Short story: The Edge of the World: The Edge of Life

The gales of wind brush his golden brown locks. The sun kisses his skin. The smell of exhaust pipes and gasoline hug him tightly. The sky has been painted just for him, a light blue with brush marks of oranges and purples with a few blotted clouds. A fly swoops by his ear then takes a landing on his dried out hands.

Despite the pesky distractions he looks left towards the coastline from which he came; the picturesque seaside has been hand carved by a giant sculptor. Corroded over the years, and adjusted ever so slightly to please the eye of artists from above. The land is his, the birds taunt him as they fly so freely, the wind is their accomplice. He stretches out his arms and closes his eyes to feel her beauty in her most whole form, mother earth has made this masterpiece just for him.

 He opens his eyes again to see once more all that he will miss once he is gone. He takes it in. Breathes in the smells of the highway. Stares intensely at the ball of fire he had always been instructed not to. He jumps. He tries not to look down at the harsh waters underneath knowing good and well that is his only way out.

When he was on top of the world he also knew he was on the edge of the world, the edge of life, so he didn’t look further than where he needed to. Now he is hurtling towards the one thing that will take him out of this world, one thing he couldn’t dare find beauty in.

The two things he failed to see the grace of would be united, himself, and the waters. After a certain point the waters welcomed him, they dragged him down not like an overbearing hug but one of familiarity. He was home, it was a long fight to get there but he made it. For a split second when he felt himself free of his burdens and no longer envious of the birds, he wished he hadn’t taken the leap. Maybe his life would have turned around. But little did he know, he was dead the second he stepped up there.