Three Years Ago
I hadn't even unpacked the single box I carried into my new apartment.
One pathetic box. That was all I had. All that was left of my life. All that would ever remain of me.
I climbed the fire escape toward the roof of a fourteen-story building, counting the landings in my head: twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth.
There it was, the door.
I only hoped it wasn't locked. Otherwise, all of this would be for nothing, and I would have to find another place.
That would be exhausting.
I opened the door and took a deep breath. The crisp autumn air filled my lungs as I stepped forward and froze.
A man was standing on the edge of the roof. He turned slightly at the sound of the door creaking.
"I didn't think there would be a line even up here. Guess that's New York for you," I said with a faint, bitter smile.
He smiled too, then looked back down.
I walked closer to the edge and followed his gaze. It was high enough to make my head spin, but once I pushed through that first wave of vertigo, I climbed onto the parapet and sat down, letting my legs hang into the air.
"Not as easy as you thought, huh?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the street below, trying to get used to the height.
He looked at me, a little surprised.
"Yeah. I thought it would be simpler. But…" He fell silent and sat beside me.
It seemed like he wanted to say something more but changed his mind.
"Scared?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"It's normal to be afraid of dying," I said, not to comfort him but because I truly believed it.
Even if I wanted to die, I was still afraid.
"Maybe it means there's still a trace of the will to live left in us."
"Maybe," he said quietly.
He looked about twenty-five, maybe a couple of years older than me. Tall, lean, with short black hair and dressed entirely in black — shirt, trousers, everything.
"You too?" he asked briefly.
"Yes," I said, confirming what neither of us had said aloud.
I leaned forward slightly. The only sounds were the wind and the noise of the city below — car horns, distant sirens.
"I tried playing the savior once," I said. "Turns out I'm the one who needs saving."
I never believed in heart-to-heart talks. Psychologists only irritated me.
I was used to keeping everything inside, never showing weakness.
And definitely never inviting pity.
He looked at me calmly.
It felt like I was looking at myself, only in another body.
His face was empty. His eyes held nothing.
Maybe that was what pushed me to speak.
"My stepfather used to beat my little sister. She was a child, so I took her place. That's what an older sister is supposed to do, right?"
I said it, though even I didn't fully believe it.
We looked at each other. There was no understanding between us. Nothing at all.
Just emptiness.
Maybe that was the only thing we had in common.
"They burned me. Broke my bones. They burned me with whatever was at hand. Pulled out my hair."
Neither of us flinched.
"My mother knew. But she loved him. She locked me up so I couldn't run to the police or the hospital. He said if I talked, he'd skin my sister alive. I believed him. I knew what he was capable of. My mother bribed a social worker once, after he saw the burns on my arms. I stopped going to school after that."
He finally spoke.
"My father raped me when I was eight. My mother knew and said nothing. When I went to the police at fifteen, she told everyone I was lying, that I was just a difficult teenager. When it was proven true, she disowned me. Said I destroyed the family and sent her husband to prison."
He leaned back on his hands and looked at the sky. I did the same.
After hearing his story, I felt nothing. No pity, no grief, no compassion. Nothing.
Probably the same way he felt hearing mine.
We were empty inside.
"I even went through therapy," he continued. "Forgot everything. Moved on. But even if you fight and live on, people still find a way to break you again. And it doesn't have to be physical."
He paused, his voice quieter.
"I fell in love. She was kind, gentle. I started living again, as if nothing had ever happened. We were together for four years. I proposed. She said yes. Then I told her the truth. I told her about the nightmare I grew up in."
He stopped suddenly.
I couldn't see his face, but I heard how his voice cracked.
He hadn't trembled while talking about his father, but now…
Love.
I once thought I loved too.
And that I was loved.
A lump rose in my throat.
"She said psychological abuse can be inherited genetically," he said. His voice was breaking, close to tears or collapse.
Silence and the distant wail of sirens filled the space between us.
I understood him.
I remembered my first boyfriend — the one I dared to trust. The one I thought might prove people could be kind. I forced myself to believe again.
He told me I was disgusting.
That my body was disgusting to touch.
That if it weren't for my savings, he'd never have gone near me.
My throat tightened.
Even when I was whipped, it hadn't hurt that much.
Then there was another man. The one I trusted again, thinking I couldn't hide forever, that maybe someone out there could love without seeing the scars.
He told me,
"You're awful. People will only be with you to gain something. Or just USE you."
I looked up.
Tears gathered in my eyes, but I kept my head tilted back, refusing to let them fall.
I wanted to stay strong.
But the memories came flooding in, unstoppable.
Use you... use you...
The words echoed in my head over and over.
"Are people really that cruel?" I asked. "Or are we the broken ones?"
A single tear escaped down my cheek, the one I had fought to keep dry.
He looked at me.
Tears glimmered in his eyes too.
But I was the first to give in.
He was stronger.
I could see it in his gaze.
There was still a bit more life left in him.
The tear slid down, followed by another, tracing the same path.
The wind carried the hum of traffic into the silence hanging between us.
"I once saw a show," he said. "They said suicides become reapers for a thousand years."
He smiled faintly, without shedding a single tear.
"Then I'll pass. Slavery isn't for me," I said, wiping my face and stepping down from the parapet.
"I think I have a bottle of white wine somewhere in that box," I offered.
"And I've got a stale pizza at home," he replied, jumping down after me.
"Derek Morris," he said and held out his hand.
"Mireille Ellis," I said, shaking it.
"What floor are you on?" he asked as we walked toward the door.
"Tenth."
Derek stopped, then smiled. For the first time, there was a trace of life in his voice.
"Well, that's good. We just saved the police a headache. Two jumpers from the same floor would've been too confusing."
He walked off the roof.
I followed him.