I clenched my eyes tight shut against the light that forced its way around the edge of the curtains. The day had begun as so many August days do, not bothering with an overlong, slow dawn. Instead it came rushing across the countryside, forcing me to pull the duvet up over my head. I really wished I wasn’t here. My head felt like it was splitting apart which was hardly surprising given the amount I’d had to drink. Like the addict who needs a bigger and bigger hit, my tolerance seemed to increase each time I tried to numb my mind enough to get some sleep. It hadn’t worked of course, and I’d spent the hours of darkness with my eyes closed, the room spinning less and less as the combination of beer and wine worked its way out of my system. And as on every previous occasion I realised that meant another day to get through. Another pointless, tedious day. I half climbed, half fell out of bed, shivering as the cold air hit my skin. The flat wasn’t exactly cold, but the year was moving on and there was a chill in the air. The radiator was cold to the touch, and I frowned. That wasn’t a great idea. A little stab of pain shot across my temple as I wandered through to the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. Strong black coffee was just what the doctor ordered. I’d meant to pick some more up. Swearing softly under my breath I opened the cupboard and reached for the jar. It was still half full. It seemed to have been half full for months. Just as well.

I wrapped my hand around the mug and wandered across the room. I knew before I glanced at it that the light on the answerphone wouldn’t be flashing. It hadn’t done so since April. Which meant that nobody had called. Which meant no work for yours truly. Still, there’d been no accusing letter from the bank so I guessed that there was still enough in the account somehow to pay the standing orders that needed to be paid. I was a writer. Well, I liked to think of myself as a writer. I’d told myself that it was artistic, romantic even. Not for me the nine to five grind in some dreary office shuffling paper from one pile to another and then back again all day long. Although sometimes a regular salary cheque would have been nice. I drained the last of the coffee, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a rugby shirt from the pile of clothes waiting for the iron. Sod it, I’d look crumpled today. Not as if I had any reason to get all dressed up. I switched the kettle back on for the obligatory second mug and headed for the shower.

Thirty minutes later I was pulling the front door closed behind me. I wasn’t really sure where I was going but I’d go mad if I sat staring at those four walls all day long. Perhaps I’d find inspiration, or perhaps even it might find me. The day was early yet, the tourists who flock to the south coast each year to enjoy the coast and the sun not yet up and about. Most were elderly and started their day late, so I shared the pavement instead with the early morning joggers, sweating away in their own little i-Pod insulated worlds, and the roller bladers who didn’t deviate left or right for anybody. I wove my way along the seafront avoiding any collisions and un-noticed by all around. I knew now where I’d end up, the same place as always.

The pavement slowly started to climb out of town, and I climbed with it. I was reasonably fit still, but even so I started to feel the effort as the climb steepened. It felt good though, the slight ache in my legs preferable to the ache in my head that diminished with each step. The sun hadn’t yet burned the mist off the top of the downs, and I felt the temperature drop several degrees as I climbed into the clouds. I knew my way around up here which was just as well. The cliffs were several hundred feet high, and claimed well into double figures each year. Some were accidental, the odd one or two, but sadly the vast majority went over of their own free will. I knew that only too well from bitter personal experience, which is why I felt drawn to the figure that appeared out of the all encompassing grey blanket of mist a few feet in front of me. He was of an age with me, and stood motionless, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the three quarters empty bottle of cheap vodka. He turned and looked at me as I approached and stood alongside him, but made no move towards the edge. Instead he just looked, almost as if he wasn’t sure who or what this figure was that had suddenly appeared beside him in this most private of moments as he contemplated his own mortality.  He stared for several seconds and a look that might have been understanding slowly crossed across his face. He glanced down at his feet, and when he looked up again there were tears in his eyes. He started to talk, and I listened to him silently.

It wasn’t a unique story, but it was his story and I listened as he spoke. Of the relationships that had failed. Of the move to the other end of the country to start afresh, of the struggles and the loneliness and the hopelessness and the isolation that had driven him up here amongst the ghosts and browning flowers tied to the wire fence that guarded the edge.  I felt a deep sympathy with him, and understood the fight going on inside him as he weighed his options, both of which required reserves of courage he doubted he had left.  And then he seemed to come to his decision. He took a deep breath and a single pace forward, and paused. And then he looked at me and slowly turned and walked back down along the path.

I was pleased for him. Life might be bad, but the alternative was very, very final. He’d find his way back safe enough, back past the carpark and into the bar of the pub. And there he would sit, and talk, and get drunk as I’d done myself so many times. And they’d listen to him; let him get it out of his system without judging or condemning.  And they’d talk to him, and look for reasons to carry on, to keep trying. And they might even talk about the last time it had happened, just four months previously. When there was no walk back down along the path. When I’d stood in the same place he had. And made a different decision.