Alison Wilson was not a walking contradiction. It was an idea that most people adopted upon seeing her, simply because too many swayed towards seeing the better in a person, but it was entirely untrue. She was as she appeared: an antisocial, misanthropic, horrific excuse for a human being, whom anyone of rationality or there merest intelligence would avoid when going about their daily routine.

Alison Wilson was a short girl, with jet black hair that she had cut herself in an episode of anger and frustration; she found it quite liberating, others found it ugly. She had piercings, despite a severe fear of needles that she had not acknowledged for over a year. Her eyebrows were nearly invisible, even though their natural colour was incredibly dark; bleached, and occasionally waxed, mainly due to the fact that she could not at all be bothered to groom them on a regular basis. She was a girl who had a permanent look of illness, which could have been put down to her unnervingly white pallor, or to any of the previously listed factors, or perhaps each combined.

When Alison Wilson was younger, she smiled. She was a bright child, with a colour to her cheeks and a marvellously expressive face and a penchant for writing and music. She was one to laugh at her own jokes, as well as those of others. She could be unkind, but carried immense feelings of guilt afterwards, and the worst of what she said was usually in good humour. People enjoyed her company, though she never believed so herself. Now, they did not even call her Alison anymore; they felt it an insult to the girl they once knew. No, she was Wilson. Simply Wilson. Although, her immediate family - her parents and her sister, who shared that same surname - still found addressing her as such to be difficult.

And what a terrible person Wilson was. She barely regarded anyone who attempted to speak to her, and when she did choose to verbally communicate her words were dry and nonemotive. She could say the cruelest of things and only stare at the person she said them to, wearing that same blank expression on her face. At seventeen, her parents threatened to throw her out. At eighteen, they did.

And so, for the past few months, Wilson had moved down to London, and was living alone; she made her living by painting so that others could put their name on her creations and take the credit. She did not care, even when the frauds garnered acclaim for "their masterpieces". It was work, and work meant money, and money meant surviving. Because, if she was going to die, she did not want it to be at the hands of starvation or the like. She was going to die at her own hand; she was merely waiting for the correct time.

On New Year's Day, 2012, she received a letter from her grandmother. Wilson's sister was getting married. She was not invited to the wedding, but the girls' grandmother thought she should know. Nonchalant, Wilson tossed the letter aside.

As of late, she had been feeling uninspired, and she doubted her ability to bring in a good amount of money in time for the monthly rent payment without any help. Of course, she was going to help herself; Wilson did not require assistance from anyone else in life - not that they would be offering anyway. No, she would go for a walk, clear her head, and think of something. It could have been terrible, but there would be one desperate fool out in London willing to pay for it. And so, Wilson grabbed her jacket and her hat, then promptly stepped outside into the cold winter.

Her initial plan was to go to the bridge. She liked to stand and watch the water ripple, wondering what lay within its dark depths. A lot of human remains, she assumed. They did not call it a "suicide bridge" for no reason. She noticed that, every single time she stood there, not one person spared her a second glance. It made her wonder if anyone ever spared the jumpers a second glance; if anyone ever tried to stop them.

At that moment, she saw one: a potential jumper. She could tell what he was thinking from the way he peered over the edge - not like her, with a curiosity, but with an edge of anticipation. Surveying the area, she could see that a number of people were passing by. They did not so much as look in the direction of the man. Would Wilson interfere? Her, of all people, profoundly bitter and cold-hearted?

"That's a very stupid thing you're about to do," she told the man, sidling up next to him. Her voice was uncaring, but at least she was doing something. "Cowardly, some would argue." There was a silence, with both of them staring out across the waters, lapping against the base of the bridge.

"Why do you care?"

The man's voice was odd; there was something about it that she could not put her finger on. Still, she watched the water, though her eyes were now fixated on the pair's reflection. She could see her own face, but not the man's. It was strange.

"I don't," she replied. "You can jump if you want. You can cry before you do it if you want. You can scream 'fuck the world' as you're falling if you want. I don't give a shit. Consider me a mediator between you and death. I don't give you my opinion, or any advice at all. I just state the facts. And the fact is that someone out there is going to cry at your funeral. They're going to fucking hate you, but their care is unconditional. They'll mourn. They'll grieve. They'll deal with the mess of emotions that you've left for them to clean up. It could be anyone. A relative. A friend. Someone you didn't even think gave a flying fuck at all. Someone will."

There was another silence that lasted for at least thirteen seconds by Wilson's count, before the man said, "Care." He paused, obviously sensing her confusion even if she expressed none. "You said care, not love."

"I did."

"Why?"

"You're about to jump off a fucking bridge. Why do you care?"

"Because I'm not about to jump off of this bridge, Alison," said the man. "I was never going to. I was testing you. Although, that may not be fair to say, as I knew you would pass. You're going to experience something now, Alison. You may not like it at first, but it's for your own good. For a while, you'll confess nothing. In fact, it could be years before you do. And then, when you do, it will be because you have learnt something very important, and that knowledge will take you home. We will speak again, Alison."

And with that, the man pushed her from the bridge.

So, I'm back. I'll probably be updating Normies some time in the next couple of days, as well as this new story, though I think I'll be discontinuing the Criminal Minds fiction for now.

Feel free to disregard this information if you want, but I personally imagine Wilson to look similar to Lisbeth Salander in the remake of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I ... remain unsure of why I have decided to share that with you, but hey.