On the Edge

The air is crisp and cold, there is a rather heavy breeze in the air. With every step I take forward, a part of me wants to take another step back. Each time I breathe in, my lungs do not want to let the air back out. My fingers are numb from the cold night air, how I wish I had taken my jacket. But that all does not matter, none of it does. Life itself does not matter to me; all I care about is where I am going, not where I have been.
I come to the entrance of an alleyway on my right, which I turn into. I walk down and around until I reach the back of the large, abandoned storehouse. My fingers reluctantly wrap themselves around the metal handle, freezing as it was. I pull it up and push against the door with my whole body, as though even the door was trying to stop me. I am able to push it open just enough to squeeze through, and then I let it slam back into place behind me, producing a sound that was quite loud, but one that will go unnoticed to those on the streets outside.

View this story's 2 comments.