The Cliff

A Story by Ananya Handa

A lesson to the bullies...

I am at the cliff. I had found it when I was fourteen, when everything started to go down. Everyone knew that this place existed, not too far from our neighborhood, but no one ever came up here. I never knew why but it ended up being my spot so I really don’t care. The ocean waves hit the lower walls of the cliff with tremendous strength. It was almost nightfall, the cold breeze making me shiver. I stood about five centimeters away from the end of the cliff, ready to finally jump.

I remember back when I was ten years old, everybody used to say I was a delight. A smile used to be etched to my lips lighting up my innocent face. My mom used to call me home whenever I stayed out too late saying, “Jaide! Come home, love. I’ve got tortilla chips for you.” As soon as she used to say tortilla chips I used go running back home.

But unfortunately, I got to hear her delightful voice only for thirteen years of my life. The car, with my parents in it, trailed off the bridge into the river. When the police investigated, they told us that the breaks had failed and the car had lost its way because the driver, my father, had panicked. My aunt had been grateful to take me in with her after she heard about her sister’s death. She never let me feel like I had lost my mother. I was grateful.

But by the time I had grown fourteen, people said that I had also grown quiet. I wouldn’t deny that. I still remember sitting in my room, all alone, binging on ice cream, going through our family albums, reminiscing the thirteen years of my life. People said that it was because of the loss I had suffered, because I missed my parents. Partially, yes, it was. But that wasn’t the only reason.

My aunt thought that giving me a fresh start would be a good idea so we shifted. We were economically well so we had bought a new home in London and moved from Brighton. With that, I had to leave my friends behind. My school, my loving neighbors, the home I had spent my whole life in, everything. But, me being the optimist I am, decided to make the most out of whatsoever I get. But I hadn’t realized that things would get so… miserable. I tried to befriend some people at school but failed at my countless attempts. I didn’t know what had happened to me but gradually I got used to it, my books being my only friends. But I didn’t really mind until they came. Those terrible people who never let anyone live peacefully. I had heard about them and hoped to never cross paths with them but being as unfortunate as I was, the exact opposite happened. They started mild, calling me a bookworm, loner and all that, and I gladly ignored their constant comments. Then the girls started picking on each and every single flaw they could possibly point out. I was a kind of person who wouldn’t exactly be affected by people’s comments but those girls were awful. They made me insecure about myself, about how I looked, how I walked, talked, basically everything. I used to stand in front of the mirror and pay attention to every detail about my appearance. But I didn’t let it show.

I don’t know what they wanted, but I think it was the reaction, that they certainly failed to get out of me. Soon enough, they started sending me terrible e-mails, tagged me in horrible posts, basically anything and everything they could do on each and every social networking website I was at. I stopped logging into my accounts. But people started picking on me at school; people I never even knew existed. They had managed to get half the school involved, and that half included all those people who were exactly like them; bullies. The rest half of the school stayed oblivious to the situation, maybe by choice or maybe not.
By this time I had broken down. I occasionally self-harmed, but covered my cuts with the sleeves of my shirts. I hated to show anyone that I was weak.

Even though I never told anyone about my parents’ death, they somehow came to know about it, giving them an increased opportunity to pick on me. Once they started acting on the new information they had gotten, I completely broke down. I took a lot of leaves from school. I used to tell my aunt that I was unwell and she took great care of me. Whenever I took a leave I used to sit with her and talk for hours, she made me feel better, giving me new courage to go back to school.

A few months ago, after I turned fifteen, I decided to stand up for myself. I had walked up to them and given them a strong piece of my mind but that’s exactly when they started with the physical bullying. They started pushing me, making me trip, making me fall down and bleed my knees. They just kept rising higher and higher on their torture chart. Not long after did I tell my aunt and she and I went and complained about them to the principal. They had received a month suspension. I had thought that after this, they would get better. But after a month of peace, they returned with a new name for me- snitch. Their torture just got worse and the more I tried to ignore them, I kept getting hurt. There were bruises of old cuts and fresh tainted marks all over my body. I used to cry all night, sitting in a corner of my room, making fresh, deeper slits on my wrists. Once I had cut my nerve… deliberately. I had to stay in the hospital for a week because I had lost a lot of blood over night. My aunt paid even more attention towards me than she used to. But I had been emotionally scarred. After I was sent back home, I kept going through my family albums over and over again, reminiscing each and every memory of my parents that was stored in the photographs. I used to take the photograph of the three of us; one they had taken in the hospital when I was born, with me to the cliff and used to just sit there, staring at my mother and father, their laughs playing in my head. I had thought of jumping off the cliff multiple times but each time I backed off, thinking that it would get better, but sadly, it never did.

Today, I am finally back here, the sweet voice of my aunt, the laughs of my mother and the calls of my father, echoing in my ears. I look up at the sky, the stars clearly visible. I smile through my tears. “I love you mom, dad.” I whisper to myself. I close my eyes and let myself fall off the cliff, the wind hitting me hard in my face, my eyes clenched shut. The last image in front of my eyes is of both my parents, smiling, the last sound I hear is a splash, and the last thing I feel is the ice cold water piercing through my skin. That is when I took my last breath.