Splat

If I were to jump that would be it. No-one could stop me. Three second’s shock and awe, then splat! Just like dad. Only his was pills. Dad didn’t go splat.

Look over there, you say, unaware of my plans. You can see Devon you say only I don’t, as I’m not looking. I’m looking down, below me, at the sharp rocks, which grin manic-toothed back at me.

Is that a ship you ask me, only I don’t respond, ‘cause I don’t care if it’s a ship or not. I think it is a ship, you continue, look can you see it, there’s a wisp of smoke on the horizon.

I look but don’t see smoke. I must be looking in the wrong place, or for the wrong thing. We say nothing for a while, and I study the spikiness of the rocks, trying to work out which slither would kill me if I were to land on them.

If I didn’t want to die then I guess I’d be scared, as it’s such a long way to fall. I don’t think I’ve ever been this high up before, and the wind is so strong I might get blown down anyway, whatever I decide to do. Something, maybe the wind, makes me shiver, even though I’ve got a thick coat on, and I back away slightly, though I’m still within jumping distance if I want to.

It can’t be a bad place, I think to myself, wherever it is you go when you die, ‘cause my dad went there. And dad only ever went to really cool places, like the football, or the races and the pub, the rugby, once he even went to Ireland, which is where Guinness comes from. It stands to reason, if dad only ever went to cool places, well wherever he’s gone forever it must be really great.

I wonder if the ship is going to Devon you say. I say nothing, I don’t care. Gone to Devon you wonder, while I wonder, whether dad has gone to heaven. A very bad rhyme that, heaven and Devon, but it is what I’m thinking. ‘Cause heaven has never seemed a very cool place to me, far too holy and boring, full of nuns and priests, I can’t believe he’d have gone there. Unless he’s gone to hang out with Jesus, he sounds cool I guess.

I look again at the rocks below, jagged and sharp like the broken bottle you told me to avoid on the footpath climbing up. Yes I could jump, there’s nothing to stop me, you’re standing away from me and I’d be flying through the air before you so much as noticed I’d moved. I could fly, very briefly, let the wind take me, fly like a bird. But only briefly. Then splat!

Oh for goodness sake you say and start crying. I don’t know what to say, or do, I’ve never seen you cry before. Not proper crying. I can’t understand what’s made you cry. Is it the ship? Or do you know that I’m thinking of jumping. How could you know, I’ve not said anything.

When I’m older, all grown up and left school, that’s if I don’t jump of course, maybe I’ll understand why you’re crying now, and not when dad died, which was when I cried. But all I can do is watch you. You say nothing more until long after you’ve cried yourself dry and your eyes are all red and blotchy.

When I’m older I’ll understand, and I’ll write this scene for the whole world to see, in my book, the one that’ll make me famous. And I’ll write down your every word, in quotation marks, to make them stand out, and then maybe it’ll be clear why you’re crying.

Until then all I can do is hold your hand, which I’m really too big to do now.

We both just stand there, forever, looking at the sea, until a wind makes us both shiver and, still saying nothing, we turn and walk back, both taking care to avoid the broken glass on the path. I forgot to jump, I realise half way down, but don’t really mind. I can always come back another day.