text: I live in the Suicide Tower. It has another name, of course, but no one calls it by anything other than the Suicide Tower. It’s because out of all the buildings in town, they jump off mine the most. &#x200B; It was startling enough when I first moved in. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, when I saw a body falling from the sky. Perplexed, I went over and opened the French doors, stepped onto my little balcony, and looked down on the body that was now splayed out on the sidewalk. &#x200B; The EMTs seemed pretty nonchalant about it. They pronounced the man dead and stood around, chatting, until the morgue guys got there. I shouldn’t worry too much about it, they said. One of them, sitting on the steps smoking, claimed it was his third time here in a week. I looked down at the pavement, where the body laid starfished and covered in a white sheet, staining the concrete crimson, and back up at the men. The one smoking smiled sympathetically. “If I were you, I’d find a new place to live.” &#x200B; But I stayed, and in time got used to the sight. I suppose in some places it rained water, but here it rained people. I might be sitting on the couch watching TV, or reading, or sitting at the table eating, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a falling body, a jumper on his way to meet his Maker. Sometimes, I turn at the right time and catch one of their eyes. It’s strange to be the last living human a man sees before he dies. &#x200B; Perhaps I should go up there and talk to the jumpers. Try to convince them not to. That someone out there loves them. Maybe then it will make a difference. I might even get a medal for it. But I don’t. Because I don’t know what to say to make someone step away from the ledge. How to convince a man that life is worth living. So I stay in my apartment and bear witness to their demises like the angel of indifference. &#x200B; Whenever I mention to someone where I live, or I invite people over, they always ask me why I still live here. “Isn’t it horrible,” they say with their eyes wide open “to see so much death?” “Well,” I tell them. “The rent is cheap. There are no neighbors. And the view is nice.” And it’s true. The rent is cheap. No one lives here but me. And you could see all the way to the ocean from my windows. I like the ocean. No one really comes over anymore. Sometimes I invite the EMTs, whom I’ve gotten know since moving in, up for a cup of tea. They always decline. &#x200B; One day, when I was arriving home from the store, I noticed a woman coming down from the stairs leading up to the roof. That was an unfamiliar sight. No one ever comes down the stairs. She was middle-aged, with red, irritated eyes and a runny nose. “Hello,” I said as she passed. She stopped in her tracks, looked at me. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here. I don’t mean to trespass.” “No, that’s okay. Would you like to come in?” That was impulsive of me. But I hadn’t had anyone over in a long time and was excited at the prospect of company. “I don’t mean to intrude.” I took that as a yes, and asked her to hold one of the bags while I found my keys. &#x200B; I gave her the chair that I called the company chair, since I strategically placed it away from the wide french doors and windows. She swallowed, looked around while I made us a cup of tea, fumbling with the fancy teacups I never get to use anymore. “This is a nice place.” I nodded my thanks, pleased by that. I take some pride in my home, even though I don’t have much in the way of furniture. What I do have is nice and clean and I always buy fresh flowers. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck. My son...” She sniffed loudly “The cops called, and I insisted on telling me where they found my boy. And I had to see where he jumped. I had to see where he fell, what he saw before he...” She cut herself off, taking a sip of tea. “He left a note you see.” She placed the teacup on the end table and picked up her purse, nervously rifling through it. Behind her head, I could see the dark shadow of a falling body. I broke away from the sight as soon as she lifted her head up, holding the note in her shaking hands. “Can I?” She asked, and I nodded, slightly distracted now, hoping she wouldn’t turn around. “Dear Mom,” she began. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but...” To my surprise, another one fell, distracting me again from the note reading. She looked up from the paper, and I snapped my eyes back to her. If she saw anything worrying on my face, she must have attributed to the content of the note because she went on, describing her son’s troubles in his own words- I wish I could give you the specifics, but I don’t really remember- as another body fell. The EMTs were going to have a field day. Three in one day. That hadn’t happened since last December. &#x200B; She finished in a sweep of tears “Love, Billy” and looked up at me, blinking her eyes. “I’m sorry,” She said. “You probably didn’t want to hear this, but it helped a lot just to have a stranger to talk to. Thank you for the tea. But I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.” I nodded, sorry that she was going. I walked her out. In the hallway, she said “I hope I’m not out of line, but why do you live in such a horrible place? I mean, your apartment is nice, but what goes on here...” she shuddered. “Well,” I said, as I always do. “The rent is cheap. There are no neighbors. And the view is nice.” I shut the door.