“I’ll do it. I swear to god, I’m serious.”

                “No you aren’t.”

                “Test me.”

                I hear the wind coming from her end of the line. I put the stainless steel mixing bowl in my hand on to the counter and try to think of a good response.

                “Well..? I’m waiting.” Her voice is oddly patient for someone in her situation.

                “Fine, then. I dare you,” I say. I’m rooting through the fridge, removing things like eggs, milk, butter, placing them on the counter next to the bowl. I should be paying more attention.

                “... What?” She asks. It is literally the most sarcastic question I have ever been asked. She heard me, she knows what I said.

                “You heard me,” I repeat myself, “I dare you to do it.”

                “You don’t mean that.”

                “Yes I do.”

                “Why can’t you take me seriously?”

                ...

                “You’re a prick, you know that?” She’s furious, but she doesn’t mean it. I continue taking out flour, baking soda, and other various ingredients.

                “I’m gonna have to put you on speaker, okay?” I tell her, then press the little microphone-shaped button on the phones keypad. I place the phone on the counter with the other cooking supplies.

                “There’s no one else there, is there?”

                “Just me and a bunch of unborn chickens.”

                “... What?”

                “Eggs.”

                “Again—What?”

                “I’m baking a cake.”

                There’s a pause. I would be questioning her presence, if it hadn’t been for the sound of heavy wind whipping through the telephone. It’s the only thing letting me know she’s still there.  I stay calm for the moment and wait for her to respond.

                “...You’re baking a cake..? You’re baking a cake,” I have no clue why she feels the need to say it twice, after all, I did just admit to it. “You’re baking a cake,” Three times... “at a time like this? Of all the times you could have chosen to bake a cake, you choose now to do it? I’m standing on the ledge of a five-story building, and you decideHey, you know what’d be nice right now? A slice of cake... You really don’t care, do you?”

                The sound of wind once again whistles through the microphone.

                I crack an egg and dump the sloppy insides into the mixing bowl. Nothing is said for a while. I sigh and crack open another egg.

                “Well..?”

                I sigh. “You really are going crazy, aren’t you?”

                “You’re avoiding the question.”

                “No, I’m not.”

                There is a pause and nothing is heard but the wind rushing across her phones microphone. I stare down at the mass of milk, eggs, butter, and other various ingredients sitting sloppily, almost overflowing from the bowl. I should have used a larger one. It’s ready to start mixing, but I won’t just yet. I’m waiting for a response from her, but I doubt I’m going to get one. There is another long pause before anyone says anything.

                “Listen,” I say “You’re my sister. Of course I care about you. I care a lot. And even if I didn’t want to, I’d have to. You’re family. Think about that for a moment. If  I didn’t care, I would have hung up on you a long while ago.”

                Another pause. More wind. “So, that’s it then, isn’t it?”

                “What?”

                “You only care because you have to.”

                “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!  That’s not what I meant at all—“

                “Oh, shut up! You don’t really give a $^^&i You’re just happy-go-lucky, laid back, and care-free. While here I am, your sister, standing on top of a five-story building, about to jump.”

                I start mixing the batter of the cake, watching all the separate ingredients blend into a thick, brown, slurry. I can’t help but imagine that this is how she must feel right now... All of her separate emotions slowly blending into one, making each and every one indistinguishable from the next. Maybe that’s what lead her to do this, all the stress of life, and other people, building on her, stacking higher and higher on top of the rest of her emotions until it slowly crushes them into a thick brown cake batter.

                That last bit doesn’t make much sense... But nonetheless, her thoughts and emotions must be mixing together into some indistinguishable mixture.

                More wind gusts through the speaker.

                “There’s an awful lot of wind... How high up are you?”

                “I already told you, like, twice now! That doesn’t really surprise me much. You aren’t even listening to me!”

                “Well, I forgot, just tell me where you are, would you?”

                “Five stories... I’m on top of Flynn’s”

                “Why Flynn’s?”

                “I don’t know, okay? It’s just familiar. If I’m gonna get to choose where I die, I guess I’d just choose this old place. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of the welcome sign on the way down and I’ll die with some sort of happy memory. I don’t want to do this, and I don’t want to sully your memories with the thought of this happening here, but I guess it makes it a little bit easier on me...”

                Flynn’s... That was our favourite place when we were children. The old arcade, I remember how we always used to hang out there. That place is the reason why I never had any pocket change when I was a kid. I used to save up tickets forever so that I could get prizes. I believe I’ve still got five or six in my wallet, left over from when I spent all my tickets on a scooter when I was 14. I have no idea how many hours of Tron I had to play in order to win that many. I can see why she chose that building in particular, but I hate that she did. I won’t be able to look at the place the same again.

                “... Hello?”

                “Sorry,” I say. I really need to start paying more attention, this is going to get me in trouble eventually.

                “What, too busy with your cake to listen to your dying sister for a couple minutes?”

                “Yup.”

                More wind comes through the telephone line. I stare back down at the whirling brown goo for a few seconds, then focus my attention back to the telephone. She doesn’t say anything.

                “That was a joke,” I say.

                “Ha ha. Very funny.” Sarcasm. “You’re a prick. Why is that of all people I could’ve called, I called you?” I avoid saying anything, “Is that damn cake really more important than I am right now? Is it really important enough to ignore your suicidal sister, just so you can have a snack later?”

                I’m not even bothering with the cake right now, the batters all done, there isn’t much left to do but put it in the oven.

                “No, sis. That’s not it.”

                “Bull&&$!, Evan. You always do this. You never care about anyone but yourself. Especially not me.”

                “Listen, I know you aren’t exactly in a good position right now, but don’t take it out on me.”

                “Fine, I’ll take it out on myself.”

                More wind; another pause. I have no response. I have nothing to say.

                “I can do it right now. All it takes is one step.”

                “Suicide isn’t the answer either, Jess.”

                “To what question?”

                “To whatever is causing this problem.”

                “You don’t even know, do you?” More wind, another pause, I wait for her to tell me. “I’m not telling you, jack ass.”

                “Whatever, just listen to me, please. Don’t do this, it isn’t right and you’ll regret it.”

                “I’ll regret it? And how do you suppose I’ll do that? I’ll be dead, after all, not like Icanregret it. You’re terrible at this whole intervention thing, y’know. You really shouldn’t be doing this. First, you dare me to follow through with it, next, I find out you’re baking a cake, now you’re going on with the typicalsuicide isn’t the answerthing. It’s not exactly helping, and joking about it isn’t making it any better.”

                “You haven’t jumped yet, though, have you?”

                ...

                “Well..? Have you?”

                More wind whips through the phone, her breathe is heavy and I can hear it easily. “... I guess I haven’t...”

                “You guess?”

                “I don’t know, okay? If I had jumped, would I know it? Would life keep going on like it used to? Would I notice a difference? Or would it just end? Would everything disappear into oblivion, or keep on like normal, would anything change at all? I have no idea. So, maybe I did jump. Who’s to say?”

                “Jessica, you haven’t jumped.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “Do I really have to answer that?”

                “Yes.”

                “Yes, I am sure. As sure as I’ve ever been.”

                ...

                “So, I guess what I’m doingishelping after all, isn’t it?”

                ... There is a pause and she doesn’t say anything. More wind whistles against the phone and her breathing is still heavy enough to hear. I take the opportunity to fish through the cupboard for a cake pan. Reaching to the very back, I pull out the large, donut-shaped bowl. Placing it on the counter, I pour the brown, oozing substance into it, filling it to the brim.

                “... I went to the library today,” She finally says. “I took out some books on suicide...”

                I laugh. “Are you going to give me a review, or is that all you’re going to say?”

                “They’re !%!^ing ridiculous.”

                “How so?”

                “I don’t need to tell you much for you to get it. The titles were bad enough.”

                I enter the temperature on the oven, each button beeping as it’s pressed.

                “Well, what were they?”

                “Sorry, I can’t concentrate when you’re fooling around with your oven like that.”

                “It’s okay, continue what you were saying.”

                “Understanding suicide.Just one of the titles of the stupid books, written by people who haven’t had a single suicidal thought before.Choosing to live.I read that one. It kind of made sense, but if someone uses someone’s suicide as an excuse for profit, then there’s something wrong. And there are so many other stupid books, written by people who don’t understand what it’s like.”

                “Jess, I don’t thinkyouunderstand what it’s like.”

                She takes a few hesitant breathes, and makes that arrogant sigh she always makes when she’s trying not to cry, “What the hell does that mean?”

                “Let’s face it, you’re a whore for attention.” This is a complete lie, but all I’m trying to do is take her focus away from the ledge, even though it means I’m going to get the backlash.

                The oven beeps, because it’s finished pre-heating. I open the lid and slide the cake tin inside.

                Ignoring my last comment, she continues, “You haven’t read some of these books, Evan. They’re downright awful.—“

                I can’t hear what she says next, it is too muffled by the wind.

                “I get it. Suicidals don’t make for good authors.”

                “You’re damn right.”

                “What led to this anyway?”

                “I don’t know how to explain it, Evan... A lot of things, okay?”

                “Like what?”

                “I don’t know!” She’s shouting. I can tell she’s also crying, she’s trying to hide it from me, because she doesn’t want me to know. “Thing’s just really started to go downhill after what happened to mum...”

                “Jess, that was years ago.”

                “I know, Evan. Do you really think this is the kind of thing I could decide to do on a whim? This took years of anguish, and thought to finally decide to do it.” There’s a pause and a gust of wind comes howling through the phone. “I guess you’re just lucky that you called me when you did.”

                “Well I always have been blessed with impeccable timing, haven’t I?” I laugh, but she doesn’t. She’s still trying to hide her sobbing, but her breathe is deep, and I can tell she’s upset.

                “Shut up, would you?”

                I laugh, “I can’t help it, okay? But you have to admit, I do have some pretty amazing suicide-prevention skills.”

                “I’ll just let you believe whatever you want.”

                More wind comes whipping through the phone. Time seems to flow by at an exponentially slow rate. I stare at the oven. Stupid cake needs to bake faster.

                She sighs.

                “Listen to me, Jessica. Mum would be really upset with you right now, if she knew what you’re thinking about doing. And losing people is hard. It’s hard on everyone. It would be really hard for me to handle.”

                “Yeah, I get it. Losing people is hard. How do you think I feel? You think it’s hard on you, but you aren’t the one who’s going to die from it. This is hard for me, it’s really !!$!ing difficult, and you know that? I get that it’s hard to lose people. I really do get it, but it’s a hell of a lot harder when the person you’re losing is yourself.”

                “If it’s so difficult, and you don’t want to do it, then why are you still up there?”

                “Evan, when I say I’m losing myself, I don’t mean just now. I don’t mean by death. I’ve been losing myself for years. I mean, look at me, am I still the same girl I was three years ago? I don’t think so.”

                “Of course you aren’t everyone changes. Am I the same boy from three years ago? No, sure as hell I’m not.”

                “You know what I meant.”

                I have no clue what she meant.

                “Jess, everyone has to grow up eventually.”

                “I have grown up. I’m way more grown up than you are.”

                “Oh yeah, how so?”

                “Just look at us. I’m up here about to commit suicide, and you’re baking cake. Does baking cake seem appropriate right now? And do you honestly think that’s thematurething to do?”

                “Do you think suicide is mature?”

                ...

                “You’re a child.” She says.

                “No, I’m not.”

                “Yes you are.”

                “Am not.”

                “Are too.”

                “Nope!”

                “Yes!”

                For a second, she isn’t five stories higher than I am, and we aren’t adults. We’re children. Having a dispute among siblings. Right now is about when I would run inside and tell on her to mum. Mum would tell us both to calm down and quit arguing. At which point we would both sit down on separate sides of the table and stare crossly at each other. Mum would pretend that we weren’t upset with each other and just place a plate with a slice of cake in front of each of us. We would eat it, and forget that we even had a dispute in the first place.

                Back then, Jessica used to actually eat cake. It was her favourite thing and mum always had a ready supply. Jessica would eat it for desert after dinner every night. She always seemed to have a piece with her in case she got hungry. But it was always a piece of mums cake, not from a bakery or made by anyone else. She always seemed to enjoy it.

                “... You know why I haven’t done it yet?”

                “Because of my stunning skills, right?”

                “No. Hell no.”

                “What then?”

                “The kids...”

                “Which ones, there are so many.” I joke.

                “When I look down, there are kids on the bench outside.” She says. “Two of them; a boy and a girl. The boy is dancing around making a fool of himself, and the girl is on the bench eating a slice of cake.”

                “What flavour? Chocolate?”

                “Does that really matter? Besides, I can’t tell.” Wind whips through the phone again, and she takes a deep breathes while she gathers her thoughts. “My point is, I’d hate to jump now, and ruin their precious childhood. They also kind of remind me of us when we were little.”

                “Ouch. Harsh. I recallyoubeing the fool!” I laugh, she doesn’t.

                “Prick.”

                “Sis.”

                “Do Ihaveto say it again? I’m $%#^ing serious, Iwilldo it.”

                “I don’t think it’s so serious.”

                “I hate you, you know that? My death is serious.”

                “To you, maybe.”

                “How the hell did I end up with such a heartless brother?”

                “You know I’m kidding.”

                “Oh go to hell! You’re baking a cake! If you really were kidding, would you still be doing that? Your jokes aren’t funny.”

                “Does it matter? It’s a damn good cake.”

                She doesn’t respond. Wind howls through the phone once again.

                “If I decide not to follow through with this, the first thing I’m going to do is write a *#@*ty book about how there is no way to cope with this, and how my brother is a heartless bastard.”

                “It won’t sell more than six copies.”

                “Probably not, but my point will still get across, if only to six people.”

                ...

                “Well,” I say, “When are you going to start working on this? A book is a lot of work.”

                “Who said I changed my mind? I still might jump.”

                “Then do it! We’re wasting time here.”

                “Worst. Brother. Ever.”

                “Well, I dared you, what are you, chicken?”

                “I’m not chicken.”

                “Then do it.”

                There’s another long pause, more wind comes rushing through the phone. Her breathe is heavy, but not as heavy as before. She seems to be calming down. Which is good.

                “The kids are gone now... I could do it if I really wanted to. It would be easy, too. A single step is all it would take. I wouldn’t be hurting anyone but myself. And it would all be over in a few seconds, I probably wouldn’t even feel it. You wouldn’t have to put up with me, either.”

                “I can tell you one thing; you wouldn’t be doing a favour for the guy who would be scraping you off the ground.”

                “Oh @%$^ off, would you?”

                “Fine, but I have to ask you something first.”

                “What is it?”

                “Would you like a slice of cake?”

                “You know how much I hate cake.”

                “I also know how much you used to love cake.”

                She takes a while to respond. The wind dies down a little bit, I assume she’s gone inside.

                “I only ever liked mums cake.”

                “And your point is?”

                “I’d rather not have your cake, thank you for the offer.”

                “You’re sure? It’ll be delicious.” I say, “Like sex, except you’ll be having it.”

                “Ha ha, very funny,” She replies sarcastically.

                “So your response is?”

                “Still no.”

                “I used mums recipe.”

                There is a pause. A long pause.

                “I thought  she kept that secret..?”

                “Nope. I was going through some of her old stuff the other day, I found it jammed between the pages of one of her books.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes, really.”

                ...

                “Are you going to step down from that ledge and have some cake?”

                “Mums cake..?”

                “Do I have to ask again?”

                The oven beeps and I remove the cake and begin covering it with icing.

                “If you hurry up, I bet you could get here while it’s still warm.”

                “...Fine,” she says, “You win this time. I’ll be right over.”

                There is a click and the line goes dead

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