When I was younger, we lived in a three story farmhouse on a mountain top. The house was big, with plenty of space, but I was suffocating.


We overlooked open grazing land, the view was breathtaking, rolling green hills in all directions, only the odd cow to break the uniformity.

Often I would climb out of my window and lay on the slanted roof, it was my escape, my private retreat.


Dusk was the best time in my open air hideaway. Alone, waiting for the night, I would watch the horizon melt the last streak of sun, then succumb to that interval of pure black. Those few moments of tranquility where I knew true peace, before that distant star light fired towards me like thousands of menacing needles.


One particularly claustrophobic evening I stood on the gutter. Testing it, feeling it give a little under my weight. Thinking, if I fell, would they come for me? Would they care?


I leant over the edge and looked directly down at the hard gravel that would be my landing spot.

A wave of dizziness took me, buckling my knees.

I Lurched forward, it felt as though I was tilting on the edge of the world.

The ground no longer below me but in front of me, all sense of direction lost.

My stomach changed hemispheres, searching for a light that wasn’t there.

That’s when I fell, and my little world fell with me.


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