Life always finds a way…

by Krishsudama

I stood on the edge of the parapet wall. My father, a very cautious man, had instructed the builder to construct it unusually high and a little wider than necessary. With some effort, I hoisted myself onto the concrete ledge and slowly inched closer to the edge.

This four-storey mansion had been built with immense care and love by my parents. They loved the house and their possessions far more than their own children. If they had truly loved me, I would not be standing here, so close to this abyss.

I looked down.

Father’s Benz was parked carelessly in the driveway. I guessed he had been too drunk after last night’s party to park it properly in the garage.

My feet moved reluctantly towards the very edge and stopped abruptly. It was unusually chilly here. I clutched my woollen sweater, which barely protected me from the crisp, dawn air. The wind seemed to whisper, urging me to step away from the ledge—but my mind resisted.

I was too young to die. But was there anyone who truly cared whether I lived or died?

My little brother might search for me, perhaps cry a little, not understanding where I had gone. Mother and father might wipe away a tear or two—for the sake of society. Teachers and friends would hardly notice; I was always the backbencher they ignored.

So, no one would miss me.

Suddenly, I noticed golden streaks of the rising sun along the horizon. The garden below became clearer—the rose bushes directly beneath me now fully visible.

If I jump, will I fall onto those bushes? Won’t the thorns pierce me? I wondered.

Or perhaps I’ll hit the concrete driveway… Will there be excruciating pain, or will I die instantly?

The thoughts buzzed relentlessly in my mind. I lifted one foot, just to see how it would feel.

A sudden gust of wind made my body sway. Panic surged through me, and I quickly stepped back from the edge. I slowly sat down, my feet dangling over the parapet wall.

For the past few weeks, the urge to end my life had been steadily building. Both college and home had become unbearable.

At college, I understood nothing they taught. At home, I had no freedom. From the food I ate to the news that played on television, from the course I studied to the three course meals I was served—everything was decided by my parents. I had no say in anything.

I loved cooking. I had once told my father that I wanted to pursue a culinary course. Instead, he enrolled me in electrical engineering.

“Do you even know the difference between a socket and a switch?” I can hear the sneer in the professor’s voice. My ears still burn from the cruel laughter of my classmates.

It’s true—I don’t understand anything about electrons and their flow, or the difference between volts and watts. I am not cut out for this gibberish. My heart belongs to the rhythm of the kitchen—to mincing meat and dicing onions.

The sky shifted from grey to gold. Along the horizon, storm clouds began to gather. But was anyone aware of the storm brewing within me?

No one would miss me downstairs. Mother and father wouldn’t wake for another four hours. They believe their duty ends with providing me with their version of food, shelter, and education. To them, I have no other needs. They never sat with me, never helped me with my homework. The maid wouldn’t enter my room unless I called her. Even if I jumped from here, no one would notice me lying amidst the rose bushes—for at least two days.

Here I was, trying to die—yet my tongue longed for a cup of hot coffee. Should I go down, have a cup, and then come back… and die? I rubbed my numbing legs, trying to bring back some feeling. Slowly, I stood up once more, as if to try again. I walked gingerly along the parapet wall, searching for the “right” spot to jump from.

The view had changed. Below me lay the kitchen garden. I could see rows of ripe, juicy tomatoes glowing in the morning light. I wondered if our cook ever plucked them fresh for the salads.

I could slowly feel the warmth of the rising sun on my skin. A strange thought crossed my mind—I would probably get a good tan… something for the men in the mortuary to admire.

I stood there, debating which foot to lift for the much-awaited jump. Then I heard voices from the garden below. The cook and the gardener were strolling through the kitchen garden. They paused behind the mulberry bush, taking long, unhurried puffs from their cigarettes. Neither of them even glanced up.

I quickly climbed down from the parapet wall and ducked out of sight, just in case they saw me. I sat there until the voices faded.

I glanced at my watch and realized the house would soon be stirring for breakfast. My parents always had a late brunch; the early breakfast was meant only for my brother and me. Since it was the weekend, the maid didn’t bother me with the usual breakfast routine.

I had all the time in the world to die. When I felt the coast was clear, I climbed back onto the wall and peered down cautiously. No one was there. The air was filled with the pleasant smells of the neighbourhood. In the distance, the red-and-yellow McDonald’s sign glowed in the morning sun. I remembered the mouth-watering Egg McMuffins and the caramel macchiato. I wanted one last, sumptuous breakfast from McDonald’s.

Should I die now… or later? I stood there, caught in hesitation. The bright sun, the chirping birds, and the wafting smells from the kitchen nudged me away from the edge.

Is it really worth dying? I wondered. If my death makes no difference to anyone else, why should I die at all?

I slowly stepped off the parapet wall and walked back to my room. My brother was sleeping peacefully, and my parents’ bedroom door remained shut. The house was silent, except for the occasional clatter of utensils from the kitchen. I walked into my father’s study and opened his drawer. Beneath a manila folder lay a neat wad of dollars. There was more, but I took only what I thought would be enough to survive for a month.

I returned to my room and packed a bag with the essentials—things that would keep me safe on the road for as long as possible. I carefully tucked some dollars into my pant pocket and hid the rest in my bag. Grabbing my jacket and phone, I made my way to the garage, where my old Prius was parked.

Then I took out a sheet of paper and a pen from the dashboard and wrote a note to my parents and my brother.

I kept it simple:

Goodbye.

I will be safe, somewhere in this world.

Please don’t look for me. I’m not going very far…

I walked over to my mother’s car and slipped the note between the wiper and the windshield. Standing on the driveway, I looked up at the mansion. My eyes were drawn instantly to the spot where I had stood just a few hours ago. It felt surreal—to be alive.

Oh God… what was I thinking? A shiver ran down my spine as the reality sank in. The thought of jumping from that height made me tremble. How had I even come so close to ending my life? A moment of despair—that was all it took.

I went back to the garage and took a few long breaths, trying to steady myself. These precious breaths reminded me of the purpose of my life. My death might not have made any difference to my family or friends—but my choosing to live life on my own terms could make me a whole new person.

I took the steering into my hands—both the car’s and my life’s!