He still can't really believe he is doing this. All the years of torment. The abuse. The beatings. All the hurt poured into a minute bottle, black and smeared. This fragile bottle, he is sure, holds the key to peace. He hopes. The wind whips at his dark face, and the rain adds its own spiteful lashings. He stands, glaring down from his summit, the cars screeching past, oblivious. Uncaring. He stands there, his feet rooted in the drenched concrete. A lorry rushes past, its stark white lights gleaming in painful contrast to the night. Black on white. White on black. The lurid light sears his eyes, and his determination mounts, his anger spilling over the neck of the bottle. Why did they do this to him? His feet push hard from the tarmac, his ankles forming a graceful arc. Slowly, so slowly, he leaves the ground. Soaring, gliding.plummeting into the darkness. A wheel screeches. The world flies past in a blur. The wind is tearing at him, ripping his shirt, and clawing at his skin. The bottle tips, pouring out its contents. They blend into the water. His body smashes to the ground in an earth-jarring thud, and the bottle shatters, the shards which should cut deep dissolving harmlessly. Is this what it takes to find peace? He wonders, as the life floods from his body.