The Death of a Realist

A short story about the death of a rational mind.

The rough concrete of the building's ledge rasped against my boots as I leaned out into the emptiness.  A few more inches, and my unceasing agony would finally be at an end.  My rational mind would finally die, splattered across the rain-soaked concrete.

I was afraid.  Afraid of dying like this.  Afraid of the cold oblivion of non-existence. But, I could never be more afraid of death than I was of life.  Of a lifetime in the inescapable, screaming cell of my own mind.

Rain like blood dripped down my face and fingertips under the neon lights of the City.  As I stood on the precipice, contemplating the End, the cruelest form of torture ever conceived in the mind of a tragic god sent me a text message.

A f*****g text message.

My desperate mind yearned to look at the warm light of my cell phone.  To hope against reality that things could get better.  To be reminded of the love that would always accept me, despite my brokenness.  I dropped my phone behind me, onto the wet gravel of the rooftop.  I could not hope against the reality of my nature, no matter how frantically my fearful mind wished to.

As I fell through the void, towards the undeniable cement of the City, I--