“This is an atrocious piece of junk that should, no, will not see the light of day. At least not in this firm” My editor said to me with words that weighed heavier than Atlas’ load and cut deeper than a samurai blade. I couldn’t say I was shocked; mortified is a more suitable word. Having three weeks of work shoved right back into your face like pie in a food fight isn’t what any writer should experience, but I experienced it, for the fifth time in 2 weeks. It seems that the literary skills that brought me to the fore as a writer to look out for vanished with the death of my sister and only sibling, and that was 3 years ago. In those three years, I have lost 20 kilograms of weight, squandered my savings on booze and prostitutes and lost my fiancee, which is by far the most damaging experience I have been through.
Standing at the ledge now, everyone seems so small. The ocean breeze is cool under the evening sun. A bird squawks somewhere above me but my eyes are riveted on the concrete pavement below. From somewhere, I find the courage to step forward. I must end it all. From solid to gas, it all comes rushing at me as I free fall, tearing through oxygen and carbon dioxide and other gases under the force of gravity. The people are larger now, the concrete is grey, is that a hot dog?—–