On Edge

I looked down on the streets far below my perch on the edge of the building. The insects who thought they were people were out as per usual, driving endlessly to and fro in their smelly metal coffins. Smaller insect-people wandered about on the sidewalks, simultaneously directionless and with a very specific set of instructions that mattered only to them.

Perhaps it was my perch, some twenty stories above all of them, that spurned the thoughts. I was barely five hundred feet above the earth’s surface, yet the thousands of people below me were dots, meaningless specks that I was somehow supposed to expect had awareness of themselves. It didn’t seem possible- didn’t seem possible that I was a speck like them, that my thoughts and feelings mattered even less than those of the people below me.

But of course I’d thought this a thousand times, a thousand different times, gripped the palms of my hands together and realized the sheer pointlessness of existence. Something in the pointlessness had always spurned me on, for reasons I could only guess at. When I was younger I’d always wondered if fish slept- and where they did, and what they looked like. Later I read that some species of fish have to keep moving, or they’ll drown.

Well, I’d certainly stopped moving. The drum-beat of the day in and day out, all those wasted days of work at a dead-end job in a line of work that was disappearing like my father’s ashes in the Sound. He’d died two weeks ago, killed when he fell off his motorcycle and into the path of a sixteen-wheeler. When the news came I wasn’t certain how to react. He was a roadman and an adulterer, a coward and someone I’d hated for almost as long as I’d been alive. Least, I thought I hated him. But in my budding adulthood and after several aging-to-dead relationships I’d begun to see what I think he might have, to think like him. And I didn’t know if I hated it or him as much any more.

Another temporary. Later I learned my father was a manic depressive, that the doctors suspected he’d acted on impulse. They said that he hadn’t fallen off his bike- the seat was up too high for one to simply fall off. There were tire treads on the back of his head, and when questioned the driver of the truck had testified that he’d seen my dad’s face. It was an expression of blissful complacency.

And as I stood on the edge of the apartment building, the place I’d spent my three years of semi-adulthood after dropping out of high school, I found thoughts flickering through my head, the same thoughts that always revolved in my mind. Querying thoughts. What would it feel like to fall five hundred feet and to land face-first? Would I be alive long enough to feel anything, or would I be gone in an instant? Would I bleed? Dark thoughts. When I was younger I thought I feared heights, but as I’d aged a morbid fascination had developed into what it was now.

I let a foot hover over the edge. Balancing only barely on my remaining foot. The wind wasn’t strong, but I was a clumsy girl.  It wouldn’t take much.

I wondered if I would land on someone, or if they’d notice. They’d probably notice. I didn’t weigh much. It would probably hurt me more than them.

A bird chirped from one of the windowsills below me. They liked to perch there, which always infuriated the landlady, whose name I forgot, probably because I also forgot to pay rent so often. She’d evicted me earlier that day. With no friends or family who still cared about me I had no one to live with; my belongings were few and mattered little to me. I figured I had followed in my father’s footsteps enough the last few months- drifting from place to place, feigning affection, breaking hearts, a thorny tumbleweed that only wrought pain on whoever it ensnared. Might as well follow the last one as well.
I let my weight tilt forward ever so slowly, savoring the last few moments. Oh well. Better luck next life.

Then I heard the scuffle of footsteps-against-concrete behind me. I froze. Another person would complicate things infinitely more than I wanted them to be. There was a reason I hadn’t called any hotlines or police numbers- I didn’t want to talk to anyone. The last thing I wanted was for someone to try to stop what I was doing.

With no way to tell how long this other person had been on the roof, I doubted I could backpedal well enough to fool them. So I decided to browbeat them.

“Go back downstairs,” I barked. “There’s nothing you can do.” There was no response. I wondered if I had imagined the sound, and began to turn to my right.

An old man was standing to my left, staring across the divide between the apartment building and another high-rise on the other side of the street. I almost jumped when I saw him, and therein almost sealed my fate.

“Is it a nice day out?” the man asked, simply.

I coughed. “Er… I… I suppose.”

“How nice?”

“You speak oddly. What kind of a question is that anyhow?” I snapped.

He turned to me, giving me the opportunity to study him more freely. A pair of thick sunglasses hid his eyes, I noticed foremost, and well-groomed but thin white hair accented his scalp. He wore a tweed coat that came down to his waist and a pair of gym shorts, as well as a pair of sandals. It seemed he wasn’t quite sure what to feel about the temperature. “Tell me, young lady,” he said patiently as he removed his sunglasses, “which of these eyes is the glass one?” I saw him polish the frames of the sunglasses, missing the lenses completely, out of the corner of my vision.

I studied his eyes for a moment. One was bright blue, the other a dark brown. “The blue one,” I said.

“Why?”

“Doesn’t match your skin tone.”

The old man chuckled. “My skin is neither blue nor brown. It was a trick question anyhow.”
He threw his head forward once against one of his outstretched hands, then the other. When he stood upright again the empty sockets of his eyes gaped at me like miniature caves. I gaped back, a mixture of confusion and disgust freezing me in place.

He shifted the eye in his left hand to his right and replaced his sunglasses. “Terrible bother to put these damn things back in,” he chuckled.

Finally I found words. “Why did you do that?”

“Why are you standing on the edge of a building?”

I balked.

Sensing my silence, the man spoke again. “If you answer my question I’ll answer yours.”
Surprise further interrupted a response. How could an obviously blind man know that I intended to jump? Furthermore, what kind of answer did he expect?

“I can’t answer that.”

The man chuckled again, much quieter than the one before, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “She’s just like you.”

“Who’s just like me?”

An odd little smile crossed his face- it looked both happy and sad, and his eyebrows, obscured by his glasses, gave me no further insight to what he was feeling. He sighed. “You remind me of an old friend, that's... all.” For a moment he seemed to look past me, blind or not, focusing on something long since passed. Then he shook his head to clear the dust and memories, turned, and left me standing on the edge of the building, just as he'd found me.


There are five apartments on every floor of the apartment building, and nineteen floors not including the lobby. Put those numbers together, and you get far, far too many apartments to search- ninety four, as I didn't need to search my own for the man. Not all of the apartments house people, of course. The rent just isn't low enough to attract people into such a run-down area. I lived there because I was exempt from the threat of criminals. I didn't have anything for them to take, which I, annoyed, had to explain to several similarly annoyed thieves on a couple different occasions. Didn't even lock the window any more; the thieves had long since learned to leave my apartment alone. To combat the more unpleasant crowd, the people more than a little bit keen on sex and less than a little bit keen on whether or not the woman held the same enthusiasm, I walked about with my hood up and my face hidden. The other female features of my body weren't noticeable enough for me to need to hide. So is the secret plague of extreme slimness, although a lack of breast size rarely intervened in my sex life. Everyone has different preferences, I suppose.

But despite the low odds, it didn't take long to find the old man's room. It was easy enough to see each hallway from the stairs, and as I descended to the fourteenth floor, the floor above where my apartment was situated, a noticeably askew door stood out to me.
I approached cautiously, uncertain whether I should knock or just announce my presence. I realized the uncertainty was stupid, and nudged the door open with my foot.

The old man I'd seen earlier stood with his back to me. The coat draped across his shoulders obscured whatever his hands were doing, and it appeared that he had the lights off in the room- although I suppose he didn't need them. For a moment it fluttered through my mind that perhaps he had some bad intention. This stray thought was swiftly silenced by common sense. Blind old men aren't exactly world-renowned for their capacity for wanton murder.

Without presenting myself, I took a single step into the room. I heard no distinct noise, but the man turned his head slightly. Instinctively I froze, but he looked back down at his hands not soon after.

I felt myself drawn further in despite my lack of an invitation. It had something to do with the powerful scent that whispered its way out of the room like an elephant. The scent came to the verge of reawakening an old memory, but stopped just as the seal was about to break. For a moment I stopped, puzzled, at which point the old man spoke again.
"No need to be polite. Come on in."

“You're pretty observant.”

Still without turning, the man shrugged. “You know the drill. When you can't see your other senses help to fill in the gaps.”

I didn't respond. The room's decor had evicted any words that I would have been able to come up with. While the same size as my own room, this one felt much larger. There was no clutter. In fact, the room was spotless from what I could tell. But what stood out to me more was that the room was jet black all throughout. The floors, ceiling, walls, furniture, light fixtures, even the stove that stood before the man. Despite what I had initially thought, the lights were on in the room. They just only illuminated enough to define the outlines of objects in the room.

The man had turned to me. His neck was outstretched and his head cocked to one side. “You still with me?”

“Y-yes.”

“Heh heh. Heard your breathing stop for a sec there.”

“Are... why is your room this color?”

The man raised an eyebrow- his sunglasses were off. “Can't say I know what you're talking about.”

“Your room. Everything in it's black as black.”

“Black as black? And you said that I was the one who spoke oddly.” The man attempted a grin, revealing teeth in unexpectedly perfect condition, but it quickly evanesced. He didn't answer my question.

“You didn't answer my question,” I needled.

“I took my eyes out to see how you'd react.”

“That wasn't-”

“You asked me that question earlier.”

I felt my jaw clench. “That's a bad answer.”

“So's 'I don't know.' But we're making progress.”

He turned again and took something off the stove. Across the tiny, dark kitchen he slid, moving with a limp. “Would you like any tea?”

“What kind is it?”

As it had before, the wry grin flickered back into life. “Couldn't tell from the packet. You're going to just have to drink it to find out.”

“My dad always told me not to accept strange beverages from old, blind men with poor fashion taste and good teeth.”

“Well-”

“Especially when they never gave their name.”

I jumped as a hearty laugh erupted from the man. He was tiny and soft-spoken, but his laughter had a volume all of its own. “I...” He laughed again. “Cruise.”

“That your last name or your first?”

“It's my name.”

“Alright, Cruise, why-”

“My father always told me not to let flighty, suicide-prone vixens into my house at all, name or no name. But I've made that mistake once before today already, so I suppose I'd be willing to let you off easy. So long as you tell me yours as well.”

Combined embarrassment, anger, and an odd feeling of flattery mixed in my brain. I managed to utter “Who are you calling-” before Cruise cut me off.

“Unless 'Whoareyoucalling' is your name, I'm going to have to throw you out.”
“Alright, alright,” I huffed. “My name's Christie.”

“Christie, hm?” He stroked his chin. “Alright, Christie. Here you go.” He set the cup of tea down in front of me.

I eyed it. A reddish-brown surface reflected the small amount of light emitted by the swivel lamps in the ceiling. Slowly, so not to make much noise, I leaned forward and sniffed it. Flowers and the bitter scent of tea.

“This is why I tried to get you to just drink it, but I suppose I should have known that wouldn't work. It's rose tea. You'll like it,” Cruise said, as if he was reading the hesitation in my mind. Slowly I picked up the mug and took a sip. It was hot, but not scalding, and brought back memories of something long past. I took another sip.
“So, I assume you have questions for me.”

This was true. “Foremost, who are you? And don't give me that 'you tell me first,' bullshit.”

The old man moved across the room and sat down on an invisible couch. He motioned with his hand to the empty space in front of him, and I followed, feeling my way until I found the other couch. When I finished sitting down, he spoke. “I am an intellectual and a fool, miss Christie, a man long past his prime yet still spurned into service regardless, a romantic and a methodist- not in the religious sense, mind you. I am a man of parallels.”

I sighed angrily. “Do you ever speak English?”

“I'm old. I'm allowed to be evasive.” He chuckled again. “You should think of me as a friend more than anything else, because I know you as well as you know you. Probably not better, but close.”

This I cocked an eyebrow at. “Are you coming on to me, old man?”

“No. I learned that romantics with those like you are ill-placed and tragic. Furthermore, I know I'm old, blast it, but you don't need to remind me.”

“Alright, alright, I'm sorry. It's just-”

The man set down his tea on an invisible table with a loud clink. The whiteness of the mug created a distinct contrast with the blackness of the room. “Rather than leading you about by the nose, I think I'll just tell you a story.” He sat back and produced a cigarette from within the folds of his coat, placed it in his mouth without lighting it, and crossed his legs. “I believe it was a long time back, although I don't remember exactly how long. I'm old, as you assert, although not quite as old as you think."
“It was one of those gray, smoggy city days- the ones that were so much more common back then, before all the environmental reform movements. Back then I was reaching an upper management position at some big business that made deodorant or something. I don't remember for certain. It's been too long and it's too trivial. But I digress.”

“The stress was getting to me. I'd been given a set of forms regarding something about employee productivity, with the task of deciding who needed to be fired and who could stay as the company downsized. Too worried about the consequences, about the people whose lives I would throw into turmoil with simple action, I set down the forms and went up the stairs. I needed to clear my head, needed a break from the corporate world for just a few moments. I hadn't had a substantial break from it since I'd left college eight years prior.”

“I found myself on the roof before long. I'd been on the roof a few times before. Nothing special about it. Metal air conditioning units, concrete, perhaps a few stray pigeons. But typically there weren't other people, and that was what I was counting on.”
“Across the roof I went, until I reached the edge across from the stairs. I stared at the people far below, the people milling about, just as I had been, and realized just how insignificant I was. Then I heard a voice. It said, 'Why don't you just turn around and go back down the stairs?'”

“There was a woman standing on the ledge to my left- just like you earlier. She was a short thing, perhaps four foot eight, and looked like she was a brunette at heart but had dyed black hair. She wore a skirt- an unusually short one for the time- and a cutoff black shirt with a jean-jacket, which was also unusual for the time. And as I looked at her, I realized that she was beautiful. Then I noticed the gun, a .45 held in her outstretched hand and pointed at my head. That part wasn't like you.”

“'Is that really necessary?' I asked. 'If you try to stop me, it is.' But I remember: her hand shook. She was no cold, calculating thing. I could see that emotion had beset her, and as such attempted to defuse the situation. 'Why don't you step down from there? There's no need-' was all I managed to say before the gun went off in her hand.”

“Thankfully for myself, I went out like a lightbulb. Didn't even feel the bullet pass through my face, my body shut me down so fast. When I woke up I was in a hospital, although I certainly didn't know that. I don't need to tell you what it was like to first adapt to being blind- the bullet had passed through the side of my head virtually without harm to my other organs, amazingly enough. Just destroyed my eyes. I didn't like to look at people when I talked to them back then, and I guess that saved my life.”

“I didn't press charges, and while the woman was supposed to go to jail for ten years her sentence was negated for good behavior after six months. She'd brought me to the hospital herself, too, which further improved her position. She went to visit me in the hospital, where I would remain for another year. 'Why didn't you press charges?' was the first thing she asked when we were left alone. I explained to her that I knew what she did had been an accident, even if it never should have happened at all. She didn't understand, I don't think, but she didn't really need to.”

“After that she continued to visit me in the hospital while I recovered. During this time, a relationship developed- a close one, one of those odd ones that you hear about where the victim bonds with his assailant. Of course, I was already smitten with the woman, so I suppose the hard part was getting her to reciprocate the feeling. But I still believe she did, even now. I remember everything from that strangely… wonderful time. Down to the scent of the woman's perfume.”

Cruise took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and set it behind his ear. He folded his arms behind his head and pointed his head towards the ceiling. "Yes, right down to the scent of her perfume."

“You emphasized the word 'did,' earlier,” I said, fully aware that he was drawing the question out from me.

“Ah, yes. I'm afraid...” Cruise sighed, and the grin flickered off. “She… she was a bit of a drifter, much like yourself. It was difficult to pin her down in any one place for too long, even if she loved you. And she did love me. But boredom is the killer of relationships, I always say." He took a sip of his drink. "She… realized her mistake eventually. But she didn't try to fix it. It wasn't really in her nature to come crawling back to someone. So I suppose she did the only thing she thought rational."

"Which was?"

"Shot herself. With the same pistol she shot me with, no less."

I didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say."

"You needn't say anything. It happened years ago; if I wasn't over it by now you bringing it up certainly wouldn't make matters any worse than they already are. I do have a question for you, though." He set his tea back down. "How does this relate to you?"

I made a small, confused noise with my throat, but disguised it as a cough before it became too apparent. "I don't know that it applies to me at all-"

"You're wrong. While I don't think you'll get it, I want you to think about it. Think. How old am I?"

"I don't see what that-"

"How old am I."

"I'd guess… sixty? Seventy?"

The grin flickered across the man's face quickly, but it was plain to see that he'd become serious. "I know you think I'm old, but come on now. I'm not that old."
"Alright. Fifty."

"Forty-nine."

"Close enough. You still don't look it."

Cruise shook his head, and the cigarette he'd positioned behind his ear fell. He caught it in midair without so much as a twitch to show that anything significant had happened. "Now. How old are you?"

"I don-"

"For Christ's sake, just answer the question. You're no fun."

He actually did look moderately annoyed with me. I decided to just play along. "I'm nineteen."

"So you were born when I was thirty, correct?"

I nodded, and there was a brief pause before I remembered his blindness. "Yes."

"Who do you blame for almost killing yourself up there, other than yourself?"

I couldn't keep myself from emitting an exasperated huff, but Cruise pressed on. "Come on. Believe me, I have a reason for this. Just work with me here."

"If you had a reason for this you'd just tell me."

He didn't respond. "Alright, alright, damn it. My father."

Cruise laughed heartily- but it was a bitter, strained laugh. He knocked over his tea with an outstretched hand and into his lap. "Your tea-" I started, concerned.

He hadn't even noticed. "You should not blame m- you should not blame your…" he paused for a moment, his right hand waving in a circle before him as if to stir up the air to more easily find words. "Your 'father.' You should be upset with your mother."

"With all due respect, Cruise, what the hell do you know about my father? Or mother?" I couldn't see what he was driving at, but he was extending beyond merely pissing me off.
"Not a lot, I'll admit. I know your 'father' left when you were young. I know you're not that close with your 'mother.' But you know something funny?" He pushed the table over and extended across the room in a display of remarkable grace. I froze as he pushed his face an inch from mine, too surprised and frightened to react. "You're awful close to your father right now."