The young man stood atop a tall, brick building, his powerful gaze burning into the busy street below him. Just by looking at this man you couldn’t tell that he was young. His skin was a mixture of dying skin and frustration lines around his eyes, mouth, and etching his forehead. His hair was prematurely turning grey, giving the originally sleek, black hair an age to it. The tips of his teeth, just like his fingernails, were stained yellow from the many years of smoking, and his breath a smoky smell to it.
The man sat down on the edge of the building, the cars honking and the engines roaring beneath him. From above it seemed as if the lights of the city did not reach him. The strong wind, however, reached him more than anyone on ground level. The building seemed to sway, but the man was not sure if the building was swaying or his drunken body was. The ashes from his newly lit cigar floated to the ground far below him. But to the man, the hard concrete looked soft, the height seemed to be decreasing with every passing second.
As the man sat that there, his loafer covered feed dangling, the loose fitting business pants whipping around with the wind, his tweed jacket hardly holding on to him, he felt the urge to jump. Isn’t that why he had come up to the roof top in the first place? Or was that just a passing thought as he made his way up the winding stairs of his apartment building.
If he jumped, would anyone miss him? His wife wouldn’t, the equally young woman who was able to keep her youth. The man could still hear the sound of her yelling, screaming as his hand collided with her face. He shouldn’t have hit her, he knew that, but he was so angry. She was telling him to stop all that drinking or he would lose his job. He should have listened to her, because that last drink had lost both his job and his wife. He could still hear the door slam behind her after that slap; all she had with her were the clothes on her back. If he died she could go back to their apartment, maybe she would live a happy life without the fear of his abusive nature following her.
If he jumped would his boss miss him? No, his boss would be glad not to have to deal with him for a month until his contract ran out. It would save him the paperwork. And with the man dead with no will to speak of, his boss would be able to pretend his worthless employee had never existed. No lost clients due to him. As far as his boss was concerned he was not actually an employee, just some poor folk off the street. His boss would be happy not to have to pay the extra money for a short few weeks.
If he jumped, would anyone miss him? The man knew one person. He had a brother who everyday called to ask if he was alright. Being the only living relative of the brother who cared so dearly for him, the brothers often worried about each other. Being the eldest, the man could not leave his dear brother alone. He was sad and hateful, but he was not cruel. So the man stood up carefully in his drunken state, stumbling away from the ledge. He coughed and cringed at the smell of the alcohol and smoke on his breath. The man dropped the cigarette that had kept him aware all this time, for he heard no city noise nor felt no wind. He only felt the heat, tasted the smoke, and smelled that nicotine filled aroma. The man dropped that cigarette and crushed it under one loafer, pulling out the cell phone. Maybe he would call his brother, ask to stay with him for a while. Maybe that man could finally get his act together, if not for himself then for his brother. That was the day the man discovered, there is always someone who want to help you, and there is always someone who you want to help.