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The morning sun breathed new life into the already worn and outdated surroundings, scattering its rays across the grey concrete , thus creating tone and adding new dimensions to an otherwise bleak landscape.
I laugh. The sound is involuntary and sounds strangled. I am not used to laughing. A passing cyclist glances my way and blinks at me. Once. Twice.
I call out and he moves on. As soon as he makes it over the crest of the hill I immediately regret my decision; what's one last conversation, I reason, what's one last exchange? But the walking dead don't live with regret, I reason. In a few short hours no matter what the odds I will be free of the shackles of this town and of this existence.
A bit heavy for a Monday morning perhaps.
I follow the path of the cyclist, up over the hill and stand to stare down at the town below. The industrial town doesn't yet stir as it's only 4 am but soon it will chug to life.
Only a few hours to go.
I feel elated for the first time in years. I was warned of last minute fear, of a shaking of the hands, the reliving of past mistakes but I feel none of that. It's as if by cutting my ties to this life I also cut the ties to my constant depression.
Maybe the reassurance of a swift death calmed me in an odd way. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor sod who would find me though. No matter, there are ways to disappear and to never be found. I'm somewhat of an expert in this area.
Starting down the hill I pick up speed until I'm running. I haven't run in years, not since... certain events.
I turn off the main road, still at full pelt, onto a side path, wheezing and gasping for air. But I do not stop. I'm am not a known quitter. Sort of ironic how I'm planning my own death then isn't it then? I've never placed myself as a hypocrite, but then I've never placed myself as many things have I? It's in human nature to both detest ourselves yet still uphold an arrogance that only death can break.
I slow down as I reach the bridge. It was built for the new millennium and looks as modern as the Tate Modern in London. Quite fetching, I think.
This is it. The last scene in The Story Of My Life.
The swirling black water reminds me of my daydreams and gives me comfort.
At least I will die in the arms of a friend.
I laugh again, the sound eerily similar to that of a coyote.
Haunting, I smile.
The sun begins to heat my back and I realise that time it ticking.
Time waits for no one not even those who are ending their time. This strikes me as oddly poetic; even in my final hours I cannot be blunt, I must dress up each sentence as something it's not, something better, more powerful, more important. It's a lot like politics I think.
Comedy gold, I'm sure.
I grip the edge of the cast iron railing and look down. Breathing deeply I smile and life my foot up onto the steel joists so that I'm standing. The wind plays gently with my hair and I feel at last at peace.
I lift by foot and lean forwards slightly.
This is it.
I step out.
A small voice, carried in the wind. I step back in shock and turn to see the cyclist standing behind me, gripping the handles of his bike.
I stare deep into his eyes and notice something odd about him. He has no pupils. I gasp and fall backwards screaming. What is this demon? Sent as a warning to hurry up and kill myself? Or to lure me back into living to prolong my suffering? I know what I've done to be terrible but did I really deserve this?
I hardly notice as I slip through the air that I'm falling, falling down into the depths below.
I'm still winning I remind myself.
Oh yes, a small voice cruelly reminds me, this is the very definition of winning.
I close my eyes as the water plunges over my body. My limbs go heavy and I sink deeper.
Waiting for the pain to begin.