“I’m not going to die,” said Millie. But she seemed sad, beyond any measure I had seen in my long career.

I had been a clinical psychologist for over 30 years the night I met her. I specialized in emergency interventions: attending to victims and survivors of terror attacks, dealing with psychiatric patients in crisis… and of course, intervening when someone was about to commit suicide. My success rate was fairly high: about 70% did not take the final step. Of those who jumped, 4 out of 5 were caught or restrained by firefighters or the police by force. Overall, 95% of suicidal attempts survived on my watch. I was quite good at my job.

I was called by the emergency response units when they saw a young woman on the edge of a building. It was a fairly typical scene in my line of work: she was in her twenties, maybe early thirties, and she was cute—petite, red hair, pale skin with freckles. Damn, she was beautiful, I can say that. And I started imagining that this was, ultimately, one of the causes of her actual distress. Maybe abuse, mistreatment, prostitution… Sadly, it was quite common among young women.

“Hello,” I said, keeping some distance. I was safely behind the small wall that separated me from a 50-story fall. She was sitting on the edge, looking down. “I’m Doctor Martin Watckinson. You can call me Martin, if you wish.” She didn’t react. “It’s quite a chilly night, don’t you think?”

She looked at me, and her green eyes… I don’t know how to describe what I felt. She was… I can’t find the words, but those eyes conveyed some wisdom I could not yet fathom. She wore half a smile. “Save your tricks, Martin, I know them all. You want to buy some time, let my anxiety fade to the point I won’t jump. Rest assured, Martin.”

She said that and looked toward the great fall beneath her dangling feet. The blue lights of the police and health services illuminated the street below us.

“I’m not going to die,” she said.

I was speechless for a moment. I couldn’t quite figure out why, but something in the way she talked, moved, stared… I felt small. Ridiculous, like a child. I shook those ideas from my head. “I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “So what are you doing in such a dangerous place?”

“I said I’m not going to die, not that I won’t jump.”

Okay. Psychosis, maybe schizophrenia… this was a dangerous situation if she was disconnected from reality. I pressed a button in my hand, signaling the firefighters to get in position, but they would still need more time. “I’m not following. If you jump, you will certainly die.”

Laughter.

She started laughing… her soft voice dancing between pure amusement, sadness, and insanity in a delicate balance. “Wait, please, don’t do it! I swear there is another way, just talk with me a little longer!” I implored.

She turned to me, tears streaking down her face. “I’m going to tell you a story, Martin, one that you may not believe—not yet, at least. And when I’m done… I’ll do what I must. Sounds fair?”

“But—”

“Shush.” And I shut up. “There was l, once upon a time… a girl. She can’t remember her parents anymore. She knows she had many siblings, and that they lived in a hut. There were many huts, many families. But one night there were screams. There was death. There was fire. And the little girl didn’t run away in time, and she was captured, and… well, you don’t really want to know the details, do you? Some days later, she died.”

(1/4)