My mother had been only seventeen when she got me. She had never been careful nor considerate when she was younger anyway, and teen pregnancy hadn’t been any outlandish and immoral in the social circle she was brought up in therefore there were never any controversies brought up even after I was born; the only time that an argument was brought up regarding this issue was when I got tired and frustrated of her no goodness schemes. She hadn’t changed, not even a little after all that she had gone through, she’s always carefree, spending money then and there as though it was something she merely picked up from a tree or something and as it happened, the only person who was in misery owing to her conduct was me; what’s worse was that, no matter what I try, there was no possible way to escape this painful life.

It was because of this, and several other complex reasons that I, at the age of twenty one, decided to take my life.

It wasn’t a momentary decision, to be honest, because I wasn’t the kind to jump into sudden conclusions without further contemplating upon things; this quality I got from god knows where. I planned my suicide for months, the moments where my mother and I would fight would fuel my considerations, and the worse of our arguments would motivate me. I never knew why my mother brought me up on the first place. I was a child made out of mistake, a life picked up from void, someone whom the stereotypical society would look down upon; I despised myself for this, for living and breathing in a world which wouldn’t accept not even the slightest breath of someone like me. These thoughts were all societal, I knew; the norms that I couldn’t evade regardless of how I tried. My mother was adding hay to the fire, making my life even miserable, thus I thought, we would die anyway, one day; so why not die a little sooner?

I deemed that all the miseries will end along with my life.

There were two blocks in the rundown apartment we lived in though only one was inhabited. The word was that the landlord was unable to handle the both of them which the condition of each apartment very well explained. I did not know a single house in our building which didn’t have a problem with its construction; it was always either the electricity or the water system; the drainage was never fixed and lines of mossed water decorated almost every wall. It reeked of drenched wood and something horrid all the time; my mother always complained about these, to me actually. She never had the guts to complain to landlord herself because she was once sued for not paying the rent of six months, which I had to pay with the little I earned through menial jobs. The rent charged two years of my income. Twelve out of the thirty houses in our block were unoccupied, due to the terrible living conditions and the rest had at least one living inside. The population varied from university students who couldn’t afford the college hostels to taxi drivers and es, about more than half of them were in families while ours had only my mother and I. The other apartment building though, despite the number of houses it had, was empty.

The very sight of the building constantly gave out an eerie vibe. It was dark, black almost, and when the dusk would approach, it would stand on its solidarity without a single light as though it was a sign, an insignia calling for death. There were several crimes reported the building being the crime-scene, the building was once almost taken under custody until the land lord claimed that it’s to be reconstructed. He initiated it, actually, but it couldn’t last beyond a month owing to the shortage of funds. It remained dark, haunting and eerie since, without a single life inside; however, allow me to admit that this one building always seemed to me so dangerously alluring. It had an uncanny tranquility to it, as though it was a safe haven for the out casted young men as ourselves. It was this very reason why I was drawn to it, thus spent my evenings, sitting in what which used to be the lobby of it, smoking cheap cigars.

This building, for us was the abandoned building while among many others was known as the suicide house for god knows why. There hadn’t been a single suicide reported from this place, as far as I was concerned, and was the house for many street rats of the vicinity. Except for one or two unsolved crimes which happened then and there, the only thing that the place was known for, the only bad thing were the molestations which frequently happened. These would constantly go through deaf ears though, for these houses were considered slums; nobody would care for slums, anyway. That was how hypocrisy worked in this realm. I never believed in those social workers who would come giving us donations and all that crap, for we knew that behind those pathetic smiles, there was nothing more than greed for power and pride which we could never receive.

It was on one rainy day in the middle of the spring that I decided to finally execute my plan.

As would typically, my mother came home, all drunk and battered, smelling of alcohol and dirt; a sight I had grown familiar with. There were faint, crimson bruises where her skin was exposed, all indicating the act she must have been engaged in prior to then. It was after six at that time and I had only returned home from vehicle service station I worked at. I was still in my blue overalls, ugly black patches smothered on every inch of it and I too heavily reeked of oil and perspiration. Upon her arrival I kept down the mug of coffee I was sipping on and let out a whiff of smoke. Coffee and cigar had always been a perfect combination for me; it was the only pleasure (except for well, other sensual pleasures) I got to deprive my misery. In several wiggery strides, my mother fell into the sofa beside me, snatched the cigar from between my fingers and took a long whiff before blowing the heavy cloud of it on my face.

“My poor baby….” She whined, the edge of my collar. “Was work hard today?”

My mother was never the type to be concerned of my work therefore whenever she would question me if something along the line, I would know where she was getting at.

“What do you want?” I asked and snatched back the cigar which was mine.

That was when she announced to me, that she was moving out with this new ‘husband’ of hers.

My mother had never had a steady relationship in life; not that I’m judging, for nor have I had anything of the sort; in fact, nobody in our vicinity have ever had anything of the such thus it wasn’t anything of my sheer concern; what boiled up my rage upon her announcement was that she asked for the money I’ve been earning at all perpetuity; knowing it that it was my payday. It was out of impulse that I pushed her away and got up on my heels and started screaming out my frustrations regardless of how befuddled she seemed. I was tired, exhausted, infuriated of letting my hard work getting drained off on things as pointless as some spontaneous ‘Husbands’, I was tired of all the nonsensical things she would sputter out of impulse for her own indulgence, I was exhausted of her spending such a carefree life, while being the mother of a twenty one year old child picked out from void.

Most of all, I was infuriated at the fact that she indeed gave me life, without a second thought and brought me up for good twenty years even while she very well knew that it was impossible, without even knowing the reasons why.

With my voice going hoarse with every word, I screamed out my frustration if it’s all that I could do. My mother didn’t cry a single tear as she always would in one of these episodes while I stood in the brink of such gullible tears, and at the end of my screams and accusations, I was convulsing, my entire world was a blur, one sole determination blooming, rising and prioritizing itself within me. At that very moment, I was certain I was right, I had no doubt that my plans would be of any faults, I was brutally aware of it that I was taking such drastic measures but I had no turning back. I had never been so determinant in doing something in my entire life, and when this grim determination apt, I couldn’t help feel execrably excited, as though I was nearing Christmas, and the thought that everything would end so soon motivated me more. Soon, I couldn’t see the future of my life.

My life, I knew should end right then and there. Twenty one years is more than enough a time that I had lived.

Without another word to my evidently astounded mother, I dashed out of the house, still in my coveralls and took the stairs all the way to the ground floor, crossed the intersection between the two buildings and arrived at the hollow, eerie lobby of the abandoned abode. The sound of my feet and dripping water resonated throughout; a horrid reek of rotting earth and dirt roamed around and seeped into my lungs. It was so quiet that I could even hear the uneven but rash sound of my breath, and it was cold inside, so cold that even goose bumps raised on my skin.

I walked through the lobby which I was too familiar with and located the stairwell. Only the first set of stairs had a dim, flicking florescent light above, out of the whole of the construction, and this was where it was known for many ’s to happen. There were several cans of alcohol, butts of cigars and silver packets scattered about; it reeked so foul but that, I didn’t mind. It soothed my mind one way or the other, reminding me, always that I too was another one of messed up souls.

The flight to the highest level was a difficult climb; I had to stop then and there to catch my breath. I was, despite my uneven meal pattern, a pretty good male specimen with a steadfast stamina thus it wasn’t that difficult in relative to many others, to make the entire set of stairs in a hour more less. My eyes were teary and skin dripping of perspiration when I finally approached the rooftop of the sky scraper; the moment I opened the rickety old steel door, it made a languid creak, its rusty hinges falling off the moment it moved. I left the door hanging for I had no other choice, and closed my eyes, standing in my solidarity, basking in the wonderful sentiment of freedom, breathing slowly, smoothly, giving myself an opportunity of one last breath.

When I finally fluttered open my eyes to reality, I realized, I had come to a dead end of my life. Everything was about to end for good.

The cold wind was a mere indication of a heavy spring cloudburst on its way, which was more or less an intent of a dead end to me. The rooftop’s four short, greyed and moss covered walls seemed to tell thousand tales, thousand tales of so many broken, messed up souls coming to this very spot to die, but haven’t. The water tank kept on a rickety old platform was leaking, its water dripping into a slimy puddle below, the concrete ground was covered of moss and crow-litter, and reeked of it more than the faint odor of cigar.

All of this seemed to make a perfect ambiance for me.

I chose the short wall to my right as my location of execution because the wind blew on that way. My entire body was shaking at that time; out of fear or excitement, I couldn’t tell. Of course, I wasn’t to wish for a painless death for dying was justified to be painful, I couldn’t wish for a quick death either; every time my draining body would hit the cold brick wall, it would break, it would hurt, my death would be slow and painful no matter how much I tried. I probably wouldn’t be dead by the time I land, I would still be alive, screaming, , calling god for mercy to stop the paining of my broken body; my soul would die slowly, body would sooner, but never would it be an easy death.

However, given how determined I was, I realized, I was willing to sacrifice everything for finally obtain salvation from this one horrible life.

Without giving it any more thoughts, I approached the right wall, moved by the stack of wooden boxes on the side and hastily climbed up. I could let neither the time nor the rapid wind to hold me back. I had to die.

With one deep breath, I closed my eyes. I prayed for my mother to have a better life, I prayed for the society to open its eyes. I prayed for the world to be a better place where people like us could still live an indifferent life, I prayed for my prayers to be heard by god from wherever he was and prepared myself for the final fall when suddenly;

A deep voice clearing their throat interrupted my train of thoughts, and the audacity to die which I had built up until that point where I was at the brink of dying shattered, collapsed and fell into oblivion.

I turned to my right and looked down past my feet at the direction of the wooden boxes where the sound came from, only to find a man sitting hidden behind the shadows of the sun. As though sensing me, he looked up and met my eyes.

“Sorry” He said, and threw at me a strange smile. “Carry on, don’t mind me”

But of course, I couldn’t. Suddenly I was so scared to make a move, let alone look down past my feet. Suddenly I was so scared to die.

“I won’t tell” He said again, and I noticed a paperback resting on his folded knees. He wasn’t much older than I was, with straightened blazing red hair and a vigorously charming smile, the frames of his spectacles were too large for his eyes and were slowly sliding down the bridge of his nose. This man, to me, was a distraction; for this man had apparently disrupted that one moment where I was so prepared to die. I tried, honestly to feign ignorance and return to focus on the fall, but I couldn’t; I realized, this had nothing to do with the strange man watching me, it was all to do with my fear, the fear to know that he lived, smiling, his eyes turning into crescent moons while there I was, trying to end my life.

“Who are you?” I asked him, my voice trembled and the wind carried it afar. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m nobody” Said the man and nonchalantly turned a page of his book, without caring to pay much attention. “I’m just reading here…”

I rolled my eyes, irritated at the vagueness of his replies. This man certainly wasn’t of the kind that I would like, although his smile reminded me of sunshine; I disliked people who pretended to be happy when they were evidently not, I despised pretense, nothing seemed to me more pathetic than a forced-out smile.

“If you were trying to commit suicide, please don’t take me as a burden, just go ahead” He added as though he was talking about weather. I noticed how his red hair danced in the breeze and the pages turned when the wind blew, he seemed nonchalant all through this, as though it was someone throwing himself off a building was a run-of-the-mill situation.  “I’ll be going in a while”

I remained silent, speechless, to be honest; befuddled that someone could blatantly pretend that nothing was wrong with suicide and let it happen before his very eyes. I had the urge to throw myself down and survey his reaction, but then again, I was afraid to even look down upon the ground which seemed so far from where I stood. The wind was incessant, the ruffle of paper from his paper back would sound then and there and I could feel my audacity drained and gone for good. I didn’t want to die anymore, I couldn’t, knowing that there was a man, practically watching my conduct.

In the end, I made up my mind and hopped down the wall onto the moss covered concrete floor. The man looked up at me, surprised, his eyes widened behind the over-sized frames, making me feel as though I just committed a crime. He surveyed me for a minute, running his gaze from my head to toe, gave me an acknowledging nod and returned to his read. For a moment, we both remained silent; him reading, and myself watching his conduct. I regarded his blazing red hair which was definitely unnatural and how fair and seemingly smooth his skin was. There was a fancy stud on his left ear lobe, latched onto him like a lost fly on a rose petal, and his scent, as the wind blew, I realized, was nice. He didn’t seem like someone from our league. In fact, he seemed way beyond myself; classy and rich, brought up in a place where not even a single inch of him was tainted. Regarding myself, I would have been infuriated, given that rich, classy kids had never been in my level of likeability, but the more I looked at him, not a single bit did I feel anger inside me. I was curious, he was a mystery to me. I wondered why he, dressed in such a classy manner, his eyes glassy, skin so healthy and evidently wealthy, would sit in a dirty old rooftop of a dilapidated apartment building looking as though sitting in such a place was something so natural for him to do. I wondered why some people acted that way, I wondered why he disregarded it that I was trying to commit suicide, and finally I wondered why someone so…affluent would speak to someone as undermined as myself.

And for the first time in my life, I was so determined find answers, resolve this mystery myself. This strange man, somehow, to me was like a book that was waiting to be uncovered, a farfetched wish that one wished to grab onto with all his might.

I pressed both my palms against the wall and perched myself against it, regarding him as he seemingly carried on minding his own business. The wind blew, carrying the strangely sweet scent of his, and his red hair danced softly along with the breeze. He turned another page, lifted the frame of his specs with his fore finger, the tip of which turned red; and I asked, out of curiosity as if it would give me answers.

“Who are you?”

He looked up his eyes regarding me the same way he did before and gave me a tiniest of a smile. I noticed the softness of his lips, unlike mine which were greyed and parched. “I’m nobody” Was his answer. He was evidently covering himself, for whatever the reason it was, thus I decided to play along with it.

“Nobody. Good…”

He turned another page, and rearranged his knees. “Why did you not jump?”

I was taken aback by his question, but kept myself straight as I could. “I don’t feel like dying anymore”

“Ah…” He mused, his voice had underlying amusement. “So it went away…”

“Maybe” I said, and pulled out a cigarette. A moment passed, and I searched in my pockets for the lighter I always carried, only to realize that it had magically disappeared. Annoyed, I threw the cigar down the building over my shoulder and looked up at the greying sky. It seemed like it was to rain anytime from then. The man went on reading, pushing back his specs then and there, it was a while later that he spoke again. “So the rumor is true after all…I guess”

I stood straight, and peered at his face which was shadowed by the evening sun. “What rumor?”

He looked up. “Don’t you know?”

I shook m head.

“Do you know why they call it the Suicide house?”

All until then, I never had any idea why this term even came into existence. Not that I bothered to know, to b honest. The names which pop out of nowhere never concerned me, but by the way the stranger sounded, I was suddenly curious. I realized, this person was manipulative in every aspect of himself.

“Not really”

He stretched his knees then, and snapped the book shut before standing up with quite difficulty. I regarded his clothes. Beige jeans, a printed T-shirt paired with a cardigan and sneakers, he was as tall as myself, his hands were long, and legs were of like a dancer. He was a beautiful person indeed.

He cleared his throat and looked into my eyes.

“Well, I don’t know the accuracy of it, but the story is, nobody has ever committed suicide here…nobody ever could, because they had been stopped…every time one tried to”

I stared at him, confused and unbelieving. But of course, he could even be lying.

“Do you know what’s worse about it?”

I remained silent, waiting for him to carry on.

“They say…that the person who stop them from doing it…is the one who dies in the end”

I took a step back; befuddled. I wasn’t believing him, of course; though he seemed solemn and bold, even, when he said that. I wasn’t the type to believe such superstitions; but strangely, I realized where he was getting at.

In the end though, he gave me a smile and I was half expecting him to pat my shoulder and say that he was joking. But instead he gave me a closer look and stepped back. “I don’t believe it though, don’t worry about it…”

I didn’t respond but watched him retreat. “Take care!”

And he disappeared out the rickety old iron door. Silently, as the wind blew so hard with hints of a cloudburst crashing gently on my exposed skin, I watched the door fall off its hinges like a thunder from a far. By then, however, he was already off my sight.