My eyes ache when I close them. My fingers grasp at every edge but always slip, for they are so bloodied. Every day, when I attempt to get up, my legs seem to abandon me. They run away, like everybody else. Leaving me here: Alone.
I’m teetering on the edge of existence and fear the chasm into which I’m constantly falling. My hair hasn’t been cut for weeks, for no-one is willing to cut it. It almost covers my entire face, making me seem disproportionate. Or maybe I exaggerate? I haven’t got access to a mirror.
I still feel like a baby, trying to fall into my mothers open arms. But her arms have disappeared around me, and I’ve been stranded in a grimy corner, several years later, with a hood over my head and graffiti strewn along the gritty walls behind me. I’ve not been stabbed. I’ve not been murdered. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I did the killing.
He was quite a fight, was the victim. Though I have to say he deserved every hole in his body. Every stab-mark.
I look up, and see that someone’s walking towards me. I’m pretending I’m not here, although I doubt they’ll notice me anyway. They’ll probably just walk on by. I mean, no-one sees me. No-one. They all think I’m too pathetic, too smelly, too fucking stupid – after all, if I ended up on the streets it can only be my fault, can’t it? Can’t it?
In fact, I ended up on the street through sheer bad luck. I caught my mum cheating with a guy that my dad had sent out a hit on, though I was unaware of that important detail at the time. I was only little. I told my daddy, I told him every single detail of my encounter with mum and this other man. My father became enraged, and days later he strangled my mother ferociously, after beating her blue. And I was watching. I was just sitting on the floor, seeing every detail. My father only realised I was there after he had killed my mother. My wonderful mother. The mother that I had innocently killed, through the evils of the man who helped conceive me. ‘Daddy’ didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave me where I was, I had seen too much. I might tell someone that he didn’t want to know. In the end, he decided against killing me. He threw me out of the house, swearing that if I confessed to seeing anything to anyone at all, he would deny any knowledge of knowing me, or who I was.
Back in the present day, the person walking towards me has stopped. They’re bending down in front of me, but their face is just a blur. Their blue eyes are just two dots on the horizon, and I’m looking at them as if I’m a lighthouse far away. Lights are spinning inside my head. I can hear the pounding of my heart, like the waves against the rocks outside of me. But I’m hardly a beacon to warn off ships. It feels like someone’s put a covering over my lights, so that only I can see them. And all of the ships – all of the things that I don’t want to crash into me – are doing just that. Slamming into me.
That’s also what the person’s feet are doing now. Kicking me. Their shoes are quite nice, actually. A brown leather that I would pay a lot for. I think about this while they kick me. I’m good at occupying myself when I feel alone.
Quite coincidentally, the person kicking me looks a little bit like the person my mother was cheating with all of those years ago. I don’t know why they would be kicking me? It seems such a petty way to release anger. Maybe they’re killing me? I don’t really know, to be honest. It feels strangely pleasant, though.
I shut my eyes, and once more they ache. But this time, it’s a pleasant ache. Life has all become clear to me. My fingers have stop attempting to grasp onto every edge; the blood has fallen off of my hands with each swift kick I receive to the ribs, face, and groin. I don’t fear falling into chasms any more. I’m not teetering on the edge. I realise that I’ve fallen in, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. So I’ll just hope. Hope that I hit the bottom of this chasm soon. Hope that all of the ships in the world crash into me in a second, so that I can lie destroyed, but relieved of the pressure of my task: to be a lighthouse.
For I can see that I am no good at being a lighthouse. Leading people away from danger. No, it seems that I’ve followed in my fathers footsteps. Killing someone you secretly love. For I did love my father, deep down, but I couldn’t help it. I thought that killing him would give me hope. Would instil the justice upon him that he dished out to my mother: his disloyalty to me being just as powerful as my mother’s disloyalty to him.
The pain from the kicking has reached me now, and I’m huddled against the grimy walls again. The person is walking away with my life on their sadly bloodied shoes. They turn the corner, and with it I breathe my one last breath, and think my final thought:
There is so much injustice within this world, but if you stare at it from every angle you’ll see that it’s the result of fear, and thus greed.. And I just hope that people don’t worry too much about what’ll happen if they fall into the chasm, if they follow the same path as I did, and fear every moment in life. Because if they do, they’re going down the wrong path. They’re going down a path of taking everything in life just to help build a wall around themselves, so that they don’t fall into the chasm. But, like me, they’ll have already fallen into the chasm. They’ll have been worrying so much about staying out of it that they’ve not looked where they’re going and fallen straight down into it. Then they’ll stare up out of that chasm and see that they’re not falling into light. They’re falling away from it. They’ll realise, like I can now realise, that there are people up there, sunbathing in that light. I just hope that more people are up there in the light than falling down into the darkness. I just hope that someone can really hear these thoughts, that that person is listening hard to these thoughts. Because if they do, they might gain a little bit of confidence. They might not fear, or be greedy. They might not try too hard to stay out of the chasm, and find that they never fall into it anyway. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, that person – that listening person – is you.