Dr nicely.

Unit 245, come in.

My radio squawked at me.

The familiar voice of John Parker at dispatch boomed over the airwaves.

I left the radio where it was, on the lip of the skyscraper's roof.

The city lights glittered like the embers of a massive dying fire as I peered out.

A warm breeze stirred my rump blue button up shirt. For the fourth time since I arrived on the roof,

I looked over the chest high lip and then straight down the side of the 40-story building.

And for the fourth time since arriving on the roof I felt the urge to

fling myself over the side. This wasn't the high places phenomenon. That thrilling urge most people feel when they find

themselves on a tall building or a bridge or at the edge of a cliff. No, that was something that

normal people felt and it had nothing to do with wanting to die.

Quite the opposite in fact.

I knew this because I had experienced the High Places phenomenon many times before in my life, back when I still wanted to live.

Now, as I looked down the sheer drop, I didn't want to continue existing, but I also didn't have the courage to end my life.

That was why I came to this building at night whenever I had a free half hour.

I recognized it for what it was, a form of morbid masturbation.

I liked to fantasize about killing myself, even if I didn't think I could ever go through with it.

Still, I hoped that one day I would find the balls to jump. But like most

cops, I would probably just end up eating my gun. It was easier that way. No less messy, but easier. And I wouldn't risk

landing on some poor bastard on the sidewalk below. Unit 245 come in.

Dispatch said again. Unit 245, come in.

...