The Fall

anastasia

fourteen years old

How do you know you’ve mentally reached the edge?

When you’re physically standing on it.

I’m sick of life, of having to listen to everyone’s shit and going to school with makeup on my ribs in fear of anyone seeing the bruises. I want my dad back and if this is the only way for me to reach him then I’ll do it. But my fingers are frozen holding on to the railing while my entire body trembles, begging me to step back over the freezing metal barrier to safety.

I could end it all, stop the taunts and hearing the ratings other people give my body only to go home and for my mother to see me as competition. Her new husband likes blondes so I dyed my hair, but it still didn’t work, and she’s too wrapped up in her ego to see that his attention shouldn’t be on my fourteen-year-old body.

The wind slams into me, trying to help my fall, but my stubborn limbs don’t move. Floral chemicals mix with copper as my hair whips into my already aching face from my mother’s latest outburst. The sting of her palm hurts less than her words and the fact that she keeps doing this, keeps fucking hitting me and punishing me for existing when I didn’t want to be born.

Why the fuck did I survive? I should have died with my dad on this very bridge, both of us together so the psychotic bitch would get what she wanted.Have the family she wants. At least I would have someone who saw me, cared about me, but it’s her cruel shout ringing in my ears.

“You killed him.”

Her new husband joins in.

“If he knew what a whore you’d be, he would have killed you too.”

I take a deep breath as my eyes close then test the drop by kicking a loose stone over the edge. Only, it’s too small for the noise to reach me over the roar of the elements. That’s what I’ll be, a little rock that you’d feel in your shoe but there’s no impact when I plummet.

A voice comes from behind me as I individually lift each finger to try to let go. “Do you want me to push you?”

My head snaps up with a fight I’ve never had before as I snap, “Get the fuck away from me.”

My voice doesn’t sound like my own, it’s harsh and violent.

How long has he been watching me? Fucking asshole.

Fear wraps itself around me — fear for my life — and a dark laugh bubbles in my throat. I’m scared of him ending my life when I’m failing at doing it myself. The wind pushes my hair in front of my face, covering the swelling and dried blood as I turn my head to see what the Grim Reaper looks like.

I recognize the boy – the dark hair, and piercing eyes that everyone associates with his family are unmistakable. Vitali is only two years older than me, but he carries himself like a man and my eyes are fixed on the burger in his hands.

I’d give my leg to be able to eat whatever I wanted rather than the strict diet my mother enforces. He lazily takes a bite, chews, and swallows without getting any on his face before gesturing to what I’m doing.

“If you’re trying to kill yourself, you need to actually jump.”

He continues eating as though this is a normal occurrence and my mind calms because he’s not trying to stop me. I don’t know why I’m focusing on that, but I do.

He must hear my silent question because he sighs, kicks off his shoes, and empties his pockets. Once he’s done with the task, he holds his burger out to me in offering but I shake my head, knowing if I survive it will show up on the scale in the morning. My face is swollen to double its size so that’s already going to push me over the line my mother deems as acceptable when I get on the silver square to be judged by her. I don’t know what’s more demeaning, stripping down so she can take an accurate measurement of my weight or standing in front of the mirror while she tests my body fat with the sharp calipers that will leave bruises.

The railing shakes as Vitali sits on the edge facing the road with his back to the water and his smile is in my periphery. He holds his burger out again. His voice is soft and coaxing but his eyes don’t hold any pity as he says, “Have a bite, it might save your life.”

My lips twitch, wanting to smile, wanting to laugh. I blow air that’s meant to be a laugh to prevent my donkey sounds as he slowly inches closer, asking, “Want to talk about it?”

His question is stupid as fuck. I don’t need to tell a stranger who I’ll have to see at Bratva events that one of the Vory stares a little too hard at a child. Or fucking complain that I get bullied, when by our rules it makes me weak.

He’s a man that can do what he wants, and I’ll grow up to be the woman any man can do what he wants to. It’s the way it works; I have to look and act perfect just so I can lie to myself and say I’m worth something. Yet it will never be true, it will always be taken from me in an exercise of power, so I’m constantly pushed to the bottom. I might as well take myself there instead of waiting for it to be done to me.

But he keeps talking as I stare at the water.

“If you jump your body will fight to keep you alive. Then I’ll have to go after you, and I just bought these jeans.” Looking over the edge, he assesses the water and scrunches his face. “Looks pretty dirty, I’d have to throw them out.”

He doesn’t say more, and I look at him fully as my voice comes out bored despite holding on to life with the conversation.

“Or?”

His fingers wrap around my wrist. The touch is the gentlest thing I’ve ever felt, and his voice is lower, deeper, with his attempt to convince me to live.

“Or you kill the part of you that’s made you feel like this and grow up to do the same to the people who did.”

Either way I’ll be a murderer.

Is it worse if it’s myself or someone else?