The Girl on the Edge of a Cliff

Toes grip the cliff edge, nails chipped and edged with dirt. Below, the ocean rages—a black ink sea mirroring a midnight sky. The wind screams, whipping the hem of a pale nightdress against the girl’s calves. Shivering, she stares into the vast nothing on the horizon.

Breath tight, she casts a nervous glance over her shoulder and whimpers. Her chest heaves, but she doesn’t wipe away the tears tracking her mud-stained cheeks. They continue to fall, making pathways downward.

The girl on the cliff edge remains still for several long seconds before she raises her hand with a jolt, scissors gripped within her palm. The half-moon glints on the blade as the scissors slice open.

She wastes no time.

Grabbing fistfuls of thick ebony hair, she hacks her locks from the scalp, sawing jagged tufts. Released, her hair spins about her in the near winter winds—a violent dance. Her lips tremble with more than cold and, task complete, her fingers unfurl. The scissors fall from her hand, the blade stabbing the ground as if cutting through soft flesh.

She turns her back to the ocean; though it is a forced motion, and she almost looks to walk away from the edge. But inch-by-inch, her head tilts skywards, and she opens her arms.

The girl on the edge of the cliff steps backward and surrenders to the fall.

There is a contrast, the girl thinks—with the weightlessness of flying and the heavy hand of gravity pressing against her chest.

Nobody hears the splash.

The girl’s amber eyes stare wide open as she plunges below the surface. Bubbles ascend from her nose as she takes her last breath, water filling her lungs before she disappears into the murky gloom.

Graceful, swirling, silent; a lock of hair floats downward, landing delicately on the surface of the ocean.

There is nothing else.

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