are the only two people on this roof, that would make you the one with the problems.”

“What do you mean… You’re Time? Is this some cruel, sick joke? Do you find this amusing?” My voice raises and my body tenses up unconsciously; I don’t even know when my hands tensed in fist and oh, I want to punch him in the face.

“I meant what I meant. I’m Time. You’re Cassian, right?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he shakes his head as if he’s a disappointed parent looking at the toddler that just smashed a vase. “Cassian, come on, man. I thought you were smarter than” – points around him and an expression of masked disgust adorns his features – “this. What was your plan, hm? Jump? Forget about everything? Think the pain will slowly fade away? That you will be some lost photos in an album somewhere in the corner of an attic? That’s dumb.” And he snickers again, as if I don’t know anything about anything at all, as if I am a slow learner or, you know, a child with ‘special’ needs.

“What do you want?” I ask, this time letting my head hang down, my body relaxing; I feel deflated, as if another expectation or dream of mine has just been crushed under the pressure of my own failure of a life. And, theoretically, it has; I was not even smart or courageous enough to fucking die on my own terms.

“I don’t heal shit. That’s just what you, humans, tell each other to somehow hand onto the hope that everything will be better tomorrow. Because, ultimately, you’re lazy and egocentric and you would like Providence or Allah to cure all the problems you have. I don’t work like that.” At the corner of my eyes, I see him cracking his fingers, an annoying habit. “You think I’m the healer of every pain that you suffer, of every failure you endure, of every rejection and break up and death and loss, but, you know what? You just like fairy tales. And you are too weak to face the absolute truth; that maybe time is really not interested in you or your business and Time doesn’t think who to make a prey to its powers and take people away from you or that Time simply doesn’t care. I do not care about the pain your mum is going to suffer when you jump. When she receives a call at 3AM telling her an accident happened or anything like that. I don’t care that she lost a husband or that your sister will hear only 3 or 4 days after you die that you’re dead. In all honesty, I don’t even care about you.” My hands are shaking again and I want to cry as I listen to his stupid words, as I imagine my mum devastated, in a chair in the hospital, fighting with nurses and doctors and crumbling to the floor if not for the handsome doctor holding her. Anger is slowly but surely taking my breath away and I just want… To punch him in the fucking face.

“Do it,” he says and he sounds so nonchalant about it. He grunts as he picks himself up and stands in front of me, his dark eyes looking straight into my soul. “But remember I don’t care to heal anyone’s pain. And pain doesn’t go away; it just… Dulls. You just get used to it.” He makes a pause and he turns slightly, before returning his attention to me. He seems like he wants to say something else, but then he changes his mind and I raise to my knees and then I wobble to my feet.

“What? What were you about say right there?” My voice sounds distant and I wonder if this is how people feel when they are empty of everything; it must be. He turns slowly towards me and I can see a flicker of anger playing