Precipice

An Agent 12 POV written by Peregrinator7

Fall is coming. A brisk cold wind whips through the shedding trees, colorful leaves whisking away in the jaunty breeze. Long shadows cover the streets as a mild day fades into a chilly night. The sky is bleeding, and so is his heart.

He sits on the ledge, watching the bleeding colors in the sky, legs dangling haphazardly over a 50-story drop. Tears are on the brink of forming, but it's not because of the spectacular view.

It had been nearly a year since he had run away. He was still young then, still innocent, but he had to escape. He stares at his left hand, a angry red line all that is left of the gaping wound. Horrid images still echo in his head. The bearded man standing over him yelling, screaming, screaming, screaming curses and blasphemies and half-truths as he held a gleaming silver belt buckle over his head, hitting him again and again until the man’s screams were drowned out by his own. Hiding as children thought to be angelic surrounded him, pummeling his face with their fists, laughing and jeering, leaving him to die. The adults that gaped at him whenever he passed, only making him feel worse because they hid their remorse better than the angelic kids. He knew what they muttered about him when he turned away. Freak. Trailer park trash. White trash with a bad haircut. Worthless. Cuts and scrapes and black eyes and belt buckles and scars and sucker punches and names.

No one cared. No one noticed when he disappeared into the wilderness, never to be seen again. They probably wouldn’t even care if he died. 

He thought it would get better when Wilson came, when they went away, off on their own adventure, away from the cuts and scrapes and black eyes and belt buckles. But it didn’t. He can still remember that wretched day last winter. They were only trying to get food. They were hungry. And then the old man stopped them, gave him a gift he couldn’t resist. Swords. A way he could survive, defend himself. But it backfired. He can still remember the pain as the rifle was jammed into his skull, the blood-curdling scream that wasn’t his as he sat up, unaware of the sword still in his hand. He can still see the men he had taken out, their blood staining the pure white snow red. The grotesque face of the man he had killed, seared into his mind. He can still remember the way the branches whipped at him like every laugh, every punch, every name he had been called and every hit from the belt. You’re worthless. You might as well kill yourself. No one cares. You’re already dead. 

And then as if things couldn’t get worse, they fell off a cliff, somehow surviving, only to be greeted by an army of prejudiced men, hiding their fear behind their tranquilizer guns. He was taken out, but he could still remember the primitive roars and agonizing screams as Wilson, his friend, his gentle, loving friend, tore the men apart. 

They thought he was a freak. He had been shackled to the wall, forced to answer questions he didn’t know the answers to. They thought he was a murderer, a killer, a ruthless, angry teenager on a rampage. He was none of that. He just wanted to escape.

And then he was offered a deal. It wasn’t much. It was either prison or to stay in captivity at S.W.O.R.D. He thought S.W.O.R.D would be the better choice at the time, but that was a mistake. At least there would be people like him in prison.

It wasn’t any different from his old life. People avoided him like the plague, and whispered about him behind his back. Rumors about him spread like wildfires. He earned new names. Con. Loser. Junior Delinquent. Freak. And when the prying officials weren’t looking, it was just like his old life, cornered in an alleyway, but this time they were bigger and stronger. Every time it was new wounds opened, new nerves struck. People thought he was part of a gang, always in street fights. But he never defended himself. He never fought back. He was too weak, too gentle.

And now he is here, in front of the bleeding sky. His heart might as well have been ripped out and thrown into the river. He wears a sweatshirt against the wind, but under it is years of torture, abuse, and isolation. He looks tough and weather- beaten on the outside, just like a street fighter, but like an egg, that shell is not hard to crack. One strike and the yolk would come oozing out. 

His shaggy green and blue hair whips in the wind. His silent tears are whisked away. He’s thinking. Thinking about the horror of a life he’s had so far. It’s been nothing but pain. Pain on the inside, eating him from the inside out, pain on the outside, eating him from the outside in. He looks at the bleeding colors, at his hands, at the drop below him. He could end it right here. All this pain, all this hurt, it could be gone. He just has to push off. 

The door to the roof opens. It’s Wilson, his sentient griffin companion. Despite coming all this way with him, he still remains distant from Wilson. He is human, and Wilson is not. He doesn’t understand the pain he has gone through. Wilson pauses in the door, watching him. “You ok, Max? ” he asks, neon green eyes shining.

“I’m fine,” Max mutters, though he is definitely not fine. And with everything that has happened to him, who wouldn’t?

But Wilson believes him. All Max hears is a distant “ok” and the door clicks shut softly, leaving him alone in his soliloquy.

He stands up. He could end it. He could end it. Right here, right now. All this pain, the heartbreak, the anger, the sadness, all gone in an instant.

But he pauses, as if there’s a wall between him and the 250-foot drop. What about Wilson? What will he think when he found out he is dead? And what if he survived somehow? What would they think then?

Tears are streaming down his face now, too many to be carried away in the wind. The little voice inside his head pushes him closer to the edge, until his toes are over empty air. Just jump. Jump and all the pain will go away.

He turns for the last time back to the door, hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone will care enough to stop him. But no one does. No one cares.

Taking a final breath, and closing his eyes, he jumps.

---------------

As the wind rushes loudly in his ears, he wonders what they will think when they find his body, but he dismisses it. It’s not like he was anyone important. No one would care anyway.

Reviews

[Peregrinator7]

"It’s not like he was anyone important..." I just had to add that smidge of irony in there... XD

[Locke Redwyne (night sy..]

THERE ARE PEOPLE THAT WOULD CARE
SPAR
MANDY
WILSON CARES BUT HE'S STUPID
I BLAME THIS ON WILSON
IT'S HIS FAULT
MAXDIRA CANNOT COME TRUUUUUUUUUUUUU

[Peregrinator7]

would is the key word there, though.
because they weren't there no one cares
except wilson but he seems dillusioned

[Peregrinator7]

well he is dillusioned even in the core dimension
he doesn't realize how bad he's had it

[Locke Redwyne (night sys)]

who doesn't realize how bad who's had it?

[Peregrinator7]

wilson is and i needed 10 characters so here

[Locke Redwyne (night sys)]

wilson doesn't realize how bad 12's had it or wilson doesn't realize how bad wilson's had it?

[Peregrinator7]

wilson doesnt realize how bad 12's had it

[Locke Redwyne (night sys)]

oh ok that makes sense

[Peregrinator7]

He technically wasn't agent 12 yet
otherwise, looks good. nice title =b