The SUV struggled with the muddy terrain, spinning its wheels with every turn. There was no clear-cut road to the cliff; considering how dangerous the sheer drop was, it wasn’t a popular tourist attraction. The views were better seen further down the small mountain, where there were actual railings to stop people from falling. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, fighting the bite that came with hauling a two-tonne piece of crap through the damp mud.  If I mentioned my trip to anybody I knew, they would have talked me out of it.  

         They always had. 

         Thankfully, there wasn’t a single person who could turn me away from trying this time; I drove as far as the vehicle could go, right up until the point where it could go no further. I killed the engine, and reclined in the leather seat for what felt like the final time. I wasn’t keeping up with the monthly payments on the thing, so they sent an E-mail informing me that they were about to repossess it. I didn't mind - they knew where to find it, and I wouldn't be in need of the thing once I was done.  

          Away from the city, the wind that howled outside my window was a welcome relief. The seagulls outside couldn’t tell me I was worthless - even if it was true -  and my wife was free to take whatever she wanted from the house. She could have it all - divorce proceedings are usually a lot simpler when one party was dead, right? Fucking ungrateful bitch.  

         I stopped that thought in its tracks; it wasn't fair, she didn't ask for any of the arguments and overdue payments. Deanne was an absolute angel. I knew damn well that I wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. This person crept in slowly, replacing the happy-go-lucky guy I used to be. Maybe that guy was a figment of my imagination, that this was the genuine me. I opened the door, hit with a gust of wind. I took one last look at the keys in my hand - realizing that this was the point of no return - and tossed them against the passenger seat. The air cut through my clothes, sending shivers down my spine. Big dark clouds loomed in the distance, and they grew nearer with every passing minute. For a brief moment, I couldn’t move; maybe this wasn’t the answer, that I could turn tail and head back, to try and work things out with the car broker and Deanne.  

          The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with the sort of brain fog that I was accustomed to by now. I began shuffling - and it really was shuffling - up the rest of that blasted hill, my shoes instantly soiled by the mud. It really didn’t matter much to me. The water would clean that right off...  

          Were they going to find me when everything was said and done? Would I be swept out to sea, never to return? Would my body be caught in the seaweeds, held down forever? Those questions scared me, as did the ocean. Away from the arguments with my wife - and the face I put on for absolutely everybody else - I pondered precisely how I was gonna go. I was afraid of the water - always had been - so I decided I’d drown. It would send the appropriate message - that I was so pathetic that I couldn’t even overcome my fears. I wanted that on any eulogy people bothered to come up with - Nixon McGuinness, nothing but an inconvenience. The world is better off without him.  
 
         I felt a lump in my throat, and my eyes watered, but I stuffed it back down again. It was the truth, I was just going to have to accept it. At least when it was over, I’d no longer have to feel like this.  
 
         My calves burned as I climbed even higher, my teeth chattered from the cold, and those seagulls were really getting annoying now. They swooped down every so often, probably looking for some food, I guessed. I ignored them as best I could, my eyes set squarely on the top of the hill.  
 
         My phone rang, but I ignored it; it really could have been anybody, probably the missus, asking where I was. I felt it buzz inside my pocket, until they stopped. They didn’t bother to try again - good.  
 
         The top of the cliff gave me some sort of respite, and I had to admit, the view wasn’t the worst thing in the world; there really was no protection from the edge, there must have been at least sixty feet between me and the waves, the vast expanse of the sea opened up for me. In the distance, a freighter ship loomed, waiting for entry into the port, no doubt. I watched that for a little while, hugging my sides underneath my jumper in an effort to keep warm. It was pretty funny, how I was dead set on dying, yet a little chill bothered me. I had spent too many weeks feeling nothing at all, no sort of stimuli, to go back now. My eyes began to sting, and my feet tingled. I inched ever closer, risking a sly glance to the drop below; the tide was out, so the rocks beneath were jagged and exposed. It’d be the middle of the afternoon before the waves would come back in, hopefully taking me miles away from here. My chest felt a little tighter, my heart raced, ironically more alive than I had been for so long. I thought about my family, what they were going to think about all of this. I thought about my therapist, and all the questions I had either dodged or flat-out couldn’t answer. I felt like I let him down, that he couldn’t help me. Wasn’t his fault, I wasn’t doing my part to follow through with his recommendations. I thought of Edgar from work, the only pal who really understood what I was going through. The guy was going to be devastated. I only hoped that he managed to forgive me one day. I didn’t believe in the afterlife, but if such a thing existed, I’d love to go for one more drink with that loser, try to explain things to him by those pearly gates... 

          “Hey!” That voice came from out of nowhere, startling me. Was I followed?

          The voice wasn’t familiar, old and frail. I put my social mask on immediately - plastered on a smile - and turned around to greet the owner of that voice; he was a complete stranger, hunched over and balding in patches. His nose burned bright-red, pretty much covered in brown tweed clothing. He was a few feet away from me, and he wasn’t particularly enjoying the windy weather, either.  

         “Hey!” I called back, disgusted with how fake my optimism sounded. I really wasn’t in the mood to have a conversation.  

         “Storm’s gonna hit pretty soon! Got a shack up here if ya’ wanna get out of the rain and grab a cup of tea!”  

         “I’m good!” I yelled in response, most of it lost to the wind. “But thanks!” 

          “Ya’ sure? I could use the company for a lil’ while!” Honestly, I didn’t give a shit about keeping him company. I just wanted to get rid of him so I could jump off the bloody cliff and get it over and done with. Still, he must have known that - this place was sealed off for a reason.  

          “I’ll leave ya’ go about your business afterwards!” He added. He wasn’t going to leave me alone.  

          “Sure, OK!” It felt like a defeat, but I just had to humor him for a little while. I had plenty of time to do what I wanted to do. I risked one last glance at the sea - that freighter ship had sailed to the other side of the cliff edge - and reluctantly moved towards him. He slapped me on the arm, like I was an old friend that he hadn’t seen for the longest time. One thing was for sure, he was right about that storm; it suddenly began to pelt rain, mixed with hail. I gritted my (still rattling) teeth and followed him towards the tiniest cabin I had ever seen, the only thing even vaguely resembling a building up here, completely alone. He fumbled for his key, plenty of grunting and cussing, before he found it in his pocket.  

         I didn’t want to admit it, but I was grateful for the heat when I walked inside; it was nice and bright, a fire cackled in the fireplace, while a makeshift island kitchen dissected the center of the room. Photos ordained the walls, plenty of different faces alongside his. He placed his kettle on top of an old-fashioned gas hob, lighting it from underneath.  

         “You got a lovely home.” I felt obliged to say. There was no harm in telling the truth, I suppose.  

         “Built with my bare hands.” He replied. “Should had bought me a pair of gloves, wouldn’ believe the amount of splinters I got.” 

         “I bet.” 

          “Have a seat, make yerself at home!” The rain pounded against his tiny, single-glazed windows. I knew for a fact that he wasn’t going to leave me go for a while.  

          “I’ll stand, thanks.” 

          “You in a hurry?” 

          “It can wait.” I responded, deadpan.  

          “Gotta say, not a lot of people come up to this part of the area. Must had taken you a good long while.”  

          “You could say that.” The kettle began to wail, a high-pitched scream as steam shot out. His shaky hand grabbed it and set it aside on the counter next to it, fetching a pair of cups. 

          “Always nice to have a bit of company, my young’uns always ask me why I’m holed up here, on top of a hill away from everything else.” He chuckled, dropping a tea bag into each cup. “They bring me the things I need from the shops, I’d be lost without ‘em.” 

          “They sound lovely.” I told him. This small-talk was excruciating, it was everything I wanted to avoid. I accepted my cup and sipped it slowly - it was great, in fairness to him - and glanced outside the window as I waited for the storm to pass.  

          “So tell me a lil’ about yerself.” He asked me, planting himself into an armchair, breathing out a sigh of relief as he held his hands out to the fire.  

          “Not much to tell, I’m afraid.” 

          “Everybody has a story to tell.” He countered, reclining further into his chair, completely at ease. “Take it from me, kid. Been ‘round long enough to know that we all got our tales.” 

          “What if I don’t want to tell mine?” There was a bit of venom in that question, but I really didn’t want to be here. He noticed, because that smile he had faltered a little bit.  

          “That’s perfectly fine!” 

          “Great, now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna head back out there.” I emptied my cup into the sink. “Thank you for having me, but I’d best be on my way.” I made my way towards the door, turning the handle on the blasted thing as I mentally prepared myself to carry out the decision I made.  

          “Ya’ think yer the first person to jump off of that cliff?” His question sucked the air out of my lungs. My hand was stuck on the knob, unable to move it. All I had to do was leave, walk towards the cliff, and keep walking even when there wasn’t any ground underneath me. Why was that suddenly so difficult?  

          “Ya' clearly didn’t walk all the way out here, and there are no tracks for yer car. Ya’ came for a reason, and it wasn’t to pay an old man a visit.” He continued, but that smile had vanished. Now he looked concerned. Just like everybody else. My hand was still on the doorknob, but it was shaking.  

          “Maybe I just wanted to take a break for a sec, get out of the city for a little bit, right?” 

          “In that weather?” He pressed, and we both knew I was lying. I didn’t know why I was still keeping up appearances, to be honest.  

          “I can just leave, you know. Even if that was something I wanted to do, there’s nothing you can do about it! So I’m gonna say this again; I’d best be on my way!” The door was opened, and the wind almost knocked me back a step or two. That damn hail stung my eyes, my hands numbed almost instantly. The fire winked out of existence immediately, suddenly darkening the living room. I swore pretty loudly and slammed it shut again.  

          “I’m sorry, alright? Lemme start that fire again for you.” The words fell on deaf ears. The old man peeled himself off of his chair and moved towards a cabinet, grabbing some wood and a lighter.  

          “Speaking of stories, I’ll tell ya' mine.” He began, crouching down and arranging the little sticks of wood around the smoking remains of the fire. “Ya’ see, I don’ exactly live ‘ere because of the real estate, I’m ‘ere for a reason.” He struck one of the matches, creating a tiny spark. Seconds later, the branches began to crackle. “I used to be like yerself, many moons ago. Gotta whole lotta bills and a whole lotta enemies back then, lemme tell ya'. I came up ‘ere, just like you had.” Satisfied that the fire would burn unattended, he stood back up again, something which clearly took a lot of effort on his part. “I won’ say I know exactly what yer’ feeling, but I used to be in that dark place, that real dark place, the kind that made ya' feel like a monster.” 

          “I’m... I’m sorry to hear that.” I knew damn fucking well what he was doing, trying to make me feel guilty about what I wanted to do. He was lying, he had to be, there was no way he could understand how I felt. He was only saying all of that to de-escalate the situation! 

          “I was stopped by a constable back then, still talk to ‘em after all this time, and I’ll never forget what he did for me. Miles Conway, still bright and cherry in his ninties. Told ‘em that I didn’t belong ‘ere, that people didn’t deserve saving. This was just after the war, mind you. A man can only see enough suffering before he wants it to end.” 

           I stood where I was, my hand was still on the door, trying to imagine what he must had gone through, what he must had seen. I hated to admit it, but there was no way that he could have come up with that story on the spot. I felt angry with myself for even thinking that, breaking through the fog.  

         “I told ‘em straight out, told ‘em that the bombing was too much, the rations were too much, the friends I lost along the way. All too much. You know what he did? Asked me to come back to his place, have a cup of tea by the fire, no judgement. We all ‘ave stories, and none of them are smooth sailing, kid. Not a single one.” 

         “You must have felt like a complete burden.” I responded, shaking from head to toe, and it wasn’t from the cold.  

         “I felt pathetic. Felt like the lowest of the low, telling myself that he had his own problems, and he didn’t ‘ave to listen to mine. I told ‘em as much, but the man was stubborn and wasn’ having any of my crap. He poured me one of the finest cuppas I ever ‘ad, and we swapped stories about the war. Gotta tell you, we were both teary-eyed after it, but by the end of it he asked me if I felt any better.” 

         “Did you?” 

         “What I felt didn’t disappear, kid. But just to talk about how we felt, it was enough of a chink to get me back to my house, back into my bed. He told me to ‘ave a think about things, to sleep on it, an’ if I felt the same way he offered me to come back to his place again.”  

          I didn’t know what to say, listening to this man pouring out his entire life story to me. I felt guilty for even being there. My lip quivered for just a moment, but I stuffed that feeling back down again.  

         “How often did you go back to his house?” 

         “Every single day, for almost two years.” He admitted, gazing longingly at the flames. “I always woke up wanting to come back ‘ere, so I’d walk to his house and knock on his door, an’ I’d tell him. We’d sit back down again, we’d read the paper, look at the recovery effort, read ‘bout the soldiers coming back from home for the first time in years. He always tol’ me about the peace we had now that the fighting stopped. Always looked on the bright side of things, even when I couldn’t.” 

         “I don’t have anyone like that.” I told him. No, not even Edgar counted.  

         “Well, my door’s always open.” He pointed out.  

          I just stood there in silence for a few seconds, trying to process all of that. 

          “Our situations are completely different.” I said, still shaking.  

          “Yer right, they are. Some of it is pretty similar. You tried to brush off how ya' really felt when you first saw me. Yer not the one to openly talk ‘bout how ya' feel, probably been keeping it locked up for pretty long, huh?” That comment stung, and stung hard. My throat felt tight, like somebody pressed their hand up against it, stifling my voice.  

          “Can I ask, what’s yer name?” He continued, walking back towards the kettle, filling it back up again before it was placed back on that hob.  

          “Nixon.” I admitted, hoarse and defeated.  

          “Arthur Helmsway.” He replied, offering out his hand to me. I didn’t accept it for a few moments, but he never retracted it. “If ya' still feel like throwing yerself off of that cliff, ya' can always come in for a cuppa and a chat, or I can come on down to ya!” Something about that had me in bits, I felt like a monster for even thinking of planning to do what I wanted to do. I eventually shook his hand, but not before I completely broke down, no longer able to hide how I felt.  

          “I’m such a horrible person!” Here I was, crying in the middle of a fucking stranger’s house. My face burned hot and I couldn’t stop that damn shaking. Arthur must have felt it in my hand, because he petted it with the other. The kettle screeched again, and before I knew it, the hand was replaced with a warm cup, a single tea bag floated inside it, with some honey thrown in for good measure.  

          “C’mon, take a seat. Got a while before the weather passes.” Arthur commented, and when I wiped the tears from my eyes, I reluctantly accepted. I sat on his tiny sofa - a lot softer than it looked - while he switched on the radio for a bit of background noise.  

          I spent hours in that cabin, telling him my story in the same level of honesty that he had. Honestly, I visited him every single day for weeks afterwards. He told me why he built his cabin in the very place he wanted to end it all; he dedicated his life to helping people who arrived from all corners of the country, offering them a cup of tea and a chat. 

          I lost the car. My divorce was finalized. I was massively in debt. I was left with almost nothing but the roof over my head and the bills to keep it that way, and even that was barely covered by my wages.  

          But I was alive.