Chapter 2

This time, just as I'd fantasized, I drew all the liquid from the bottle into the syringe. Although I wasn't sure what dosage would cause cardiac arrest, this much should be enough.

I rolled up my sleeve and placed the syringe needle tip against the exposed vein on my forearm. When the needle pierced my skin, I instinctively flinched.

My thumb, pressing on the plunger, just wouldn't push down.

Jack, what do you have left to cling to?! You've fallen out with your parents, lost your job, cut ties with almost all your friends, and now even your girlfriend, whom you consider your pillar of support, has betrayed you.

Family, friendship, love, career... you have nothing left. Why not just leave this world? Even being a rich family's dog in the next life would be better than a life like this.

But why was my thumb trembling so violently?

Push it, push it down! I suddenly screamed like a madman, looking utterly insane, then instantly lost all strength and threw the syringe aside.

I heard many suicide victims regretted it just before death. Turned out it was true. I knew why my thumb couldn't push down. It was simple: I was scared, I was afraid of dying!

The will to live is a biological instinct, and suicide is resisting that instinct. Many people want to die but fear pain, and in the end, after suffering pain, they go to the hospital, which shows they still have a will to live deep down inside.

Dang it, dang it, Jack, you coward!

The honking suddenly stopped. I stood up, walked to the edge of the rooftop, and leaned over to look down. The noisy Mercedes downstairs was finally driving away.

Suddenly, I had another idea. Wendy and that man's room was directly above the hotel entrance. They were doing their "thing" on the balcony right now. If I jumped down from right above them, would they notice me falling from the sky?

That man, in the throes of passion, might be scared limp at the sight of me falling from the sky and become impotent from then on. Wendy would panic seeing my bloody, messed-up corpse at the hotel entrance, then wail in remorse.

My parents would probably forgive me after I died. They would lean on each other, gazing at my remains, and murmur words of grief.

Friends I hadn't contacted in ages would also mourn me. They'd all post "RIP, Jack" followed by a candle emoji on their social media.

I fantasized about everything that would happen after my death, satisfying myself with the imagined grief of my family and friends.

Of course I knew that imagining all this was pathetic and despicable, but I couldn't help myself because only by doing so could I feel that I was someone whom people cared about rather than a dispensable existence.

Jumping also had one other benefit: once I took that step, even if I regretted it, it would be too late. Falling from 26-stories high would mean certain death. Even if I regretted it, the regret would only last for two seconds before I hit the ground. The pain would be quick. I just had to close my eyes and it would be all over.

Yes, let's do it.

I lifted my foot and placed it on the parapet wall. Slowly shifting my weight between my feet, I gradually climbed onto it. I dared not look down. My legs felt weak, but when I imagined Wendy's expression of remorse, my trembling stopped.

I looked down and moved to the spot directly above the main entrance. There was no wind today, so my body should land right at the doorway.

Goodbye, my failed and boring life.

I closed my eyes and was about to leap off when an ill-timed phone ringtone blared.