The Jump That Left Me Stranded

Chapter 8

But look what that's done to dad – look what it's done to Jenny. And I,as the person to grant them relief from pain, need to be stronger.Right? As Grace's spokeswoman, the person they trust to mete her forgiveness. Jenny's offer of help was more infuriating than anything– I can't work out why, I wish I could – and so it must fall on me to offer up a hand to my family, right?

Who knows really, but it feels like the right thing to do – especially if it means my dad can breath again. I know what the choking does,how it scrapes at your throat and makes you crazed for air. But all the air was punched out of us when she died; winded by grief,our family hasn't quite recovered yet.

But that feeling was normal for me, long before the jump and long before the funeral – I was used to nagging anxiety and sadness - and so that means my recovery time is limited, surely. Surely that means I should be the first to swallow the pain and try and make it better,for the other people suffering. For my dad, crippled by pain?

I shoot him a tight-lipped smile, snag my keys from the dish, and head out the door before he can tell me not to – winding a scarf around me haphazardly. It smothers my mouth, drowns me in a gaudy gingham print, but I don't mind it. The swamp of fabric is reassuring, makes me feel bundled up and safe as I head into the cold – the cold that swipes a wind across my face and pinches at my skin. But it's fine, I think; a reminder that I can still feel.

The ground crunches beneath my feet as I walk, each step sees me sinking deeper and deeper into the snow until I'm cursing my shoes for being so flimsy. And cursing myself for going out in them. And cursing Summit in general for being so goddamn cold. With a huff I draw my jacket closer around my chest, bury my nose deeper into the scarf, wish the wind would relent if only for a minute.

What's worse than the cold, possibly, are the street lights.The strings of bright bulbs that adorn the rooftops, the glimmer of banners strung across the shop fronts. It's too perfect and too happy and too eager – but, of course, that's Summit in a nutshell; Best Kept Town award three years and counting. I'd expect nothing less of the most boring and self-contained place to live this side of London.

You'd assume, just from exteriors, that nothing would happen here.

I shake away the train of thought, feel it already robbing me of breath as I wade across the pavement. I should call Jenny – it's another thought I've been pushing away, but this one is hardly justified. She means well, I know this, but she doesn't seem to comprehend that I'd prefer to break in peace. That being swamped in all this misery isn't helpful; it's just a different kind of drowning.

But that's a selfish thought, another one. She needs me to lean on, to build her back up, and how can I deny her that? How can I deny the only help I have to offer? Seeing her yesterday, crying just like me –it made me realise I'm not the only one hurting so badly it's breathtaking. And since then, pain is all I've been able to see.

My dad's face sinks deeper into a frown every day, my mum grows sterner,Jenny becomes frailer. Surrounded by other people crumbling - eroding away beneath the brutal waves of guilt – it becomes impossible to hide away. I can feel it all seep in around me, and now I'm not just choking on grief and air, but expectations and love and desperation.

And as these people grow sadder, the world around is lighting up. Mills is no exception to the Christmas décor, I see. Rounding the corner,the array of lights and signs that bedeck the shop window are brighter than I'm prepared for – make me scrunch up my eyes as I carry on walking, make me miss the handle on the first try. Instead I trip through the entrance-way as someone else holds the door, and promptly leaves with a chuckle to themselves.