Slip

Most horror stories people recount from their university years take place first or second term. Perhaps they went out drinking and got lost in the city’s winding streets, their impaired minds guiding them deep into unknown alleyways and ivy-covered husks, leaving them totally disorientated. Or, inhibited by unfamiliarity, they attempted to find their class only to barge into the middle of a seminar with a renowned guest lecturer. It’s almost always something trivial like that — impactful in the moment, but not too serious. Something that causes a moment of embarrassment and laughter.

My story is a little different.

It was my final year, near the end of the Easter term. It was a good year, at first. I was surrounded by people I enjoyed spending time with. It wasn’t uncommon for a few of us to go out drinking on the weekends and end the night lazily chatting by the water.

Our routine faded when we arrived back for that final term. The atmosphere shifted. Our hands had curled, convulsively clinging to what we had. Those hands were now white-knuckled with unvoiced strain. Looking back now, nothing had the gravity we perceived. To our young minds, that time was all we had left in the known world — the last barrier between us and the uncharted waters. That specter of the unknown brought uncertainty. We never discussed it – the anxiety silently taking hold of me, of all of us – while we tried to hang on to those final moments of clarity.

I told myself I looked forward to stepping out into the world. I had secured a position with a mid-sized firm early in the year. My merry attitude slipped away as the fear crept over me, its cold breath brushing my neck even on the warmest of days. I knew what I was leaving behind, people and places that I feared could never be matched again.

That included my girlfriend. She and I both knew that things were coming to an end, but we never spoke of it. What had initially pushed us together had kept us close for nearly two years, but it wasn’t enough to sustain a relationship. It wasn’t enough to keep us from going in different directions.

There’s a certain type of sadness that comes with partners growing apart. I knew that there was nothing that I could do to salvage what was left. There were no fights that we could apologize for, no mistakes that could be righted, nothing temporary. No, this was definite — it was just a matter of time.

In retrospect, I simply should have done what I needed to do then, without further delay. If I had, perhaps I wouldn’t have a story to tell. But I couldn’t let go, even if I could see the unavoidable future.

As our final exam season approached, those weekend nights still came, but less frequently, and less well-attended. I had taken to drinking more frequently, particularly during the week. That’s when the habit started for me. I would often find myself sitting alone at our pub, glass in hand, ruminating about my future until closing time and praying for any way to change directions. I had so much before me, and yet, all I wanted was to hold on to what I had now. I yearned, desperately, to keep those dwindling days for an eternity.

One of those lonely nights, a Wednesday in the second half of May, that I left the pub far too late and far too drunk. Alcohol always offered numbness. Even if I fixated on my anxieties, they felt less overpowering.

It was warming up but still cool in the evenings. The slow breeze kept me from sinking fully into numbness. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had my mind been completely gone. Perhaps I could delude myself into believing a better story about that night.

The pub was ten minutes from a small “park.” It was little more than a seating area resting on a sliver of grass, but it was our park, hers and mine. It stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. We loved that view, together. Inebriated, it was double the walk, assuming one didn’t go astray. I managed to stumble forward, allowing instinct to guide me as my mind swam around, hardly able to focus.

I felt the breeze grow cooler as I approached. It jolted my senses as I slumped into a seat facing the dark expanse. My eyes wavered, unable to focus at first — not that there was much to focus on. The wind grounded me, at least as much as was possible with the alcohol. Soon, I found my vision fairly steady.

Just a sliver of the moon remained, hanging low in the sky off to my right. It faintly illuminated the water, which seemed otherwise indistinguishable in hue from the black horizon. The reflection rocked softly atop the waves audibly pushing forward but quashed by the unyielding rock down below. Those waves were steady but strong.

As the haze receded slightly, my mind settled on the same thoughts — fears, really — that had come to dominate my moments alone. Inevitabilities that taunted me as I stared into the darkness.

The first thought that came was her smile. Her lips pressed together, the edges curling upwards, faint wrinkles visible by her eyes whenever she saw me. That smile hadn’t vanished, but it faded with every passing day. Her embrace, ever warm, felt more reserved as she quietly withdrew. It stung only once her distance was no longer something that could be bridged.

Those chairs were a fine vantage point, but a dozen feet back from the shallow railing blocking the edge of the cliff. I wanted to be closer. The water called me. I knew that the water would slowly envelop all that stood before it. Perhaps it could clear my mind if I allowed it to wash over me.

I’m still not sure if I moved forward of my own volition. One moment, I sat. The next, I stared down at the thirty-foot drop.

The top bar fell just below my waist. I wrapped my hands around it and leaned forward. The metal pressed against me, my pants a poor guard against its cold touch. The water continued to push forward, the curls as it was rejected disturbing the even black surface. As I stared, my vision adjusted. The contrast between the almost empty sky and the water became clearer.