My attempts at sleeping, among other simple things, are futile.
I twist about, scrunch into the fetal position, clench my blanket tighter around my shoulders… nothing. Only the sound of wind through an open window and my breathing remind me that I’m still fucking here. Just thinking to myself in aimless, meandering trains of thought on weathered railroad tracks that lead nowhere. The tracks are deceptive, hinting at some final destination when there isn’t one, but at least it’s warm in bed. Out of nowhere, a tear rolls down my cheek. The sudden coldness is unnerving.
Thoughts shift back to the wind outside. Campus is in a nice part of town, perched near the edge of a cliff with a full view of the sea. My apartment is at the top of a hill, so I can see the ocean just by stepping out the front door. It is beautiful during the day, with brightly colored hang gliders floating around like big paper planes. Sunset is similarly breathtaking, as the sky casts a rich glow that goes from yellow to orange to crimson to purple, befitting a postcard. My only objection is that the wind gets colder throughout the day.
Nighttime is a spectacle as well. Even though the Pacific is no longer visible, constellations pepper the sky and there is even an occasional meteor shower. People frequently stargaze near the cliff’s edge, since the barren landscape suffers no light pollution. That also means it is close to pitch black, save for feeble moonlight, which lends everything a stark ashy pallor. The sea reflects nothing, not even the slightest glimmer, and appears to be a vast expanse of perfect darkness extending for what seems to be an incomprehensible depth and distance. This is where the wind blows harshest and coldest at night.
A girl around my age took her own life jumping off those cliffs last year. I tried to imagine what compelled her to do something so drastic and irreversible. Was she ugly, maladjusted, lonely? Whenever suicide enters my mind, I banish it immediately with thoughts of my mother, who has dedicated the best years of her life to me. What kind of degenerate son would mock her sacrifice by letting her bury him? But those thoughts always come back on nights like this.
I imagine myself right beside her. She hoists herself up on the rusty guardrail, and I do the same. We both look down and see only the void. She takes a deep breath. “Wait,” I begin to say, but she either does not hear me or has already made up her mind. She disappears without a sound, and suddenly I am alone on the edge, sobbing hysterically and thinking only of my mom. Did she scream, or just listen to the wind howling in her ears as she plummeted through the dark toward final resolution, with only the stars bearing silent witness?
It is around 6 in the morning now. I can barely make out the first sleepy rays of daylight creeping through the blinds. A bird sings his cheerful song, but the cold wind still whispers.
