This was her first trip to the Grand Canyon, and so far she was enjoying it.

In fact, this was her first trip to the states, her first trip out of her home country - England, a little village in the middle of nowhere - and it seemed like a good thing.

Samantha had come on holiday with her parents. She was eighteen 'going on forty', had long hair that she died black, against the wishes of her mother, she was taller than average and had a nicely sized figure - neither too thin, nor too large - which suited her well enough. She wasn't exactly a 'goth,' but she wore black often enough, again, against her mother's wishes, and wore pale blue lipstick that made her look asphyxiated.

On this particular day, she was trailing along after her parents, glumly looking down into the canyon. They stopped at an unfenced rest spot and she moved a few steps closer to the edge, checking to make sure her parents weren't watching. She stood silently, right on the edge, looking down, letting the breeze waft up, trailing her hair with it.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of the air on her skin, so cool and unfeeling, yet gentle at the same time. After a moment, she sat down, dangling her legs over the precipice, enjoying the mild sense of freedom this garnered.

As she sat, she let the breeze wash over her and imagined.

What would happen if the stone she was sitting on broke away? What would happen if she stood and tripped, letting the air carry her down? What would happen if she were simply to jump?

She knew the answers of course. She wouldn't scream, she wouldn't cry, she wouldn't feel sorry or guilty. She would accept, and she would close her eyes, enjoying the feel of the air as it caressed her skin in those final moments of release.

She would spread her arms wide and imagine herself flying, imagine herself a part of the very air itself. She would smile as the air washed away everything she didn't want to remember, and she would smile as her body struck the ground.

Samantha shuddered a little at the thought of what would be washed away. The feel of concrete under her hands, the feel of her skirt being forced up, her underwear down.

Her parents didn't know. Her parents would probably never know. She had been eight at the time, and afterwards had repressed the memories. Only, six years ago, when she was twelve, she had begun to remember. Which was when she had started dyeing her hair black and wearing baggy, monochromatic clothing. She didn't want to be looked at with hunger.

She leant backwards slightly, stretching her legs outward into the cloying heat of the air rising from the bottom of the canyon. It would be so easy to jump, to just let all her memories and loneliness wash away with the wind as she dropped. From what she had read on the subject, fighting these feelings was going to take most of her life. Jumping was the simple, the easy, solution.

But she was a fighter - she always had been.

Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts and she clambered to her feet, making sure not to trip and walked back to her parents.