I frantically grab my notebook and a pencil.
“Get out!” screams Mum as she slams the door shut.

I stand there looking back at the closed door for a moment, examining the curve of the handle and the bevelled plastic frame. I imagine walking back in. I turn and walk into the darkening evening. Overhead the sky melts into a haze of fiery red and ember orange, streaking outwards from the horizon. An icy breeze claws at my skin and I regret not taking a jumper.

Over the stile, across the harvested fields and past the thick copses of trees are the cliffs. They're limestone formations, craggy outcrops leaning drunkenly out far above the river. I walk cautiously towards the edge of one and peer down at the dizzying drop below, the faint rush of water is just audible. The sun has set.

I think about my life as it falls apart. The exam grades cascading downwards more spectacularly than waterfalls, the social life as empty as the promises I make to work harder. I will never be a writer.

I think how easy it would be to throw myself off this lump of rock. I wonder if I'd die instantly. Or if it would hurt. I wonder if I'd regret my choice in the seconds spent plummeting downward. I know I won't do it.

Instead I sit down and do what I always do. I put my pencil to the paper and pretend I don't exist.