A/N: So my English teacher is possibly the hardest teacher I will ever have in my entire life, and right now he criticizes how I lack in details and creativity, which I sort of understand. So I'm trying to do details with this. If you want creativity check out my newest multi-chapter, Standing On Yesterday. Review.

"Hello darkness, my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again,

Because a vision softly creeping,

Left its seeds while I was sleeping,

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence."

-The Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel

You sit down.

If you sit quietly enough, and hold your watch to your ear, you can hear its secrets tick slowly past, the mysteries of all that you know slip away and into nonexistence. But you don't. If you sit patiently enough, you can watch the crow's shining beak gleam in the almost-absent light, its eyes devoid of everything.

But you don't. You aren't observant enough to pick up on fractals of faith and shards of life passing through the earth. It doesn't bother you. You do not seek. You do not find.

You wait.

The air is cool on your skin, and you button your jacket up higher and wear your scarf tighter. Your gloves are expensive and of the finest pelt-probably poached-on the market, but you don't care. You bend your fingers and wrap them around the railing, the cold metal warming to your touch. You feel the ice underneath your fingertips, numbness spreading up your hands. You hoist yourself up higher, trying to balance on the thin beam, gazing down at the water below you. But you don't care. You came here, and you don't plan much on leaving.

You reach into your pocket and pull out a flask. You fingers have trouble opening it, and when you finally do, you tip it backwards into your mouth, swallowing a generous portion of its contents. Your throat burns and your teeth seem to ache. You sigh.

If you listen closely enough, you can hear the gentle sounds of snow falling. But you were never one for the tranquil.

You stare across the River Thames, the harsh lights reflecting oddly off of its surface, and with a jolt you are reminded of what you are missing. Mere miles-mere blocks-away, your family is meeting. They are sharing kisses and hugs, and their laughter rings in your ears. Your hands form fists and you grit your teeth.

You think of the children you left with their mother. You bask in their smiles, their high-pitched voices, the feeling of their arms around your neck as you kiss them goodnight. You think of his missing teeth, her tiny hand covered by your much larger one. "Daddy," she cries, warmth and love and excitement in her voice as you come home from a long day.

"Daddy," your son says, "come look at what I'm doing." You go to the kitchen table to discover him drawing more intricately than you ever could have.

You blink, and they are gone.

You hear sirens in the distance, but you don't move. Idiots out on Christmas Eve, just like him, reviewing the same treatment you bring upon yourself.

The River Thames seems to swell below you, but you don't care. You've lost too much to care, you miss too much to worry.

You remember your wife, the one who you promised you would see in around an hour, the one who you lied to and said that you just had to go pick up one more present, for your brother Ron who you had originally bought a cheap plastic fishing lure for. You told her that you were going to go but the finest wine in all of London for him, to make up for the fact that it was Christmas Eve and all you had gotten him was a fishing lure.

Ron doesn't even fish, but you'd like to pretend he did.

You finish off the flask and drop it into the water. It was an expensive present you got at your bachelor's party from your brother, Percy, but you don't care. It makes a small splash that is almost completely drowned out by the sound of traffic behind you.

You're spending your Christmas Eve in solitary, when you want nothing more than to hold your children one last time. But now is not the time. There is never the time.

You were never one for serenity.

You hop off of the rail, teetering on the narrow ledge for a few seconds. You step underneath the beam and walk indifferently towards the edge of the park. Cars swerve to avoid you, horns blaring, but you don't look. You've never been more apathetic in all your days.

It's been years since you stood in this park, but before you were never alone. So much has changed since the last time you were here. You lean against a tree, your hands shaking at the prospect of what would happen soon.

You peel off the gloves, the ones you bought in Knockturn Alley that were probably made of some exotic and rare fur. You let them fall onto the ground beside you. You dig around through your pockets and pull out your note. You stick it inside one of the gloves. An investigation, no doubt, will commence, and they will find it.

You fall down against the tree, onto the cold ground. You make a snow angel, one last time, the way you did over a decade ago, at seventeen, with your brother, the one who no longer walks with you.

You wish that your children, your wife, your family, would be enough to make up for it all. But it's not, it never was. You were foolish, you think, to believe it would be.

You've endured the looks behind your back, the whispers of worry as people regard you, the vile comments proclaiming you as things you hadn't been before.

You won't stand for it anymore.

Your arms quit moving, and snow clings to your pants' legs. You shut your eyes. You want to fall asleep, but there are things to do before then. You pull yourself up and stand, your knees knocking, your hands clammy with sweat.

You wonder if you will be closer to him, in the end. But then you realize it doesn't matter, because it is much, much worse to live without him.

You cross the street again, and maybe if you were a little more sane, you would see the fear in the drivers' eyes, the tension in their shoulders, the way several of them slow down at the sight of you. But you aren't, so you don't.

You reach into your coat one last time and pull a cigarette out of the pocket. You light it, the way you've picked up on from sitting on the same bench in Trafalgar Square every day.

You feel lips on yours, and you close your eyes, inhaling the smoke. You've smoked twice before. It seems fitting to do it here, now. You feel her hand on yours, but you push her away. She isn't here now, and you're glad. You don't want them to see you like this. You wonder what he would do if he were alive still, and for the first time you waver.

It's not enough, you think, and you slide off of the beam, into the River Thames.

The water is sharper than anything you have ever felt before. It is ice and fire and it is songs of tears and love and bitter memories. It is your requiem. You feel the kiss on your lips, you feel the cigarette demolish between your fingers. You are cold, and you hold a hand out in front of you. You stare at it. It is completely white, paler than the purest snow, bloodless and frail. You think that you can see the skin and muscle leave, but maybe you are imagining it. You feel cold. You open your mouth, and your lungs fill with frost. It is colder than anything you have ever felt. You welcome it.

Hands pull you to the surface, and you feel them. They are warm. You look up and stare into the eyes of someone a few years younger than you, his red hair combed and parted, his eyes desperate. He opens his mouth, and you can't hear him, because he is above the surface. You come out of the water, head first, gasping, reaching upwards for him.

He offers you his right hand and pulls you up, and you take it willingly. He is strong, and you miss him more than the world.

You are drenched, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, but you are on solid ground. If you do not die of hypothermia, you will be fine, you think.

You turn to the person who saved you, the long-lost savior. You open your mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. He embraces you, his arms wide, and you begin to cry.

He pulls back and gives a small nod before saluting to you. You blink, and he is gone.

Cars and taxis are stopped alongside the pier where you devastated yourself. People are running towards you, and someone is shepherding you to their car, yelling to the others that you need to be taken to a hospital. Someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders.

"Can," you croak, "Can I call my wife?"