A disheveled man, reeking of stale alcohol, sways unsteadily as he makes his way to the edge of the apartment complex. His unkempt hair, wild and matted, frames a face etched with the signs of too many hard nights. Clad in tattered clothes that hang loosely from his gaunt frame, he clutches a nearly empty bottle of liquor in his right hand, while his left hand grips a worn photograph with trembling fingers. The image within it depicts a young woman, her pale complexion radiating beauty, with dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, and bright red lipstick that seems to contrast vibrantly against the dullness of her life.
Griffith's eyes are fixated on the distant skyline, as if seeking an elusive answer to his turmoil, a reason to continue fighting against the tide of despair that threatens to drown him.
"Is this the end?" he whispers hoarsely, the words barely escaping his lips as he leans precariously over the edge, his heart racing as he gazes down at the bustling street far below.
A cacophony of sirens fills the air as police cars and fire trucks converge, their flashing lights casting an unsettling glow against the twilight. An officer steps forward, a thin, middle-aged man with a pale complexion, a full head of white hair contrasting sharply with his scrawny build. He waves a megaphone in his hand, his voice reverberating over the anxious crowd.
"Please step away from the railing! You don't have to do this!"
Griffith's hollow eyes reflect the profound anguish within, betraying a man who has long since succumbed to the weight of his desolation. His mind is resolute, and the earnest pleas of a stranger fail to pierce the veil of his despair. As he clutches the photograph tighter, his vision blurs, tears pooling in his eyes—a tempest of sorrow and rage that finally breaks loose. In a fit of anger and heartbreak, he rips the picture to shreds and watches the fragments float away, lost to the air beneath the sprawling city.
"I'm going to jump," he declares in a moment of steel resolve, his voice firm despite the tremors of doubt swirling in his mind.
"Just climb back up! We can solve this together. I can help you!" The officer's persistent calls fall on deaf ears as Griffith's thoughts spiral into an abyss of memories and regrets.
His childhood flashes before him, a haunting montage of bruises and burn marks that mar his skin. He sees himself as a young boy, navigating the dim path through a living room littered with crumpled beer cans and empty pizza boxes. Even then, despite a painful limp from a childhood injury, he pressed on, yearning for something more. Standing on his balcony under the moonlight, he gazed up at the night sky, whispering silently to the universe, "I refuse to let my life continue like this!"
Now, as the voices of urgency blend with the clamoring of fire engines and honking cars, Griffith's mind wanders back to the present—a bitter moment teetering on the threshold of change. The grief he carries weighs heavily upon him; he raises the bottle to his lips, draining the last drops of numbness, feeling the liquid slide down his throat like water against a parched desert.
The door to the rooftop suddenly bursts open, crashing against the wall, startling Griffith from his thoughts. Two firefighters rush in, their faces etched with concern. One, an older man with a weathered face and a thick grey mustache, stands resolute beside a young ebony woman whose expression betrays both determination and fear.
"Back away! I don't need your help!" Griffith shouts, the words spilling out with desperate force as he instinctively recoils.
The firefighters approach slowly, their movements deliberate and careful. The older man extends his hand, his voice steady yet compassionate. "Whatever you're going through, we can work together to find a way through this. You don't have to end it here!"
As Griffith shifts his weight, trying to maintain balance, a flicker of doubt glimmers within him—a momentary lapse beneath the crushing weight of despair. What if there is a way out? As he looks down at the gathered crowd, he feels the warmth of the setting sun, casting a golden hue that illuminates the darkness in his heart.
Fear seeps in, a poignant reminder of life's fragility, urging him to reconsider. Yet, the thought of pain, disappointment, and the relentless cycle of misery pushes him closer to the edge. "No!" he cries within himself. "If I don't act now, it will never stop!"
With steely determination, he locks eyes with the older firefighter, feeling an inexplicable connection that promises understanding. Griffith shifts his foot, teetering on the precipice, and in that fleeting second, he feels the firm grip of the firefighter's hand catching him, holding him back from the brink with all his strength.
Griffith gasps, heart slamming in his chest as tears cascade down his cheeks. In a moment of panic, he jerks away from the firefighter's grasp, his resolve crumbling. Time slows as he finally lets go, plummeting into a maelstrom of regrets.
"What have I done?" he thought desperately as the wind rushed past him, echoing the screams of his own tortured soul. "He offered me a lifeline, and I cast it away. Did I need to end it like this? Was there still a chance to fight?"
His heart sinks, a deep, resounding regret settling within him as the ground rushes up to meet him. Every second elongated, stretching into an eternity filled with unanswerable questions.
Regret surged through Griffith's heart like a relentless tide, drowning him in a sea of despair. What have I done? He had been offered a lifebuoy, a glimmer of hope in his darkest hour, yet he had callously cast it aside, as if it were nothing more than a piece of debris.
Did it have to end this way? A wave of self-doubt crashed over him.
Could I have pushed just a little harder? Fought a little longer against the currents that threatened to consume me? Did I truly give up so easily?
F**K!
Griffith's hand shot out, instinctively reaching for something—anything—that could halt his plummet into the abyss.
Somebody!
Anyone!
PLEASE, SAVE ME! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!
Yet, there was only silence in response to his desperate cries. No one reached out, no one came to his aid. Not as he plummeted through the air, nor in the heartbreaking moment when his chest struck the unforgiving ground, the impact echoing the finality of his choices.
The throbbing pain that erupted mere seconds after the collision was nothing short of unimaginable; it radiated through his entire being, each pulse a reminder of the brutal force that had just struck him. It hurts so much!! An overwhelming sensation enveloped him, and then—darkness. The pain lingered, a relentless reminder of his existence, yet all else felt obliterated, as if a thick blanket had smothered reality itself.
Even in the depths of blackness, one thought blared in his mind like an air raid siren, piercing through the haze: I WANT TO LIVE!!!
The intensity of his inner cry surged alongside the pain, an instinctual primal scream echoing inside him. Gradually, the acute torment began to shift, morphing from a steady, relentless throb to an excruciatingly intense burning, as if something was seizing his insides with fiery hands. Is it reversing? The notion struck him like a lightning bolt; could he be escaping this nightmare? Amidst his agony, distorted sounds began to invade his consciousness—a cacophony of unintelligible syllables spilling out like a strange melody on the wind.
"ljaefojaeoij" What? What is that language? The words were foreign, swirling around him like tendrils of smoke, leaving him bewildered and more agitated. It doesn't sound like anything I've heard before. The pain roared in protest, escalating once more as a fierce burning sensation took hold. A scream bubbled within him, desperate to break free, yet his mouth remained sealed, words escaping him like grains of sand through fingers clenched in a futile grasp. I want to scream, but I can't speak!!
What is this?!" a man, resplendent in shimmering gold from head to toe, bellows, his voice echoing off the shimmering walls of the ethereal realm in which he finds himself.
As he slowly raises his head from the ground, he takes a moment to gather his bearings, his heart racing from a blend of confusion and disbelief. All around him, a glowing, magical circle pulsates with an ancient energy, enveloping him and the fourteen other figures assembled nearby. Each of these individuals, diverse in age, size, and demeanor, casts wary glances around them. With a mix of anger and determination, the man clad in gold storms toward a figure standing confidently at the center of the circle—Griffith. His eyes narrow in disbelief, and he thrusts a finger toward Griffith with accusation.
"Is this man supposed to be a candidate?" he demands, his voice sharp and filled with disdain. Tension hangs thick in the air as the others watch the confrontation unfold, their curiosity piqued and uncertainty palpable among the gathered souls.