I met him in the middle of the night. He wore navy slippers and a plush, thick dressing gown that cloaked his frail figure. His hands were shaking as he ran a gold chain through his nimble fingers. A locket rocked in the wind, linked to the end of the chain. I remember feeling cold that night. Not from the winter chill or the fact that I was rapidly undressing, ready to dive in the icy sea below me; but from the sensation I felt as I realized that this man, this broken man wanted to die.
And he was going to jump.
It had been raining for ten days and I had flicked through every single page of the magazines I'd bought for the car journey. We'd moved again. I guess you could say it was almost a yearly tradition. Kind of like Christmas without the presents, excitement and joy but with the family arguments and resentment. I had gotten used to packing up our glasses and plates with newspaper. This weeks headline,"Step dad gambles rent money and steals kettle." Mum and Dave's relationship was crazy to say the least. She buried his mobile phone in the garden whilst he moved out every three months and weirdly took things from the house that he knew would annoy mum. So far he's managed to take the hoover, the remote control, the kettle and her bedside lamp. Every time we moved, mum would say those famous words, "New house, new beginning." I'd smile and play along but my sister Mykala wasn't as forgiving. "Yeah okay then" She'd mutter under her breath with a face that could break down a mountain. She was frustrated. I was frustrated.
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