Hazel's POV

I frown. What kind of business is this? Are they maybe posing as a doctor? A psychic? I scoff, grabbing my phone and dialing the number.

Is this something I would normally do? No. I’m not bloody stupid. But I have nothing to lose except the terrible life which I now live, and I am risking it to satisfy my curiosity because I’m drunk by 12 o’clock in the afternoon.

It rings twice, then it seems like the person on the other side of the line hangs up. Then there’s a text almost immediately from the same number.

Unknown — Give me a time and a location if you’d like to discuss things further.

Hazel — Who are you? And what kind of business is this?

I press send and stare at the screen, hoping for an answer. They didn’t pick up before, so I don’t think they’ll answer any of my questions. But whoever left this behind must’ve somehow been into it.

Unknown — You’re not Norman. 

My heart is racing now. However, I have enough courage in my drunken state to go on.

Hazel — No. Norman left your business card at the bar. I want to know what those words mean.

It takes a while, but the final response leaves me even more confused and a lot more curious than before.

Unknown — When you are in dire need of me, I will find you.

If it wasn’t creepy as hell before it sure is now. They’re right. I should just ignore all of this and pretend it never happened. I probably won’t remember any of it after I sober up anyways.

I stand, steadying myself enough to take cautious steps out of the building.

I squint at the sun. I hadn’t realized how damn sunny it is today while I was inside. My eyes feel heavy, and so does every part of my body. I need to get away from the street before someone recognizes me. I should go home. If only I could remember where I parked. Whatever. I’m not that far from home. I’ll just walk.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my sunglasses and slip them on clumsily, before staggering along on the sidewalk in hopes of getting home safely.

***

I have a moment of clarity after I get into my house. I can’t believe I made it. I realize it took me much longer than usual, but it doesn’t matter. I hear urgent footsteps as I walk into the living room. I wave her off before she says anything. “Yes, I’m drunk. Judge me if you want. I’m going upstairs to take a nap.”

I don’t bother measuring Linda’s reaction as I make my way towards the stairs. Laying hopelessly in my bed, my subconscious taunts me. Was it worth it? Do I feel better? Have I forgotten? I already regret my impulsive drinking, I feel like shit, and I certainly haven’t forgotten anything. In fact, I grow more and more haunted by the thought of being absolutely humiliated and scared by the people I loved with all my heart. I want to smack myself, but I wouldn’t feel a thing. I’ve never done anything like this before. I feel sick now, like I did before. And just like everyone that has ever experienced extreme shame, sadness, and anger, I ask myself…Will it always be like this?

It’s about 6pm when I wake up.

I’m doing that thing again where I let my body take the lead while my mind recovers from everything it has been through over the past few days. I put on my tracksuit. And ignoring the headache and the feeling of nausea, I grab my earphones and go out for a run. I haven’t worked myself this hard in a while, but something about the cold wind combing through my hair makes me feel like if I run far enough, fast enough, I’ll escape.

It’s a pathetic idea, I know, and I might pass out if I endure the chest burn any longer.

I find myself on a rooftop, at least ten storeys above the ground. It’s getting dark, and the city lights are starting to come on, illuminating the cold evening. The building is impressive. It’s a hotel. The first one my father built after a company crisis that led him to believe he would soon lose a whole lot of money. It was an investment that no one knew about except me, because he wanted to build it under my name. I was only fourteen at the time, but I’ve always been good at keeping secrets. Of course, now, I doubt that I could ever claim legal ownership of it. He had it sorted out a long time ago after he saw that it was profitable and began building more of them across the city.

I shake my head. I can’t think of him, or Ambrose corp. or Shannon or Edwin if I’m hoping to make it to the end of the day without having a mental breakdown.

I walk over to the very edge of the rooftop. I certainly shouldn’t be standing so close to literal death, but the unnerving feeling of it is more tolerable than the self-pity I’ve been drowning in all through the day. Well, here’s an intrusive thought. What would it take to make me fall purposefully to my death? Should I be thinking about throwing myself off this building? What if I did? I guess there’s no one in my life that would miss me. They’re either gone or dead because everyone leaves at the end of the day. What if I left too? I take a step back. As much as I hate my life, I’d like to spend all the rest of my money before I die. Gosh. I scoff, then I laugh audibly at myself. And it’s so sudden, but a stream of tears I didn’t know I was holding back flood down my cheeks, and a powerful sob shakes through my body.

This is not how things are supposed to be. I should be going home to my husband. I should be receiving calls from my retired parents while I carry on the legacy. Shannon shouldn’t be in my life now, just as she never should have then. I want to scream, curse, rip out my hair, but I remain silent, standing helplessly still and allowing an ineffable amount of pain to break me.

“You’re not about to jump, are you?”