It is the month of quiet, sleepy afternoons. The time when you lazily gaze out of your open window, a glass of fresh lemonade in hand, wearing nothing but a pair of swimming trunks because the heat is too much to handle, too much to bother to put on decent clothes; the skin burns.

I hear him before seeing him.

The greeting is curt and he says it as he slams the truck door shut. The elderly woman, my neighbor, engulfs him in a loving hug, throwing all possible loving words at the young boy as he stands there, not bothered. He looks bored, out of place.If only I could go away, away from this place. Help, this place is suffocating me. Take me somewhere, anywhere, far away. Just take me away.The pale arms hang there, holding onto nothing. Come here, come to me. I'll take you away, away to wherever you want. I'll give you something to hold in those hands of yours, come with me.

I stand and stare. Him unloading his bicycle from the old, bitten, truck, him wiping away the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his billowy shirt, him running his wet tongue over his his lips after finishing his drink. Him, him, him.

The woman's voice fades away as she drags the boy inside the house, right next to mine. I can hear her excitement as she shows around the house, proud. She is joyful and childlike, she wants to show him everything, tell him all the tales because not often do people come and bother to visit her. "Did you know how badly your father had scraped his knee when he fell over there, right over there..."

I'm sitting in my veranda right now, her merry voice echoes through the entire neighborhood and now as they come upstairs, becomes more clearer. The window beside my balcony is still closed.

"This will be your room from now on, see? Oh, and look at this, this used to belong to your father. "

The window opens. " I forgot to tell you about this, I still haven't got the... Oh, look we have here! Nolan!"

I smile politely at the lady, despite my uncomfortableness. He is too close, too soon.

"Nolan, this is my grandson, Milo." She gestures towards him, "Milo, greet my handson neighbour, Nolan."

"Hi," he says, looking anywhere but at me while I try to hide my disappointment with a slight nod and a yes, I would definitely show him around the neighborhood, but you have to promise me to feed me one of those large apple pies of yours, haha, anything for you, Mrs. Jackson.

Why won't you look at me?

Happy 100th 23rd birthday to me!

The tea is running cold while I finish my illustration. The crumbs of my half eaten, lemon tea-cake trails a path leading to a roughly drawn boy, done by pieces of broken, old chalk, on the wooden table.

It's a typical Saturday morning with nobody else in the corner coffee shop other than me, the unwanted, and the girl, twirling a strand of her golden locks, standing behind the counter, the uninterested.

I am done with my drawing. The boy is now holding a pink balloon, its irregular shape forming a flamingo. The tea forgotten, the cake destroyed.

This is a good start.

I am dead.

Kill point for landing in water is 130 feet and the distance I have here, between the cliff and the Blue Whale river is 100 feet. I'm desperately hoping this gap is enough for a quick death.

Tear stains my red cheeks, eyes bloodshot. My long, unruly, brown hair covers my face when I look down at the smiley drawn on the left wrist. Looking up, I close my eyes and stretch my lips to form a smile. I jump.

I am not dead.

It was probably the way he said my name, the way each of the letters rolled out of his tongue.

Or maybe it was when he grabbed my hand for a quick shake but it felt like infinity as those electric signals proceeded to travel up my hand, my back, my chest, lower and lower until I could feel my legs melt into a puddle on the concrete floor.

But it definitely started that day, then and there.