Helen Brown

My thoughts revolve around the intricacies of life and death as I perch on the ledge with one foot on either side and gaze down at the sparkling streets of Boston from the twelfth storey. My reflections are not centred on my own death because I have a stake in finishing my story. I'm more intrigued by the mysterious attraction of people who decide to cut their lifelines too short. Do they feel a hint of remorse in that fleeting moment between letting go and the ultimate impact? A brief moment of regretting their final, irreversible choice? Or is it a firm, unrelenting dive into the uncharted territory below? Death is on my mind a lot these days, especially after I gave what can only be called an appalling eulogy twelve hours ago in Plethora, Maine. The eulogy lacked the grandeur that made Brooke Shields's tribute at Michael Jackson's funeral or Steve Jobs's sister's moving remarks stand out in history. However, it carried a different significance for my mother and me—one that could result in her giving us the quiet treatment for a whole year. My father, Simon Brown, the esteemed mayor of Plethora, prosperous real estate magnate, spouse of Jenny Brown, and father of me, Helen Brown, the girl who once caused scandal in her family by falling in love with a homeless man, was the one attending the burial. Before I said those words today, I was jittery. It was, after all, for the legendary Simon Brown. However, as soon as I said the last word, I took the first flight to Boston, fleeing my third-floor flat and my singing flatmate who was too enamoured of her own voice. But the rooftop wasn't precisely the haven I had imagined. The freezing cold aches and makes me regret my hurried departure, yet above me the night sky is a canvas of sparkling stars that makes my concerns seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Finding comfort in insignificance is a strange kind of consolation. I savoured this particular moment. Okay, this is in the past tense now. But the silence is broken as the door behind me flings open so violently that I half expect someone to fly onto the roof. The door slams shut, and the sound of running feet gets closer. I stay put, out of the newcomer's line of sight behind the ledge, hoping he won't notice me. They left so quickly; it's not my fault if they think this communal area is theirs to themselves. I leaned against the stucco wall and sighed softly, feeling irritated that the cosmos was robbing me of my time for introspection. I hear an unsaid prayer in my head, pleading for the newcomer to be a lady rather than a man. I'd rather have female company if I have to share this rooftop. Even though I'm tough and can hold my own most of the time, there's a slight undertone of fear in me when I consider myself alone on a rooftop in the middle of the night with a stranger. It might make me want to go, upsetting the tranquilly I've discovered here. I'm also comfortable right now, which is something I'm not prepared to give up easy. I reluctantly let my eyes wander to the figure hanging over the railing. It feels that fate is making fun of my wishes. He is definitely a man. Despite his slight inclination, his imposing presence is evident even from this distance. His head nestled in his hands, his massive shoulders a sharp contrast to his vulnerable pose. I can feel the weight of his labouring breaths, how each one is an effort to take and an even harder effort to release. The man seems to be on the verge of losing his mind. He turns swiftly and lashes out at a patio chair nearby while I wonder if I should cough to notify him or announce my presence. I can't help but tremble as I hear the chair across the deck shriek. Nevertheless, the man persists in his turmoil, the chair taking the brunt of his rage as it shifts but does not give in to the constant assault. The strongest marine-grade polymer needed for the chair needs to withstand his assault. I remember a similar incident where my father, frustrated, fought with outside furniture made of the same material, but he managed to leave it unharmed. The man stops, now standing over the chair with his fists clenched at his sides, as if realising the folly of attacking such fine material. I can't help but get a little envious. Here he is, doing a cathartic act to vent his fury. Unlike this man who finds an outlet in the moment, I bottle up my aggression until it surfaces as subtle indications of passive-aggressive behaviour during difficult days that we both experience. Gardening has been my haven in the past. During stressful times, the simple act of removing weeds provided comfort. But that haven't existed since I moved to Boston, where I don't even have a backyard or a bit of land. Not a patio, not a backyard, not a single w**d in sight. It's possible that I should buy a marine-grade polymer patio chair as a way to vent my resentment and find a concrete outlet for my feelings. I'm waiting for the man to move while I watch him in a brief standoff. Still, he stares fixedly at the chair, as though it has the answers to all his problems. His hands, which had been clenched in anger, are now resting on his hips. At that moment, I become aware of how tightly his shirt fits around his biceps, exerting pressure on the sheer size of his arms. They're out of proportion, the material stretched around his bulky frame, giving the impression that he's been to the gym a lot. Lost in this thought, he fumbles in his pockets until he finds what he's looking for—a joint. At twenty-three, I have a lot of experience with college life, including the occasional indulgence in leisure activities. I don't hold it against him if he decides to turn to smoking in private for comfort. But the irony lingers—he's not in private; he's just not aware of it. I observe that he intends to decompress, maybe with the help of the soothing vapours of smoking. We've made the rooftop our unintentional shared area, and although I understand his desire for a release, I can't help but feel torn between admitting that I'm here and keeping my distance from this covert activity. Tension-filled, the moment stretches out into a peaceful nighttime symphony, broken only now and again by the gentle buzz of distant city sounds and the rustle of the man's motions. He ignites, his features briefly illuminated by the flame that casts a flickering glow against the night's darkness. It's an odd dance, this careful balancing act between letting him know I'm here and keeping his privacy intact. Unbeknownst to him, a strange turn of events brings us together on this rooftop area. And there I am in this dreamlike scene, debating whether to come out of my hiding place or stay there and watch this private moment of his liberation as an anonymous bystander. But I'm no longer a spectator. The man turns abruptly and heads for the rooftop access door, pausing only briefly before opening it. "Hello? Is anyone up there?" His voice echoes through the night, and my heart sinks. I was so careful not to make a sound! But there was something else, a faint scent of cologne that drifted past me in his wake. It's a warm and sensual scent that fills my nose with a woody aroma, a blend of bergamot, sandalwood, and cedar, and something else I can't place. The man's aftershave is an intoxicating blend, and my mouth is parched as I wonder what it would taste like on his skin. My brain is working overtime, and I've lost track of time. I've no idea how long I've been sitting here, daydreaming. The man clears his throat. "I know you're here. You can come out now." The man's voice is deep and husky, the words slightly muffled. His tone is a little too loud and clear, making me wonder if he's talking to himself. I'm about to come clean, and my hand is on the edge of the lounger. Then, as quickly as he arrived, the man turns around and leaves the rooftop. The door closes behind him with a bang. My eyes are wide, and I'm staring at the closed door. A million thoughts run through my mind, each one more ridiculous than the last. I can't help but wonder if the man knew I was up here the entire time, and his performance was nothing more than a ploy