On the Edge

Billie took a deep breath and put the tops of his sneakers just over the edge of the drop. He felt the wind rush through his unwashed hair and he spread his arms wide wide, reveling in the cool air, the sense of abyss below him, the feeling of peace. He edged his sneakers a little more over the edge, losing some of his firm balance and not caring. He had nothing to care about. He was free.

"Do you do this routinely?"

The voice out of nowhere scared Billie enough to send him toppling over the edge of the train tracks, onto the ground less than a foot below him. The illusion of freedom and carelessness was gone. The illusion of standing over an abyss, ready to jump, so close to death and so far from stress... gone. All because of the brown haired, monkey looking fucker behind him.

"None of your fucking business." he said angrily, returning his arms to his sides, feeling the burn of embarrassment in his cheeks.

Unperturbed, the boy looked Billie up and down. "I know you," he said, leaning against a tree. "You're the faggot from school."

Billie flinched at the insult and felt more anger flare up his insides. "Yeah, that's me. The faggot. And you're the fucking pothead. Now piss off."

The boy put his hands up. "Cool your jets. I got no problem. Gay is the way, rah rah sis boom bah, you know, all that... and you're telling me it's bad to be a pothead? Cause I'll thank you kindly, sir, as I am not offended."

"What do you want?" Billie asked him, hoping he wasn't going to try to sell him anything, cause he didn't have any money and wasn't interested. He had enough problems without adding a drug addiction to the equation.

"Nothin'... well, your name would be nice. I'm assuming it's not 'The Faggot.'"

"I'm Billie Joe. B-I-L-L-I-E." Billie replied cautiously, still unsure of the kid's motives.

"Well, hello, Billie Joe. I'm Mike. M-I-K-E." Mike said teasingly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. At least, that's what it looked like to Billie at first. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a joint, carefully rolled. Mike lit it and breathed in deep, looking at Billie with utmost satisfaction when he exhaled.

"Wanna hit?" he asked, his voice hazy.

Billie hesitated. "No," he said, rather unconvincingly, but Mike didn't ask him again.

After a few moments of tentative silence, Billie could stand it no longer.

"Why are you still here?" he asked Mike, watching with hidden fascination as he smoked his joint, slowly and satisfyingly.

"I don't have anywhere else to go. And I want to have a conversation with you. You seem... interesting."

"Interesting?" Billie asked, snorting. He was far from it. He was just a little faggot with messy hair and bruises from jocks up his sides. He was just a depressed teenager with lots of medication and no answers. He spent his days on, in, and around the abandoned train tracks on Christie Road and his nights locked up in his room, writing. As far as he could tell, he was no different than millions of others.

"I don't come across too many people..." Mike stopped to cough once, deeply, heavily. He continued, his words a little slurred but still somehow quite smart. "Pretending to jump off buildings."

Billie visibly flinched. "How did you know that was what I was doing?"

Mike just smiled, the slowly burning joint moving upward with the curve of his lips. “It was pretty obvious,” he said.

Billie shoved his hands in his pockets and stood awkwardly, scuffing the ground with his shoes.

“Can I join you?” Mike suddenly said, holding his joint in his left hand and gesturing towards Billie with his right.

“Join me in what?” Billie asked, bewildered.

“You know…” Mike the pothead suddenly seemed a little unsure of himself. Embarrassed. “Dangling. Over the edge.”

Billie looked over at him, searching for signs of Mike poking fun at him. He saw none. “I… I guess, if you really wanna,” he said quietly, turning around again.

Mike threw his joint on the ground, still burning slowly, the acrid smell reaching Billie’s nostrils.

Mike’s converse matched Billie’s - dirty, black, and torn. They lined up and Mike spread his arms out. “Like… like this, Billie?”

“Yeah. Just spread your arms out and lean forward and pretend you’re anywhere but here, as high as you want to be, as close to the edge - the end - as you’d like. Just… be free, alright?”

Billie stopped talking when he looked over at Mike. Mike was leaning so far forward it looked like he was going to topple over, but he had the most peaceful smile on his face and his body was still and strong. He looked just about as fucking free as you could get.

Smiling, Billie opened his arms to his own false abyss.