The edge of the world

This post is a fictional narrative. Its purpose is to shed light on the sadder places of a depressed mind and the tiny glimmers of hope we seek in the dark. Sometimes the smallest things lead us home. Sometimes love for and from others is just the reminder we need. If you know someone who is sad, reach out to them. Just be there in whatever way you can. You don’t need all the answers.

_{NB: The edge of the world discusses mental heath issues. I am a writer not a medical professional., so If this piece causes any concerns for you, please see a Doctor immediately. This is always the best thing to do.}

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He sat on an old park bench atop a stretch of remore land that looks ever out to sea. It was early morning and the cold wind made both his mind and his nose run. Even from a distance he looked like a troubled soul, hunched down in his father’s old black greatcoat, unmoving like a plinth at the edge of the world.

He needn’t have worried about the opinions of others. It was too grey and too miserable for anyone save the broken to be outside this early, particularly where he sat. The onshore wind blew sand particles up over the jagged cliff and into his face. It felt like ice.

He was alone and he knew it.

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Sharp thoughts tumbled through his mind like waves of random flotsam, eventually crashing onto the shore of his consciousness. A flash of memory. He could see the fists coming as if it was yesterday. A wave of anger surged briefly within.

Another memory followed, this time of being let down by people that should’ve known better. He tasted the bitterness of the past at the back of his throat as it mixed with the salt from the sea breezes. He felt exasperated, lost.

“Every bloody decision I’ve ever made has been wrong!” he muttered to no one but himself. “I’ve lived my whole life in fear of making the wrong choices, which led me to make the wrong frigging choices anyway.” Even as he said these things, he knew deep down that they weren’t true, but something made him believe them anyway.

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Slowly a tear edged out of the corner of his eye, only to be whipped away quickly by the wind. It was hard for him to tell if this was his own tear or simply a response to the weather. Tears had been hard to come by for a long time. “What am I going to do now?” he mumbled at last.

Sitting still for a long time, the coldness crept through the worn denim of his jeans. Hardly moving, staring at nothing, the thoughts came and went. Sudden outbursts, periods of deep depression and… fear. He genuinely but wrongly believed he had let them all down too many times.

“They’d be better off without me,” he eventually said almost absent mindedly.

Immediately the words stunned and frightened him. He had thought about them many times, but never said them aloud. He wasn’t even sure where they’d come from. Now that they were out, the enormity of what he’d uttered shocked him, especially as he was sitting alone at the edge of the world.

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The realisation of what he had uttered, shattered the dense shell around his heart suddenly and violently. Tears came quickly and in torrents as the sea mist swirled about. Strangely, he recalled an Everly Brothers song that recommended doing your crying in the rain and he smiled briefly amidst his grief.

Eventually he stopped. His head hurt. His face was red and dry and the tip of his nose was numb. He felt uncomfortable. He noticed vaguely that something sharp and cold had been subtly digging into his shoulder through his overcoat. The end of his tears had brought it clearly to the front of his mind. He turned to find a bent brass plaque nailed to the bench.

It read: ‘This bench was donated in memory of our dear Husband, Father, and Pa, Roger Dunne,. Roger loved life. He loved sitting here at the edge of the world. Gone too soon. Always missed. 31/1/2007.’

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For a brief moment, he thought he wouldn’t like a memorial like that. A bit morbid. Then another thought came to mind. He figured Roger Dunne had loved life so much that he didn’t want to leave. He was so loved that his family had dedicated a bench to him. As he sat, he imagined them all coming down to sit on his seat by the sea and even have picnics sometimes. Yet here he was on that same bench considering the worst…

Roger Dunne must have been a kind man for people to want to remember him in this way, he thought. Probably gentle and wise as well. It is one thing to lay a headstone in a cemetery… I mean thats the done thing, but a bench out here where everyone can see it. Even though the plaque confused him slightly, a picture of a well-lived life started to build.

He noticed vaguely that the wind had warmed slightly and was no longer blowing hard into his face, though really the change wasn’t great. Still, the break in the wind allowed room for something close to empathy to cross his mind, as he imagined Roger’s wife at home in bed. He saw her sitting in a corner at Christmas time, while others celebrated around her. He imagined grandchildren without their Pa and old friends having a quiet middy without him. “I guess memorials aren’t for the dead…more for the living …”

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The sharpness of the weather had finally reached his bones. Almost naturally he imagined his own wife, alone in bed too, on this most horrible of mornings. He remembered how she liked to warm her toes on his legs. He wished he was there now. One of his ‘little uns’ would probably squirm in and hold his hand, whispering about strange and unrelated topics in his ear the way children do.

With a suddenness of intention, he straightened the brass plate with the heel of his shoe and stood with purpose. Turning, he smiled at the bench. “Thank you, Roge Dunner,” he whispered as his voice cracked slightly. “Still wise, even in death.”

Taking one last look over the cliff face, he strode quickly away from the edge of the world. As he walked, he thought that he might pick up some hot, fresh croissants from the French Bakery on the way home.

“They’ll like that,” he said with a smile.

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