Suicide Point. Its name pretty much explains itself. It was where people went to die. They’d go to the woods in which the point was located, climb up the peak, and walk to the edge. Many people just kept on walking over the edge, and fall 100 or so feet to their death. Others hesitated, and weren’t sure if they should go or not. I remember myself, holding onto the edge of the cliff, looking down. There was a huge blood stain at the bottom of the Point. Would I just add to the blood stain? What would I do?

I felt myself starting to want to puke again. I had done it three times on my way up the peak. I would just duck in the grass, and then make sure that no one saw me, even though I knew that I was alone. As I knelt on the peak, my hands holding onto the edge of the point, blood traveling through the lines in my palms, I felt the stomach acid come up, and I puked over the edge of the Point. I watched the blood coming from my hands stain the light, chalky brown stone of the Point. I held onto it with my last remaining thoughts.

Standing up, I looked at my hands. They were covered in dust, and the blood was mixing with it. There was dirt in my cuts, but I didn’t care. It’d all be over soon. People would wonder where I went, and find me days, maybe even weeks or months, later at the bottom of Suicide Point. They’d know what had happened to me. It wouldn’t have been a homicide. I would have jumped off the edge. Walked off, rather.

I knew I had no life to live for if I didn’t jump. I knew that if I did jump, I’d probably not die, just hurt myself, and end up paralyzed for the rest of my life. I inched my way onto the absolute edge of the peak, the toes of my shoes hanging over the edge. I put my arms out, struggling to balance. I knew what I had to do…