Chapter 10: Shadows of Insanity

“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”

—Alan Watts

23:11. The clock burned through the seconds as Alex, trapped in the jaws of his madness, teetered on the edge of oblivion, listening to the whispers of the dark. Nine stories below, Clock Junction waited in silent judgment, its familiar streets now alien and cold. He was fifteen, and this wasn't how his story was supposed to end. The digital display of the tower that had marked every school morning, curfew and moment of his life now counted down to...what? Salvation or surrender—he wasn't sure what will be the outcome if he jumps. Three hours earlier, the same clock had witnessed the beginning of the end.  You can hear the strong shout from behind the closed doors of the apartment, “You worthless piece of shit!”  His stepfather's words had slurred through the dinner air, thick with the stench of cheap vodka. “Think you're better than me?” he shouted.

Alex had spent all his life perfecting the art of invisibility at the dinner table.  Head down. Quiet breathing. Careful movements. But tonight, something snapped. Maybe it was the way his mother's hands trembled as she served the food, the drunken stepfather, or his drinking buddy studying the plate with practiced intensity. Or maybe it was simply that after an infinite amount of days of swallowing fear with his food, his soul had finally had enough.  “At least my father doesn't need to beat women to feel like a man!”  The words exploded from Alex, years of suppressed rage finding their target. “YOU HEAR ME UP THERE?  A Drunk COWARD WHO HITS WOMEN, you want to feel bigger than you are?” The words hung in the air like smoke before a fire. His mother's sharp intake of breath. His brother's fork froze halfway to his mouth. His drunk buddy with eyes wide open. The sudden, terrible silence, like descended fog before the dawn.  What happened next played out like a well-rehearsed dance: the table almost flipping, plates shattering against walls and his mother's desperate attempts at peacekeeping.

“He didn't mean it, he's just tired. Please, please.”  But this time, the choreography changed. As his stepfather lunged, Alex stood his ground. “Touch me again,” he said, voice steady despite his thundering heart, “and I swear to God, you'll regret it!”

Across the city that night, twelve other teenagers would face their own moments of truth. Globally, every hour, eighty people would stand at similar edges, similar precipices. Global statistics would later show that 2024 marked a peak moment in adolescent mental health crises, with anxiety and depression rates soaring 25% above pre-pandemic levels. But statistics don't capture the sound of a mother's heart-breaking agony or the way fear tastes like copper pennies in a fifteen-year-old's mouth.

The family and their drunken buddy watched the unleashing of Alex’s pain in horror and disbelief.  In one failed swoop, Alex unleashed a torrent of pent-up emotions, the same ones that he had learned from family, no longer willing to be a silent victim of the turmoil plaguing his existence. His swearing in rage and raw, unfiltered words cut through the haze of alcohol that clouded his stepfather's judgment.  Yet, as Alex bore his soul, his truth became his exile. His stepfather, too inebriated to grasp the gravity of the moment, reacted in a drunken rage. The consequences were swift and brutal. The sequence of events unfolded with lightning speed, leaving Alex no time to gather his belongings.  As the boy appeared in the darkened corridors on a cold granite floor in his socks, he felt adrift in a world teetering on the precipice of uncertainty and darkness. The narrow passage closed in around him like a vice, as though it aimed to crush his very spirit. The distant, indistinct murmurs of ongoing conflict and neighbor’s voices behind closed doors around him only amplified his profound sense of isolation. “Can you hear? They’re fighting again!” the next-door neighbor said to his wife.  “Come and see. Look!  He kicked the boy out again! God help him.” 

A door at the distant end of the corridor burst open with a thunderous crash, shattering the oppressive shadow voices and reigniting the flickering light once more. With a violent flourish, the stepfather hurled Alex’s shoe out into the corridor.   “This is my house with my rules! Now get the hell out!” he shouted. Barely a breath later, Alex’s mother filled the doorway, her form a shattered monument to defeat. Her fingers traced the worn fabric of his jacket, a gesture that spoke of countless similar nights, countless similar choices. “You should stay quiet,” she whispered, her words filed with the guilt of her own trapped existence. In her eyes, Alex saw the reflection of her younger self—another person who had once dreamed of escape but chose survival instead.  “It's cold outside,” she added, pressing his jacket into his hands.

The fabric was warm from the radiator where she'd placed it earlier—a small act of preparation for the inevitable, a mother's futile attempt at protection.  Outside, the night air carried the first bite of autumn. Alex's scream tore through the residential quiet, his knuckles finding the familiar texture of the building's white brick walls. Blood bloomed like tiny roses against the pale surface. The pain, anger and hopelessness felt like mental torture no one should bear.  The nine-story building loomed ahead across the green field, its broken rooftop a siren song of escape. Alex ran, his feet pounding against pavement, each step a heartbeat of desperation. Past the elevator, up the concrete stairs, his ragged breathing keeping time with his ascent.

His mind screamed with each floor.

Second floor:    They don't want you.

Fourth floor: You're nothing but trouble.

Sixth floor: End it all.

Eighth floor: Just fucking end it.

The rooftop door yielded to his touch, its broken lock a testament to other midnight escapees. The city sprawled below, a constellation of indifferent lights. Wind tugged at his clothes, whispering promises of peace.  Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed. The clock tower blinked 23:11, red digits burning against the night sky.  One hand gripped concrete, the other trembled in empty air. Gravity pulled with seductive insistence. The voice strong and certain: "Jump, jump, jump."   His mind raced with questions: Would the impact hurt? Would anyone miss him? Would his mother finally leave? Would his real father regret not calling?  The inner shadow of insanity voice that had been his companion for years spoke with familiar venom: Do it. Free them from your burden. Free yourself.  But to Alex amusement another voice, newer quieter, never heard before, whispered, “You survived yesterday. You can survive today.”

Why?! What did I do to deserve this?

He cursed and spat, drowning in a sea of emotions while retreating from the edge of insanity that almost claimed his life. All he yearned for was to vanish from this world, to no longer endure the sight of alcohol—the froth of the elixir that had often been the prelude to explanations of their fractured relationships.  Later next early morning, wrapped in blankets, Alex listened to his mother's muffled sobs in the kitchen through the wall. His sleeping brother's peaceful breathing drifted from the bedroom they shared. The same walls that had witnessed his escape now held a different energy—the quiet power of someone who had stood at the edge and chosen to step back.

Research shows such moments often become turning points, not because they end the pain but because they prove survival is possible. In the years to come, Alex would learn that he wasn't alone—that nearly one million others worldwide struggled with similar demons. But that night, curled on the cold kitchen tiles, he learned something statistics couldn't capture: sometimes staying alive is the bravest form of rebellion.  The clock tower chimed early morning, marking the end of one day and the beginning of another. In the darkness, Alex made a promise to himself: he would live to tell this story. And maybe, just maybe, it would help someone else step back from their own edge.