Dumped, Actually(15)

‘Let me go!’ he screams, dangling over the precipice and squirming for all he’s worth.

‘No!’ I scream back, tasting blood as it streams from my nose. The flip-flop wobbles on my head, but does not come off. This is due to the fact that I’m rigid with a combination of fear and determination to not let this suicidal fool go. I can’t look down at him as I might lose my grip if I do, so I stare right out in front of me at that beautiful sunset, the cords standing out on my neck with the strain of holding up a fully grown man.

‘Fucking let me go!’

‘No, Wimsy! You have to live!’

‘I don’t want to live!’

‘You must, Wimsy! Life goes on!’

‘No, it doesn’t!’

‘Yes! Yes, it does! No matter what happens to you, you have to keep going! No matter how much it hurts! Things can get better! Things will get better!’

I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Wimsy now, or myself.

‘Oh, bugger off, mate! Just let me go!’

Wimsy bucks his hips, trying to free himself from my death clutch.

‘No, Wimsy! I can’t! I can’t let you go!’ Samantha’s face flashes through my mind as I say this, for some reason.

Wimsy struggles for a few more seconds, but I still have a good enough hold on him to stop him from getting away from me. My arms are really starting to burn with pain now. If I can’t get him back up here soon, I’m going to let him go through sheer exhaustion.

And then all the fight goes out of him, and I’m holding on to a dead weight.

‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he wails, arms dangling. ‘You’re a total bastard, chief.’

‘Maybe! But I’m right, though, aren’t I?! This isn’t the right thing to do! Neither of us should be up here! Neither of us should be even thinking about doing this!’ I grunt with effort as Wimsy’s dead weight gets even heavier. I have to convince him to climb back up. ‘Please don’t lose hope, Wimsy! Please, please don’t. Because I don’t want to . . . and if you fall, I just might.’

‘Oh . . . fuck me,’ he says, with heavy resignation in his voice. ‘Why did I have to bump into you this evening?’

‘Luck?’ I venture, feeling my grip really beginning to slip on Wimsy’s rather hairy shins.

He chuckles at this. There’s still a crazed edge to his laughter. ‘Why?’ he sighs, shaking his head. ‘Why? Why? WHY?’ He doesn’t seem to be addressing me now, but some unknown third party. I can’t say I blame him. Wimsy has been dealt an extremely bad hand in life, and I can understand him wanting a few words with the dealer.

‘Why?! Why?! WHY?!’ he screams a few more times, looking up at me as he does so. ‘Why?! Why?! Wh—’

He stops, staring at me.

‘Why have you got a flip-flop on your head?’ he asks in astonishment.

I stare off into the distance for a moment. I have no idea why I have a flip-flop on my head. There are many things about my life I don’t have an answer for, but this is currently the strangest of them.

I certainly don’t know what I came up here to this car park for. Not really.

Maybe it was to seek some solace. Maybe it was to seek some answers. Maybe it was to flirt with something that would stop the questions.

I just don’t know.

I wasn’t planning on having a nosebleed with a flip-flop on my head, though. That’s for sure as cobblers.

For some reason, this makes me laugh. I haven’t laughed since Thorn Manor. It feels quite alien.

Wimsy also starts to laugh again, though this time it’s a cleaner sound. Gone is that edge of insanity.

So, for a few moments, we laugh together. Him dangling over the edge, and me holding on to him for dear life.

‘Oh God,’ he eventually says, looking down for a second at the gulf of space between him and the concrete below. ‘Oh fuck, I’ve gone and bottled it now,’ he adds tremulously. ‘You’d better pull me up.’

That’s easier said than done. Almost all of the strength is gone from my arms.

I solve the precarious situation by folding Wimsy’s lower legs over the car park wall with one arm, while leaning over to grab his England vest with the other. As I do this, he pushes away from the wall with his hands, pivoting his body upwards.

I feel something give in my bicep as I yank him to safety. I’m going to be on the ibuprofen for the next few days, without a doubt.

As Wimsy returns to an upright sitting position, the whole front of the vest rips, destroying his one remaining piece of clothing that isn’t floral.

I succeed in pulling him off the wall completely, and we both collapse next to each other on the car park floor, breathing heavily. Above us, the pink sky is darkening to red as the sun dips lower. Thankfully, my nose appears to have stopped bleeding, though it still feels very tender.

‘Well, what do we do now?’ Wimsy asks after a few moments, staring up at the colourful sky overhead.

‘I have no idea,’ I say, truthfully.

I may have moved away from the idea of ending it all, but I still feel like my life is over. I’m still lonely and heartbroken.

All I know now is that chucking myself off a car park is no bloody solution. There must be something more constructive I can do to get over this. What that is, though, I really do have no idea.