Pushed Over the Edge

by Marc Watson

It’s entirely his fault he’s dead. That much, I think, is beyond question. He didn’t deserve a life to live out—at least, not the kind he pretended to lead. He earned his demise, whether anyone wants to believe it or not. It’s easy to point fingers during times like this, though. It’s always someone else’s fault instead of the person who brought it upon themselves.

People crave a culprit, a villain, a neat little explanation to fold up and hide away. But I assure you, he masterfully dug his own grave. Some say someone helped him go right over that edge. Some say it was cold-blooded murder. I scoff at the fact that I am on that list. Like I ever mattered in any aspect of his life.

Some say he chose to jump. This is yet another reason I laugh, because anyone who knew him intimately and was willfully being honest would say it had to have been the first time he ever did something right. It would have been the first time something he did benefited those around him rather than himself. But regardless, he built his demise, stone by stone, lie by lie.

Of course, everyone has their opinions. Obviously, most of it is wrong. Gossip came crashing down faster than his body ever could. What no one ever seems to conclude is the simplest truth of all: the world is a better place now. Trust me, it really is. We all needed him dead to have a little peace in our lives. He was out to make money and fame, not friends.

When we first met, I admit I was swept off my feet. He knew exactly what to say, when to say it, how to tilt his head and soften his gaze just enough to make you feel seen. Important. Loved. He was charming. Sweet. A perfect gentleman. But I suppose most, if not all, of it was a lie. If you manage influencers for a living, literally influencing the influencers, you have to be good enough at deceit that you can charge others to teach them how to hone their own predatory skills.

I think it’s fair to say at this point that he is a cheater. A criminal. A total creep. Oh, was not is. Ha. I do slip sometimes, but at least I catch myself, right? Maybe I should do stand-up.

They say abusers don’t wear masks; they wear charm. And he wore it well. Too well. Enough to fool everyone around him, including that poor intern. He was exceptional at his job; I will give him that, no matter how evil it was. That girl had no idea he was married. No idea who he really was.

She was fresh out of college, doe-eyed and hopeful, and he was the seasoned executive of a major influencer firm who promised her “mentorship”. He whispered futures over clinking glasses and rooftop views. He promised the world. He told her he was getting a divorce. That he was misunderstood. That I was only in it for his money. That he was lonely. She believed him until the end. I don’t blame her for that. He was an impeccable liar.

The end of their relationship came quickly, messily. Violently. Thirty-two floors. That’s how far he fell, physically anyway, but hey, he would appreciate that his active engagement numbers rose as fast as he fell. The metaphorical fall started long before that. When they found him splattered across the sidewalk, I laughed. I won’t lie. Not because I’m heartless, but because I appreciated the irony. No one else would.

No one else knew him the way I did. His fear of heights, his paranoia about that condo, his constant complaints about the balcony railing being “a deathtrap waiting to happen.” He said it often, as if it were foreshadowing. “Just you wait and see,” he’d say. I am not saying he was pushed, but if so, it was serendipitous.

I had tried to talk him out of buying that place. It was too high, too expensive, too performative. But he needed it for the optics. For the view. For the illusion of success he peddled so well. I could tell at every house party how fragile his ego was. One misstep and it could all be over. That’s internet culture, though, isn’t it? You are always one moment away from being canceled.

I’m relieved I’ll never have to set foot in that glass coffin again. That space could drive anyone to the point of madness. One could not be blamed if perchance they did. I never did like the way the air felt up there. Too thin.

His sister had to clean up the inside. Poor woman. After all the vitriol between them over their parents’ estate, I wouldn’t have blamed her for ignoring the call. But she showed up. Had to scrub stains from a cream-colored carpet. Had to deal with the broken lamp lodged in the drywall and the shattered wine glasses on the floor.

I will admit the place had also been quite dirty as of late. When I no longer had the maid to help, I admit I let the place get a little unruly. Oh! The maid. I would have had her clean up the mess had he not gotten her fired a few months ago. He accused her of stealing money, which was ridiculous. That woman is a saint, and he destroyed her by having her entire world ripped away.

That woman was scrubbing toilets to earn enough money to justify to the hospital a payment plan for her child’s Trisomy-related hospital stays. If you don’t know what that is, look it up. You do the best to keep your child alive and living the best kind of life they can, while tragically anticipating it won’t last long. He never cared to learn that, though. Insurance called most of her child’s stays elective unless the doctor stated the child was actively dying more in that very moment than their baseline. How do you die more than already dying?

So, she scrubbed toilets to earn the money. She sacrificed everything she could for her child. Needless to say, after she was fired, she couldn’t afford any further hospital stays, and they turned her away. I can’t imagine what agony followed next for her. You can blame the insurance, sure, but she lost a child monstrously because of him. Maybe she can find some solace that he is dead. I think nothing could make a dent in that sort of pain, though.

Even his best friend, with whom he worked daily, has every right to feel comforted by his death. He convinced that poor man that his wife was having an affair. I am sure he used his own unscrupulous exploits as rhetoric to convince him of it. He drove that marriage to divorce, and all because he found her obnoxious at his house parties and made him look bad. His brand had to look flawless. That unfortunate friend only found out after the divorce was settled that none of it was true. I can’t imagine losing a soulmate over the meddling fabrication of a third party. That man deserved justice, and so did his now ex-wife.

Then there were the questions that came out of left field for us all. FBI, no less. Apparently, he was being watched for over a year. Russian mob connections. Fraud. Bribery. Money laundering. Money, he would claim, was stolen, all a ploy to save himself. It seems he was influencing more than just social media sales. He clearly had his fair share of enemies. How many had he double-crossed? How many lives had he ruined, and how many were probably saved by him now being gone?

It is easy to look back and piece all his lies and dealings together to understand some of these things. Things that only make sense now in hindsight. How he always paid in cash. How he avoided certain phone calls. How he never liked to stay in one place too long, always on the move. Not his mistress, his sister, the maid, or his best friend knew all the things he was up to. None of us did, really. Until the FBI questions, of course. He was too good at weaving a narrative.

The case has gone cold, or closed, or buried. That’s what they do when people of a certain status die. They tie a bow around it and file it away, especially if there is still money to be lost by interested parties. If it were a hit job and someone caught on to it, would you aspire to be next on their list? No. I would suggest you stop looking into it. Stop asking questions.

I was surprised they even did the autopsy. Thought it was cut and dry, the man fell thirty- two floors. But the drugs in his system were lethal on their own. More than enough to do the job. A fatal cocktail of sedatives, painkillers, and something untraceable they never named. It was a thorough job. Surgical. Intentional. One might even call it genius. Certainly poetic. “If you’re going to get the job done, do it right,” he used to say. Fitting, isn’t it?

As for me, I believe something different. That our lives are a ledger, each action etched in ink. And eventually, when the pages are full, the weight of it pulls us under. The consequences always catch up. That’s what kills us in the end. Not fate. Not vengeance. Just the truth, standing in front of us like a mirror too tall to look away from.

If someone did perchance push him from his gilded tower, I believe that particular person is owed an enormous deal of gratitude. It would be honorable what they have done. A service to society. A stupendous act of righteousness. Mercy to the world, both real and digital. They deserve to be praised for what they have done.

They’ll say he was pushed. Or it was a hit job. Or he jumped. Or he was poisoned. Or scared. Or he finally felt guilt. Or maybe he was clumsy and slipped. Or is it possible that he was ironically influenced into it? But I say it, does it really matter?

He was already falling long before he hit the ground. He got what was coming to him. He got what he deserved. Justice served. He got what he had earned all so well. And in the end, the headlines read exactly what they should have.

He was pushed over the edge.

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