the ones we run to

is it death, or is it grace?

He stands at the edge, —inhale, exhale— feels the wind ruffle his hair, and sighs.

A step forward; he peers down, and all it takes for it to go away, all it takes for everything to stop—

To end it all, to not have to face the possibilty of every new day. The anger, the pain, the overwhelming, crushing feeling of numbness.

All of it gone if—

If he just... falls.

Peter swallows, —down, down, down, all of it— staring at those streets below, the faint sound of traffic in the distance; the people he will never get to know.

People that would never know about his one. measly. life.

The thought is paralysing, realising just how small and insignificant he is, and whether it really mattered, or if people would care, if they knew that he were here.

Standing on the edge, thinking of just ending it all.

Yet—

...Yet he just can't seem to let go—

To fall, to end it all.

Even if he's tired, even if he's done.

He understands.

And perhaps, he had always understood.

Peter... doesn't want to die.

He had never, never wished for death.

Never.

That thought echoes in his mind, —over and over— like a mantra screaming, 'I don't want this. I don't want to die—'

It bubbles within him, the hysteria rising, almost like a swirling vortex of whirlpools drowning him, escaping through his eyes as pleas.

"Help me."

He whispers, hands outreached, sounds of traffic drowning and drowning and taking his voice away. Hiding away all he's ever wanted, all he's ever wished for.

"...Help—"

Because that's how the world works.

Ignore the weak, show cruelty like no other; because people like him didn't deserve to be saved.

Not if—

Not if Peter couldn't even be strong enough to face his own demons.

And now...

Now it's a chilling thought, wondering, "...What happens next?" 

He had wanted someone, hadn't he? Someone —anyone— to save him, to be his hero.

But...

I suppose not everyone gets what they wish for.

He takes a step forward.

Breathes.

Peers down to the busy streets, trying to ignore the steady pounding of his heart, drowning and drowning his mind's cries.

Thump.

No.

Thump.

I don't—

This isn't what I want—

Thump.

Help me.