On A Ledge

A very short story about a prisoner trapped on the side of a cliff suffers from hallucinations of the past.

The ledge was a simply affair. Simple, and effective. A small outcropping of stone, perhaps the size of a small bed, halfway up a towering behemoth of rock. 

The cliff on from which this ledge protruded was almost perfectly smooth. Impossible to climb. The only visible mar upon the surface was a small window carved twenty or so feet up from the ledge. 

On the ledge itself was a lone man. Thin and ragged, with thick clothes and eyes of ice. He had been on the ledge for months. Almost a year to be more precise. 

Others had spent time on the ledge in this interim, but they had died. Some died from accidents, some from suicide, and some from each other. 

Throughout all these temporary visitations, the man with the icy gaze had remained. He hadn’t strayed over the edge. He hadn’t tumbled to his demise. He had simply sat and ate the bread that fell from the window above. 

And he had talked. 

Every day, as he woke, he would begin to talk. There was no one to talk to most of the time, and even when there was, they were not the ones he talked to. He talked to air. 

He talked to memories. 

 

“Oh!” The man exclaimed one morning, as he finished his bread, “I see you’ve returned.” 

The air didn’t answer. 

“Been awhile, been awhile.” He scratched at his head. For a few weeks now he had been obsessed with the idea that he had somehow acquired lice. Dried blood marked his fingers, and scabs formed and tore across his sparsely covered scalp. 

“There was a bird here yesterday, you know. A great big one. Perhaps an eagle. Never seen a bird before. Didn’t know they came-” the man pauses, head cocked. Then laughed. “I meant up here, my dear. I haven’t seen any up here. Of course I’ve seen them before.” A brief flicker of sadness crosses his eyes of ice. 

“Before. . .” He smiles, and continues. “What an interesting concept, don’t you think? The implication of a before? Something more than the now and future? As if there’s some permanent record somewhere. Still something solid.” 

He rapped his knuckles on the ledge. “This is solid, thankfully. Nice and strong. Safe, if you must know. Perhaps a little small, but safe nonetheless. Those blokes who fell, well, perhaps they weren’t quite right in the head.” 

The man cocked his head again, as though listening. “Not right in the head? Please, my dear, no need to resort to insults. Of course, I know you meant it as a joke, and it was truly quite endearing, but you must be careful.” He gestured around to other parts of the empty air. “Other, lesser folk might not be so understanding.” 

The man began brushing off crumbs of the bread that covered him. “Haven’t seen anyone for a while. I do wonder when they’ll send another. It’s too bad about that last bloke. You know, the one who rolled in his sleep?” The man frowns, “quite quiet about the whole thing. Didn’t scream or anything. Almost genteel. Very polite.” 

The man pauses in thought, hand absently hovering before him. “I’ll miss the fellow.” 

He shook his head and smiled, staring into nothing. “Of course, I still have you! These conversations are really quite a nice way to pass the time, as I’m sure you’d agree.” 

The man raises his hand, and begins to reach out. “Your hair,” he murmurs, “is really quite beautiful today. The sunlight’s reflection-” 

He stops and blinks. “You have to go?” Tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes, though he attempts to hide them with a smile. “Well, if you must leave, you must leave. Perhaps next time we can talk longer? Perhaps next time-” The man suddenly freezes, smile turned brittle, hand still extended. 

“Perhaps next time you’ll turn from mere memory into beautiful reality.” The man sits still for a minute, blinks, and starts staring into space proper. Not looking at anything in particular, or anything imaginary. Just looking, lost in his thoughts. 

After a few minutes, or perhaps hours, the man smiles to himself and starts repeating one word over and over again. A mantra, a promise of a better future, without any requirements or promises. A dream that doesn’t try to become anything more. A prayer. 

“Perhaps.”