Beyond the Precipice

by MyNameHere

Rating: teen
Tags: Human, Romance, Adventure
Length: 1507

It's not really the point of no return, just a hop beyond the precipice. Follow a human as he races to rediscover his past before his body fails to withstand the world.

When I started running The Writer's Group, I more or less gave up writing. Now that I've slowed down, I've taken the time to finally revisit one of my favorite stories! :D I've learned more than a few tricks over the last year, and I'm glad to finally put them to use ^O^ Try not to think much of the rating, as it's about a year old in set xD Take a chance on an ancient, rewritten story?
Description: It's not really the point of no return, just a hop beyond the precipice. Follow a human as he races to rediscover his past before his body fails to withstand the world.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-01-07 04:12:11 UTC

Prologue

His eyes washed over the table. Thin scratches covered the aged wood surface as the man ran his fingers along them. He likened them to waves in a sea; always shifting, changing with each interaction.  A few circular, brown marks tinted the oak grains, while a gentle hum emanated from the hanging bulb above. A gentle flicker made itself known as light swayed on its string. Mark couldn’t help but notice how the shifting shadows moved with the channels of the wood.

A voice cracked from across the table, and Mark’s view snapped up. The voice had belonged to a stick-like figure in a flannel suit. Furrowed brows and a slight frown were etched into its features. Around the man’s neck was a tightly pulled tie, not a degree off center, not a wrinkle in sight. This man’s name was Row.

“Are you going to answer me, Mark? We’ve only got tonight to make something happen.”

Mark fingers continued to run along the table’s surface, “I don’t know what to say, Row. You know that’s a loaded question.”

A grunt was gargled up in response.

“Don’t be like that, Row.”

The suited man stood, his chair squeaking as it slid backwards across the floor, and he leaned forward over the table. “Don’t be like what?”

“You’re making a bigger deal of this than it need-”

Papers flew across the table and into Mark’s face. For his credit, he only flinched back slightly.

“We have six hours, Mark! Six!” The red in the figure’s face was harsh in the dim light. The smell of sweat permeated through the stale air, stirred up by the commotion. Mark’s eyes floated closed and pried open again.

“Sit down, Row.”

The man snorted, his hands interlocked above his head. Aftering twisting around in the small, windowless room, he pulled his chair forward and dropped into it. “It’s over. We can’t do this.”

Mark was back to mapping the groves in the wood. “So we start from the beginning.”

The man’s head was shaking. “We have nothing to start with.”

The wood seemed to almost morph before his eyes. “We don’t need anything.”

The body across from him slouched. “That’s not how it works, Mark.”

Light scraping could be heard from the table. “We can make something out of nothing.”

A few seconds passed before a whisper carried itself across the table.  “Be realistic.”

“Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable!”

“...Row...Row I think you should leave.”

The man’s mouth opened slightly before locking closed. “Ay, captain. I’ll let you go down with your god forsaken ship.”

Mark was following a particularly long etch along the wood. It seemed to twist and split off at a fork. One line lead off the side of the surface, whilst the other seemed to circle in upon itself. In the dim light, a broken shadow of a walking man flicked across the wall. Mark chose a path to follow in the oak, and a door behind him clicked itself closed.

“What do you mean?” It was a heavy smack to the face.

“I’m sorry, Mark. We just can’t afford it this month.” A large gentleman in a butcher's smock looked down at his feet. “We just can’t. I wish we could...but we can’t.” The last few words had been more of a whisper.

Mark’s facade stood stoic. “I...I-uh,” he looked up at the large figure, and smiled. “I understand. Thanks... thanks for everything, though. It’s been a big help over the years.” The large man dropped a shaky palm onto Mark’s shoulder. A frown and a gentle nod followed suit. An awkward goodbye, and Mark was splashing his way out of the alley.

Soup kitchens don’t run so well without donations, and that had been his last major supplier. This had been going on for months. Backer after backer dropping out. Small donations dwindling to nothing. The city was falling around him and Mark had nothing to do but watch. Passing a small park, Mark diverged off the sidewalk. Along an earthen path stood a small playground. The green paint was chipping off the slide. A hint or rust splattered all around it. A small wooden play structure looked to be rotten through. Mark sat down on a bench facing the slide. Slouching onto his knees he glanced up at the jungle gym.

“You know, they use to tell me things gets better? That everything can be repaired?” He waved his wrist at wooden fixtures and frowned. “Do you think they could repair your friend over there Mr. Slide?” He held his position for a few seconds before his eyebrows clenched. “Huh!? Do you!?”

Glancing to his left and down the path, Mark saw a woman and dog quickly skirt away from him. Mark dropped his arm and head before letting out a large breath. “The answer is no. They can’t repair it. What they can do is replace it.”

The green slide didn’t respond.

“Of course, though, you need wood to replace it with. But then we’re assuming the metal fixtures are still usable.” Mark nodded slowly before looking back up at the slide. “Though, what’s an outline without materials? Better yet, what are materials without some catalyst to do something with them? Hmm?” A slight breeze rustled the trees around him. Mark cupped his hands over his face. “My god, you act like it will hear you.” Standing up, he took small steps down the path, out of the park.

Kicking a can along the cement walkway, he made his way down a few blocks of industrial buildings. Passing a small alley, Mark heard a loud yelp. That is, a yelp from an animal, until he heard the shout for help.

Mark was quick to sprint down the alley and around the corner. A small boy was smudged up against the wall, panting heavily. A man was leaning over him with a small knife, yelling.

Mark did the only thing he could think to do. He intervened. “Hey! What’s with you and the kid!?”

The man leaned off the boy and pointed the knife in Mark’s direct. “Back off man. You got no business here.”

The child took his chance and took off down the alley. “Wa? Oh hell no!” The man reached into the lip of his pants and pulled out a tiny revolver before aiming it at the running child. “Shouldn’t of done th-”

The man and Mark’s body slammed into the ground. Mark rolled a few feet away and began rising to his feet.

Suddenly, thunder sounded out. Mark’s ear were ringing. *Crack* It happened again. *Crack* And again. *crack* And again. The world blurred around him.

A few seconds later, Mark’s face connected with the floor violently. A gun hit the ground; its steel pinging against the cement while smoke drifting off the barrel. Before losing all his senses, he thought he heard sprinting feet echoing down the alley.

The hospital doors flew open. Mark laid limp on a gurney gliding through the lobby. There, a doctor with heavy circles under his eyes joined the procession. "What are we looking at?"

"Four gunshot wounds to chest. Clean in and out."

A man in blue scrubs was taking down information from a monitor. “Shallow breathing and a slo- make that ventricular fibrillation. Get a crash cart!”

“Wallet was missing, we can’t get any records.”

A woman in EMT clothing was pumping a device connected to Mark’s face. “His chest isn’t rising enough. Nurse! Endotracheal intubation!”

A figure quickly grabbed a tube out of some plastic covering. Mark’s sight fidgeted into focus.

“Sir? Sir, what’s your name? Si-” Mark's eyes drifted closed. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was tired. He didn’t see the harm in a nap. Naps were good, weren’t they?

On the display attached to the side of the bed, a long, green line stood stagnant.

A numbness flushed over Mark’s mind; a whiteness mutely growing over his consciousness like an old flickering reel of film.

“Clear!”

There was a sharp intake of breath as his back arched upwards.

A green blur seemed was moving to Mark’s left. “We’ve got a pulse.”

There was light shining down harshly into his eyes. Mark didn’t like the light, and he felt like he was choking. Why wasn't anyone helping him? Couldn’t they tell he was choking?

A blue blob began shining another light, this one smaller, directly into Mark’s eye. The top of the blob seemed to glance away. “He’s slipping again.”

The light wasn’t the worst part. Sounds of all kinds were entering Mark's ears. Each one less distinguishable than the last. From the cacophony of audio, one noise cut through.

*beep*...*beep*...*beep*...*beep*

Mark disliked this tone most of all. Thus, he felt that the gods must have heard his cries, when the sound slipped away into the static.

END PROLOGUE