Picture this: a scene. It is six o’clock AM in a very busy city - some place like New York or London or Paris - but not. There is beauty in the ugliness, in the grit and grime of this place that he has resided in since he was a boy, but he cannot appreciate it. Not now. The sun is rising in brilliant shades of pinks and oranges over buildings that seem mostly black and gray in the gloom just before morning, but he cannot appreciate it. There is alcohol in him, alcohol coursing through his veins, rushing to his brain and mixing with all the self pitying thoughts that he has harbored for much of his life, making for a very dangerous cocktail of melancholy. He is standing on the ledge of a very tall building, looking down below, but he cannot see very clearly. There are tears in his eyes and he’s trying - violently - to hold them back. It’s no good.

His name is Jonathan, he is eighteen years old, and today was his birthday.

Five years ago that day a number of people he loved very much died - and suddenly the phrase “Happy Birthday” seemed even more meaningless and trite than it already was to him. Maybe it was the effects of the liquor swirling through him, but Jonathan could feel he was ready. He was ready to end it. To off himself, as it were. He could picture in his mind very clearly the sensation of falling through the sky - and it seemed peaceful. He could picture in his mind very clearly his broken body splattered across the pavement - and it seemed peaceful.

All it took was one step off this ledge. One step and the last few days…last few years…would cease to exist.

“Hurry the fuck up, please.”

Jonathan wobbled on his feet, his long, skinny arms flailed in the air in an effort to keep his balance. He turned, carefully, to look at the person from which the voice had come. She was petite - seemingly made up mostly of a mop of jet black curls than anything else, and a look of utter nonchalance on her face that Jonathan guessed she had been perfecting for many years. She’d ruined everything.

From her vantage point, he looked like some kind of Angel of Death with his dark hair and eyes, in his ratty white t-shirt and tight jeans, hovering at that precipice between living and dying. She thought he might be a sign.

“Don’t mind me, darling,” she said, taking a drag of the cigarette she was smoking, “Off you go.”