prettylittlewriter

The air was crisp and I could feel the wind rushing up my shirt as I stood there, toes curled over the edge.

I closed my eyes and thought about her, that smile, those dimples. That long blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight. Those eyes that sparkled with a beauty I had never seen before.

A single tear fell down my left cheek, that salty taste I knew all too well in recent months.

Never in my life had I felt such a crushing pain before until that night, where my entire world collapsed in a matter of minutes.

Not only did we lose something we didn't even really have, but that was also the day I lost her.

That night she lost her sparkle. I never saw those beautiful dimples again, she just couldn't bear to smile. That twinkle in her eyes had turned into a mist; they were always brimming with tears.

Just three months ago we were filled with joy and laughter, falling all over each other on the beach, snuggled up in a blanket watching the sunset and planning out our future. The house, the wedding, the children.

Instead, I was here, on top of the largest building in our small town, feet on the edge, ready to end my life.

I breathed deeply as I braced myself, ready to take the plunge. This is what I had to do. Nothing else in the world mattered to me anymore. I had lost everything; she was my everything.

There was nothing that could ease my pain, believe me I've tried. I turned to whiskey in the beginning, something I'd had in my life since I was seven years old thanks to my old man. After Mum died, whiskey became his life.

So day after day and night after night, I drank. The burning sensation as the whiskey fell down my throat was just a reminder to me that I was numb to everything else.

I'd even been to see a doctor; my best pal Nate insisted I go as he couldn't deal with my explosive behaviour any longer, 'Mate, you've got a problem. You're spiralling and you need help. I hate seeing you like this'. He'd said this one night after I'd almost ended up in a prison cell thanks to some dickhead that made a joke whilst in our local pub about an at-home abortion technique he would use on his girlfriend if she got pregnant.

The doctor prescribed me some pills and told me to see a therapist; as if I really needed to keep talking about my past when it hurt so fucking much to even think about it. Talking about what had happened was the last thing I wanted to do.

I paused, thinking I'd heard footsteps for a moment. So I remained silent, thinking about her, wondering if somehow she knew I was here.

After a minute or two, I realised that I must have imagined it. There's no way she could know where I was, she didn't even know I was back in town.

I slowly lifted my right foot from the ground; nothing else to stop me from ending this torment.