Stairwell’s Contemplation

“Could it be a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done?”

Footsteps drag through the empty building.
His eyes close.
He knows the sun is brushing the outside walls,
(Not too early to be noticed in the halls).
Routine has allowed him the assumption..
sunlight stretching, never to touch him,
towering cold stone that encases instead.
July 30th 2014
to rest.

For the first time, he realises the cruelty of being on the third floor the moment he walks through its doors.

A pause.

A breath.

The first stage of his stairwell journey commences. Choosing not to take the elevator, he notes that this is an endeavour to savour. His goal leaps 18 floors above and rests 16 floors below, he knows they will ask questions amungst themselves, but never feel the relief of truth in their assumptive answers.

He is now on the fifth floor, Adrenalin burns through his chest, he cant remember all the steps “should I turn back? I’m not ready for this!” but is anyone ever really ready for death? The wall before him asks for his hand, says; “I am the only one you have to lean on now.” Shoulders tensed; he is out of breath, so loosens the faucet of his thoughts to quench his questioning soul with waters of “This is why i was never whole!” Allowing all of them to run out, he mulls them over, sips, and lets them go. But just as the last of his reasonable doubt falls out, his darkest head-space illuminates the vintage aches as he purposefully ascends his last day. The first of these dusted bottle memories is firmly corked. a deathly red swirls inside. Anxiety screws itself deep within his mind as he anticipates the flooding boquet. “okay”, he says, releasing a shaky breath as a surprisingly sweet scent teases teardrops from his eyes. “Mom” he sighs and spills her into Limbic glass. Lips greet like ‘good night baby’- kisses from all those years ago. Liberated, he lets the taste, touch, and smell of her go. The shift in mental weight forces him to walk faster and lighter than he would have liked, but every second that strikes-on is one second too long, and every step that he takes uncorks a new vintage ache until there is no more left to seduce his resolve from the window-sill that the tread of his shoes now desperately hold.

September 1st 2014. Less  tears are shed this time around the body hiding month-old stains of a vineyard’s last wine. Less stares are met with the man lying on a bed of cement. Less subtleties are passed to mask the tragedy of the second suicidal leap of this quarter. His last word was a scream to wake the dead as he joined them with a sound like a gun shot to the head, He could have done that instead. “do you feel alive yet?” she wept between angry gasps of breath. She mourned him. Not because she had ever known his story or his name, but because he took her hopes of “It gets better than this” with him to the grave.