Secrets

If you looked at me you'd see an adult, black male somewhere around the age of thirty. Passing over my crew cut, past my cold, black eyes, and my impassive facial expression, you might look at my toned physique and take me for a military type. The tight grey shirt and khaki cargo pants I wore merely accentuated this impression. You might assume that I was happily defending my country.

Oh, how wrong you all are.

If you looked a little deeper into my eyes you might actually see past the mask I put on for the world. You might see that I'm not military, and I never have been. You might see how detached I am from life. You might see the truth of my seventy two years. You might see the depth of my true sorrow.

Every Saturday for the last forty years I had tried to commit suicide. Every Saturday since my wife and son had died. Every Saturday since I killed the two most important people in my life.

Everyone around me told me that it was an accident I couldn't have hoped to control. They said that black ice was difficult to see in the best of circumstances, let alone after dark. They said anyone would be tired after having driven all day, and anyone would be speeding slightly down the deserted highway in order to get home sooner.

No one else, however, would have hit that patch of ice and have the accident of the year. No one else would have their sedan fishtail, jump the guardrail, and then start rolling down the steep slope beside the road. No one else would be trapped for hours, watching the red painted metal slowly slice their wife in two, knowing their only child was already dead, and hoping against all odds that someone else would choose this section of highway and manage to see the wreck. No one else would be forced to watch their entire life slip through their fingers, knowing that they would never die with them.

No one.

Ever since then I've drifted, unable to concentrate on one thing for too long. I've moved from one menial, underpaid job to the next, and from one dingy apartment to another. I've drifted slowly across Ontario.

My current location is in Niagara Falls. I've only been here for a month, but this apartment is already becoming confining. The smallest things become reminders of them. The faded wallpaper in the living room is patterned with daisies, which was Susan's favourite flower. The tub in the bathroom is the same style as the one Kyle tripped getting out of when he was three, and broke his arm.

It was all unnecessary. All these small, constant reminders served only to aggravate my guilt, which I did enough by myself. The only reminder I needed was my lone picture, the one they were so happy in.

I bring myself out of my reverie with a start. The cold mist from the falls has managed to soak my front completely, and the group of tourists whose babble could just be heard over the roar of the falls had started to move towards the exit tunnel. As they begin to exit the viewing are behind the falls, I climb over the black metal rails separating me from the most powerful down-pouring of water on Earth.

Somehow, without my knowing, I've managed to walk the extra meter to the edge of the rocks. Out here the mist is even more dense, and the pounding of of water upon water echoes even louder. The proximity to the falls has turned these rocks from their reddish brown colour to a cold black, the wetness accentuating the metallic smell. They're slick and one wrong step would send anyone over the edge.

I slip into another reverie, all the while standing in my place. This time, I'm thinking back on all my unsuccessful attempts to end my life. I remember the time I placed myself in the middle of a gang shoot-out, getting shot fourteen times, and the time I burned myself to ashes. I remember breaking my neck, draining my blood, taking poison, and putting myself through a woodchipper. Nothing ever works. I've always woken up late Sunday, with my body pieced back together. Each and every time I ask myself 'why won't I die?' I pray, each time, that this attempt will be successful.

Just as I'm about to step over the edge, a small voice speaks from behind me.

“Sir?”

Turning, I see a young boy clinging to the railing, about to open his mouth again.

“Sir? What are you doing? You're scaring my mum.”

I barely hear him. The din of the waterfall fades away as I focus on his eyes, which sparkle with the same curiosity Kyle's eyes had held. I ignore all the other aspects of his physical appearance. I ignore the difference between this boy's pale skin and fiery red hair and Kyle's mocha colouring and black locks. All I care about is that sparkle.

Recovering a bit, I look up and past him, at the woman who is obviously his mother. Her hands, devoid of all jewellery, are clasped so tightly over her mouth that her knuckles are a stark white. Her entire body trembles violently in fear or shock as she stares at me with her green eyes. You could see just from her body language that she was silently begging me not to jump.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I take a step away from the edge. I take a second step, then a third. Climbing back over the barrier, I take the boy's hand and lead him over to his mother. Taking her proffered hand, the other still clasped firmly over her mouth, I gently lead them towards the exit tunnel.

I won't be trying to kill myself today.

I've found something to live for.