Beneath her eyes lay buzzing dots of cars and fluorescent lights from the streets. The sun had barely gone down about an hour ago and the night air was chilling. The frosty breeze pricked at the pores of her skin, reminding her that, to her dismay, she was still very much alive. Alive in the sense that her heart did pulse and her lungs would inhale and exhale so that warm blood flowed throughout her pale frame; nothing more.

Inexplicably calm, she climbed over the concrete railing that had prevented her from simply walking off the rooftop, draping one leg over followed by the other. For a moment, she couldn't decide whether to sit or stand on the ledge, but seeing that if she did sit it wouldn't be for long, she resolved to remain steadfast on her own two feet.

Gravity certainly felt heavier ten floors off the ground. The winds were stronger, too. The invisible force pulled her in every opposing direction possible—just like all the other imperceptible forces in her life—leaving her at an unbearable standstill. Then again, maybe the wind wasn't blowing at all, and she just couldn't find the courage to jump.

Let no misconception be made: this girl did not want to fly. She had no desire to soar into the skies, to thrust up into the galaxy and somehow become one with the Milky Way; no, to desire such things, in her eyes, was foolish. Happiness was nothing other than ignorance, and contentment only a fleeting sentiment. She knew better than to become enraptured by such lavishly hopeful fantasies of grandeur and life. And so instead of being crushed by the inevitable failure of dreams, she chose to resign all optimism for a fairer chair of desolation.

Instead of longing to fly, she desperately craved to fall. She wanted to fall until she could fall no further, until her smeared face should lie symmetrically against the pavement. What would come next was of little to no significance. Either she would wake to realize, in horror, the continuous existence of her conscious, or her burdened thoughts would forever cease to be processed.

Silence, she yearned for indefinite, impenetrable silence of the most intimate kind—the silencing of the soul. It was a morbid desire, surely something contrived by the Devil himself, for the girl could only assume that evil was responsible for its manifestation. What that meant exactly, she was not sure. But the time for questioning had long since past.

Suddenly her heartbeat began to quicken. It thudded loudly against her neck, rung in her ears, pumped through her limbs. The time to fall was growing nearer, though time lingered slowly on the outside. She realized that there was only one chance for this occurrence, a limited span of space for which her mind would permit her to deny the most sacred instinct in her body—to live. This began to worry her. But then she remembered that, if she should fail, she could always try again. Indeed, she could try as many times as was necessary to perform the irreversible act. She found comfort in this reminder, and as a misshapen smile sprouted on her chapped lips, she knew the time had come.

In the end, she found no need to jump. Why waste the energy? All she had to do was close her eyes, lift one foot off the ledge, and then tumble forward into the void. For she knew, with a burning, unspeakable conviction, that at the very bottom of that seemingly endless abyss, she would find her silence.