{ past history } i'm gonna avoid the cliché, i'm gonna suspend my senses
'Curiosity' is what Wes calls it, and it's fair enough, right? Curiosity killed the cat. Wes has always been curious, wanting to go over the next hill and have a look under the rock on the other side. If a thought crosses his mind it's an idea and if it's an idea then it's a good one, or at least worth exploring, and that is why Wesley Pollux Lode is standing on this ledge halfway up the outside of the hotel, smoking quietly and not paying any mind at all to the onlookers gathering below to see if he'll jump or not.
He's not suicidal. He's just curious about how it'd feel, falling. Everyone down there is so fucking small as they might not even exist, and that's fine by him; he's tired of people. (Sometimes when he's tired of people he knocks their feet out from under them with a crowbar and then there are assault charges and his mum's yelling about having to hire a new publicist, but she's a bit shrieky sometimes. It's her way.) They're looking, but they can't really see anything when he's up this high.
(Except the bloke behind the window who can't decide whether to yell at him or if opening the window will make him do it. He gives him a friendly wave.)
He doesn't want to die, he just sort of wants to know what it'd be like to have the ground rush up to you like that. He's heard it's not landing that kills jumpers, usually, but he's not sure if it's true. What could it be instead? Maybe it's the pressure as they go down - maybe they choke, maybe that's why the screaming gets quieter? Because they can't breathe. Yeah, maybe. He wonders if it'd feel like that time he let that bird in Paris have a go with his belt - probably not. There's no bird here, anyway, and that was weird. (He wonders if he's still got her number.)
He taps ash over the edge and watches it drift into nothing on the wind, and then - of all fucking things - his cellphone rings. Caller ID says it's Tad, and that's probably true because he put Tad's cell in his pocket himself this morning; he must have it, ergo it must be him.
Wes puts his cigarette out against the wall and sits down - carefully - his feet hanging over the ledge. "Oi. Nah, I'm not busy. What's it?"