Two.

She’d decided to kill herself on a whim. So maybe, she thought, his motives were far nobler than hers. Probably.

Because it hadn’t been some deep seeded idea that had plagued her for too long. Some…decision she had agonized over for days and weeks. She had considered it - dying. Of course. Numerous times. But then, everyone did, eventually. Gray was convinced that no matter how happy-go-lucky a person could conceivably be, there had always been at least one instance in their life where they had contemplated the idea of not waking up in the morning. It was human nature. Perfectly normal, for the most part.

But this was different.

This sort of wantingtodie wasn’t a sick, morbid fancy that she would get over in a couple hours. It wasn’t, boohoo, my boyfriend dumped me. It wasn’t, woe is me, I didn’t get into this particular Ivy League college. Or whatever the fuck people killed themselves over these wasn’t the product of teenage angst or some overwrought, pretentious sort of depression that stemmed from the music she listened to or the books she read.

This was, Are you happy now, you fuck? This was making a point.

It had been her father’s smile.

This wry, sort of smug little grin that did not reach his eyes. That had done it, really. He’d shook his head “No,” and wished her good luck when she’d asked to stay at his place for a couple days, just until she could find a job, just until she could figure out the rest of her life, and he’d smiled that horrible smile. A sly smirk that said everything he did not want to say out loud: I do not care about you. I never cared about you. Go the fuck away.

She found it funny, afterwards, as she walked away from the door of his expensively furnished apartment, how much his smile reminded her of her own. How both their lips curved only slightly at the corners of their mouths…how both didn’t let too much teeth show. And wasn’t it crazy, she thought, the way her light green eyes - probably the most unique features of her face - were like mirrors of his own? It was like staring at some warped reflection of herself. This vastly taller, pale, blond haired man who was supposed to be her dad.

And what did it mean? And what did it fucking matter?

“You look like your mother,” Had been the first thing he’d said to her.

“Yeah, people say that.”

“How is Val, anyway?” He asked this quite conversationally, as if his long lost daughter turning up at his doorstep at five in the morning was the sort of thing that happened to him on a weekly basis.

“Dead now.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

Was this really happen? Was that really his reaction? Gray didn’t know what she had expected. But it definitely was…not that. Not the blatant disinterest. Maybe something more like him just dropping everything. Dropping his fucking wife and his cute, cherubic little blonde babies to be the father she’d always dreamed of. To sing her lullabies and tuck her in at night and give disapproving looks to every boy she brought home to meet him. This was the kind of dad she’d always wanted, the prototype, the guy you saw on television who swooped down and solved everybody’s problems.

And she’d warned herself on the train ride to his house not to get her hopes up. She had given herself a talking to, a thorough talking to. Don’t build this stranger up to heights that he cannot possibly reach. Don’t project every single desire you’ve ever had onto him and think he will make it come true. Don’t believe that he can save you. You’re too fucked up to actually be saved. But it had been so tempting. Too tempting. She didn’t listen to herself. And it made the realization that much worse.

The realization that: He wanted absolutely nothing to do with her; He was disgusted at the sight of her; He wished to continue his new, shiny life without a constant reminder of that one chick he fucked at a party eighteen years ago and abandoned; He didn’t want to take any responsibility for a child that, in his eyes, simply did not exist.

For the first time in Gray’s life, she could not think of an escape plan or an alternative. There was no where else to go and no one else to speak to. No escape hatch. No trap door. Just the reality of her fucking life up to that point. She no longer had a mother, no longer had any friends, no longer had a place to rest her head. She’d spent the last of her money on the train ride and a pack of cigarettes (now dwindled down to one.)

She was, in a word, fucked.

And she hated her father more than anything else in the universe in that moment.

When she had walked a few feet away from his door, when the whole situation finally descended upon her like a fucking brick out of the sky…she didn’t think. She couldn’t. She just ran. Ran away from him and the searing disappointment that seamed to be all her body could feel. Ran down the hall and up the countless flights of stairs leading to the roof of his apartment building, wishing that she could empty her head of every single thought within it. If only all those uncomfortable and unsavory emotions could just spill out of her and onto the ground, leaving her empty and numb…if only. She stepped through the archway of that heavy steel door, and the air hit her face, and like an avalanche…the realization of what she planned to do next buried every other sense.

Fuck everything, she thought. Fuck dad, fuck his wife and kids, fuck mom for dying, fuck cancer for taking her, fuck hospital bills, fuck school, fuck angst, fuck dead ends, fuck the world, fuck life. She would smoke her last cigarette, take one last look at the city in all its supposed glory, and then throw herself off the goddamn building. Yeah, that sounded like a plan. Thirty stories down would certainly do the fucking job.

Maybe then, she pathetically thought, her father would feel guilty about leaving. Because it was certainly fucking evident that he didn’t now. He didn’t seem to feel any remorse for the state that he’d left her mother in, and the state he’d left her in by proxy. Gray poised herself, looking around this place that she had not thought she would end up this morning. The roof of the building was barren, depressing, exactly the sort of setting that lent to encouraging macabre plans such as her own. Her eyes darted over to the ledge…how long would it take her to fall she wondered? Twenty seconds? Thirty? Forty? And would she regret it, in those few precious moments?

She didn’t think so.

That’s when she noticed him. He was crying. She couldn’t see the tears, but the sound of his sobbing was quite startling - she couldn’t understand how she hadn’t noticed it right away. Loud, guttural waves were coming out of him in ragged breaths…it was horrible…the sort of sound that reminded her of those last few days her mother was alive, oddly enough. He was shaking, swaying side to side as he stood on the ledge, looking down below. Her first instinct was to pull him back from the dangerous edge, but then she thought how pissed she would be if someone did that to her. If he wanted to die, he wanted to fucking die, and it wasn’t up to her to decide whether he should or not. And the way he stood there, so…insubstantially, in a way, made the moment seem more private and far more important than herself. She hadn’t wanted to intrude.

And…on a more morbid level, she figured that maybe watching him kill himself would make her feel better about doing it right after. Give her confidence, and all. Thicken her skin. Because she certainly still wanted to fucking do it. Going back down the safe way was not an option. Not while “dad” was down below, eating free range scrambled eggs and extra crispy bacon with his precious little family.

But the kid wasn’t moving. Just standing there, weeping. Gray wondered what his face looked like, now, and how it would look like once he’d jumped. Probably all smashed and bloody. A cringe erupted through her at the thought, but didn’t break her resolve…not yet. And there he stood. Minutes passed, and she just watched him, waiting for the moment when his body would be airborne and it’d be her turn. Praying for it, in a way. He was making her nervous.

“Hurry the fuck up, please,” She said, trying to keep her voice neutral so as not to startle him.

There was one, brief, horrifying moment where he wobbled out of surprise and struggled to catch his balance before turning to look at her. She took a long drag of her cigarette and cocked her head to the side, studying him very carefully. His discolored white t-shirt, tight against his very slender build, had holes in it - but they were probably strategically placed, she thought. The sort of thing rich kids from the fashionable side of town wore to make some sort of ironic statement. His sneakers were scuffed up, his tight jeans faded, his light brown, wavy curls tangled to just below his chin.

He seemed like the kind of person who tried very hard to look less attractive than they actually were. And failed.

What were supposed to be the whites of his eyes were bloodshot red. His skin looked pale and sickly, but it didn’t matter. Despite all this, what struck her the most was his face. It was definitely the kind of face that…well, didn’t deserve to be smashed against a sidewalk, as shallow as that sounded in her head. He looked like a classic painting she had seen in a history text book once, with his creamy skin, with his full lips, with his Grecian nose, and his high cheekbones. He had such a girl face. But still, there was something disarmingly masculine about it. And…strange. But when he’d come down from the ledge to beg her to leave, she’d noticed that his face had been contorted in an expression of surprise…annoyance…confusion, and marred with tear tracks all down his cheeks.

She had gotten sick of looking at him, after awhile.

But now…he was back up on that ledge, his back to her, seemingly resolved in what he was about to do and…for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why…she felt as if she had to stop him. Like she’d be messing up some huge cosmic plan if she didn’t. She stood, and silently, drew nearer and nearer to him. He was stone still and clearly deep in thought.

It was just as Jonathan was about to take a step out into midair that she said, “Wait.” Although she said it very low, almost like a whisper, as if she didn’t know whether or not she could fully commit to the sentiment, he heard her. Her voice seemed to rise above the entire soundscape of the city, just beginning to hustle and bustle and wake up from its brief slumber. Something inside him had been waiting for that voice. Needing that voice. He stopped. And turned around.