*disclaimer: I’m perfectly fine, I promise*
It’s a window that brings happiness to my room – crashing waves & laughing children.
It’s a narrow slit of a window but I can probably fit through it, taking care not to fall.
As I step through I’d flash back to the days in London where I’d slip under a sliding window and dangle my feet, while reading a book, 4 stories up. No one ever saw me.
They won’t see me here either. I’ll stand on the ledge – this one is almost a balcony without a railing – not the 20cm space I sat on in London. And the height would be pretty daunting. I’d probably sit down. Dangle my feet, trying to remember why I did it. I will hear children laughing and wonder why I stopped. I’d see the people on their phones and holding hands and walking together and I’d wonder why I always walk alone.
And I would be far from home so none of those who still care would see me, or have to find me.
I’d leave a note saying that I’m tired and tired of being lonely. My writing would be neat, my confidence would be in the tidy slant, the equidistant letters.
I’d leave a note apologising to the people who’d find me. I always try to be considerate.
And I would slip off the ledge. I’d fly at last, I’d feel freedom until I no longer feel.
I wonder if I would stay silent?
So the only sound would be the slap of my clothes on my body?
Would everything be quiet?
Would I remember one last thing I wanted to do? Or would I be grateful that I ticked this one off at last?
And when I hit the ground, would I split open on the places my skin has broken before? Or would I find new ways to break out of this skin that never really felt like mine?
Would cars block the street and people complain about the hold up? Would they feel momentarily guilty for complaining or would they deem me inconsiderate one last time?
Would my mom remember that I don’t want a church service? And would she think of asking my friend Charlene to do the talking? Would anyone but my close family come?
How long would it take for everyone who once cared to find out that I was gone? Would anyone wish they had called just one last time? Wish that I had asked for help? Would they call it a waste or would they call me selfish or that this was what I had always wanted?
But none of this will happen. I will wait for daylight one more time. Wait for the sun to fight back the dark thoughts. I will remind myself that the thoughts are irrational, that they are probably just hormonal and that it will get better.
And in the morning I will smile at the strangers, listen to the laughing children and wonder how it ever felt so bad.
I firmly close the window and turn the air conditioning on instead. Fresh air can kill you know.