Worn Skin

Two feet, one prosthetic, one flesh, balanced precariously on the railing of an old bridge. Below, the city pulsed with a chaotic symphony of neon lights and distant shouts. Deadman, a silhouette against the vibrant backdrop, felt the familiar ache of regret in his chest. Every memory, every action, seemed tainted with failure. He considered himself already dead, a ghost trapped in a body that refused to obey his deepest desire: to jump. He held onto a light pole, his hands gripping tightly despite his mind screaming at them to let go. The wind whipped around him, biting at his exposed skin. He tried to rationalize, to convince his body to end it all, but fear of heights, that illogical curse, held him in place. Then, a click-clack sound broke through the city's noise. Footsteps approaching on the walkway below. He turned, expecting a Samaritan, maybe an old lady with words of wisdom. Instead, he saw a teenager in a business suit, stopping merely to light a cigarette. The boy, oblivious to Deadman's despair, fumbled with a Zippo. A gust of wind tore a crisp bill from the boy's pocket, sending it fluttering towards Deadman, where it snagged on the bridge's grating. A strange feeling, almost like hope, flickered within Deadman. Greed, he realized, had just prolonged his life.