Instead, I landed myself in the hospital with a broken fucking back and a grade three concussion.
At the time, death would have been a welcome alternative. When they were wheeling me through the hospital on that stretcher, and I finally came to… I was pissed.
Why couldn’t it just be over?
I craved peace, but all I got were six long, torturous months out of work, unbearable pain, and medical bills out the ass. A dark cloud of depression funneled through me, blackening my veins, poisoning my thoughts, and while I was stuck in my house, bedridden and crippled, all I wanted to do was die.
Work was my outlet. My saving grace. I needed to keep moving, remain in motion, stay busy—but that was stolen from me. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever heal properly and be able to work again, and the prospect was dauntingly terrifying.
On a particularly grim night over the summer, delirious on painkillers and feeling little hope for the future, I told Bree to just fucking kill me. Smother me with a pillow. Lace my Fruity Pebbles with rat poison or some shit. Didn’t matter. I just wanted out.
She lost her mind, of course, freaked the hell out and almost had me committed right then and there. From that point forward, my sister stopped by my house daily to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid, and as soon as I was up walking around again, regaining some semblance of my only marginally better life, she enrolled me in those dumb meetings.
That’s where I met her.
Melody.
My moon.
That’s when everything changed for me, and I guess I have that roof to thank.
But as I’m standing on this goddamn bridge with a complete stranger, staring over the edge into an endless black abyss, I can say for damn certain, I still really fucking hate heights.
“Just let me do this, man. Get the hell out of here.”
I’m not sure what kind of twisted shit the universe is up to, but out of all the motherfuckers in the world, I’m the one standing here, trying to talk this guy out of jumping fifty feet into the bay.
Me.
I’m literally enrolled in a suicide support group.
And I’m kind of pissed at myself for not paying more attention to Ms. Katherine’s pep talks.
“Go,” the man says as he hangs off the outer side of the guardrail, facing the water, limbs shaking, his sweat glinting off the line of street lamps. “Let me die.”
Shit.
When I saw this guy about ready to launch himself into Delavan Bay, I stopped without really thinking anything through. I didn’t have a plan—no earth-shattering advice or profound lectures. No magical words to knock some sense into him.
So, I’m basically just standing here, clueless and thoroughly unqualified, inching my way closer, while my brain short-circuits trying to figure out an angle.
Swallowing, I close my eyes and try to envision the meetings, hoping to pull some sort of grandiose wisdom from the bits and pieces I actually paid attention to.
Why did I take so many fucking naps?
Those jarring fluorescent lights burst to life overhead, and I picture myself rooted to that red plastic chair as idle chitchat swirls around me, but their words are muffled, faces blurred, because Melody’s hair is tied into a loose braid today, draped over her left shoulder. She’s fiddling with a little blue hair band secured to the end that matches the color of her sundress. And when she glances my way, her eyes shimmer with tiny cerulean flecks, sprinkled into those pools of bright green.
Damn it.
This isn’t the right angle.
The stranger heaves in a deep breath of courage, dragging me back to the bridge. His body dangles carelessly over the water, his fingers loosening on the rail. “I appreciate the effort, but I need to do this,” he says, chin to his chest.
Wait, no, shit.
Starting points!
“Hamsters,” I blurt. “Do you like hamsters?”
This captures his attention, and the man snaps his head towards me, a confused frown settling into place between sweat-laden brows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I pace forward with slow, careful steps, my heartbeat doing the exact opposite. It’s jack-knifing inside my chest as adrenaline pumps through my veins. “Okay, maybe not hamsters. Something else.” Fucking hell, I’m terrible at this. “The smell of Grandma’s gumbo simmering on the stove during Easter brunch.”
He blinks.
“Flying your kite with Dad. Rainbow sherbet. The scent of wet grass after a summer thunderstorm.” I add as an afterthought, “We’ve had a lot of those this year. So great.”
“Are you on drugs?”
My feet carry me right to the edge of the rail, and I extend my arm like a tentative plea. “Starting points. You know, shit that makes you happy. Little things that don’t suck. Like… dancing in the lake.”
I’m close enough that I can make out the color of his eyes—dark, dark brown, matching his shoulder-length hair and goatee. The man glances at the water, then back to me. “Sure, yeah. I’ll go do that one right now.”
Shit… poor selection.
“Fuck, I don’t know. What do you like?”
Cars begin to park along the entry to the bridge, bystanders stepping from vehicles to gawk and wave their cell phones around. A curious audience trickles in, one by one, gathering a few yards away and causing my insides to spiral with nerves.
The man looks just as wrought with distress when he notices the crowd. His grip on the rail tightens, his body going rigid. When he turns back towards me, his umber eyes gleam with animosity. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone? I’d be dead by now,” he bites out through clenched teeth.
“But you’re not,” I note, sparing a glance down below and shuddering at the cavernous bay. “That’s good, right? If you wanted to be dead, you would be.”
“You’re distracting me. I can’t concentrate with you here, rambling about goddamn hamsters.”
Deciding I need a new approach, I coil my fingers around the guardrail and take an unsteady step up onto the elevated cement block. The railing is level with my stomach as I cling tight, careful not to bend over too far. “You know, you probably wouldn’t die from the fall,” I tell him.
Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself in case there’s another roof incident, but the math seems to check out. I’m no expert on diving off of bridges, but a fifty foot drop into deep, non-turbulent water sounds like it would fucking suck, while still being survivable.
The man beside me shivers from only a foot away, his Adam’s apple bobbing with conflict. “I can’t swim.”
Well, fuck.
My mind spins, trying to locate a plan C—except, I didn’t even have a decent plan A or B when I got myself into this mess. The only question that springs to my lips is, “What’s your name?”
There’s always a chance I can build a rapport with this guy, and maybe he’ll like me enough to stick around.
Then I recognize my faulty reasoning…
I’m really not all that likable.
A few beats of thickening silence lingers between us, the growing background noise muted by the intensity of this moment. The man finally licks his lips as his troubled eyes lift to me, and he replies in a ragged voice, “Milo.”
“Milo.” I repeat his name through a nod, hoping I look more confident than I feel right now. “Good name. I bet someone out there would really miss saying that name.”