Smoke

Pity Party

And thus, we are brought to my fifteenth birthday.

I'd been perched on the edge of the old concrete bridge, right near the entrance to the main city, facing the direction of where the coast was hidden behind columns of council flats that rose from the ground like bizarre giants that were mocking me, a constant reminder of the life I used to lead. Geez was this tiring.

We used to drive past them on the way to my swimming lessons when I was eight. The council flats. I was awestruck by how tall they were, how many windows littered the exterior of the building. I used to think it was the coolest place to live, how amazing it must have felt to look out on the entire city spread out in front of me, the thrill of knowing you're so high and nothing could get to you up there.

It's funny how the illusion breaks as you grow older, the cracks on the glass begin to grow, worming their way till the once pristine surface is covered in fissures that cannot be fixed. Then one day, the glass will break, showing one of two things- either a new reality- the real world- or a depressing scene which you convince yourself to be reality, to justify the sadness that's creeped up on you over the years. Because after a while, I started seeing this exciting castle as a council estate with mould and damp, broken elevators that stank of urine and a long exhausting trek to the top.

Growing up works like that for some people.

Aberdeen is a perfect place for a ghost- bleak and dull, low and flat, coupled with an endless expanse of grey patchiness that seems to hang overhead permanently. Maybe it was just my mood that dropped a grey filter on my surroundings. Nonetheless, it was still beautiful- in it's own way I suppose. My eyes met with the endless snake of river that flowed slowly but surely towards the horizon; it seemed to drag all sunlight in, rather than reflect it. I wished in that moment that I could just let myself fall in, make like sunlight, let myself feel the sudden sharpness that came with fleeting clarity as the water would work it's way in rivulets through my clothes and cling to my skin like a leech- complete with the sting of a leech bite too.

But there was no point, I would not have felt anything anyway. Was I depressed? Probably. It seemed that way, seeing as I liked the feeling- it gave me something to hold on to, something that I was sure was real inside of me. Emotion can be transparent, you can look straight through anger or joy or frustration. It can be overlooked, but once you realise it's there, you'll never look through it again.

Well could you blame me? It had been a year since the hit and run- an accident that was bound to happen, an accident that at the time I'd half wanted to happen- and still questions were jabbing at the back of my head, persistent and sharp as a blade. I had not met anyone who didn't look straight through me; I hadn't been seen by anyone.

It prodded me, constantly, persistently. The question of "Where are you going Martha?", "where's your final destination?" was always there. Where was my ultimatum?

What was keeping me back?

Whatever. I believed in fate- if I was supposed to go then I would have by now. No, I'd decided then and there that the subject was closed- I'll pass over some day. In the meanwhile I would... I would enjoy my birthday. In human tradition. But first, I wanted a thrill, regardless of what I would feel when I reached the bottom.

I pushed myself off the wall with my red Doctor Martins, thrusting myself forward and off.