The Bridge - A short story from the 'Images from the life of a social sputum' collection

He never watched a person die. The actual process of a life ending.

He’s seen a few dead bodies, his grandma, some others. Perfectly motionless people with yellowish cheeks. When they get a bit of work and makeup, were it not for the casket, one might mistake them for someone in deep sleep.

That night, out of the ordinary, he walked home. He decided not to even take his car since he planned on drinking. He met with a friend from high school, which he does about annually, and even though the plan was to have a quick beer, he knew how it would end. It was better not to drive.

He was right. The city is deserted after 2 AM. The noise coming from one car is long gone before the next one appears. He hadn’t seen a fellow pedestrian in over ten minutes. He relished the freshness of the air and the solitude – that entire space was his, and although strolling isn’t his favorite activity, there was nowhere else he’d rather be in that moment.

At first, he thought he was seeing things. He never had any particular visual hallucinations, in fact, stories about them really pissed him off, but from time to time his eyes would go dark for a moment or he’d see some sort of a shadow. This was no shadow. A girl with bright green hair was sitting calmly on the bridge railings and looked downriver. She appeared so nonchalant and comfortable, as if that’s something she does every day. However, he immediately knew she simply doesn’t care. It made no difference. He knew how liberating that felt.

He slowed down and deliberately made his steps stiff and loud, so she’d notice him a long way off - to avoid startling her and causing havoc. She didn’t even glance at him. He quickly came up to her, stopped next to her and looked in the same direction. They remained still in silence for a while. It felt like he was immediately sober. He lit a small joint left from what he’d prepared for that night, inhaled briefly and passed it to her. She took it without a word.

Still looking in the distance, he asked what was wrong. He remembered that cliché in news stories when, after a tragedy, neighbors and friends of the person involved always say he was nice, good and ordinary. Just like her, aside from the hair. After a long silence, she told him it simply isn’t worth the effort anymore. As if she were explaining it to herself one more time, with ice in her voice she said she’d tried everything she wanted to try, that nothing’s pushing her onward and that the only thing she truly wants is for all of it to stop.

He couldn’t beat those arguments.

A few more cars passed, but no one paid the pair any attention. He was holding the roach in his hand because he didn’t want to throw it in the river, and the closest trashcan was at the end of the bridge. Even if there was one closer, he wouldn’t have left her. Who knows how long they stayed there. Finally, she asked him politely not to try anything stupid and save her. She made him promise.

She let go elegantly, without a sound. He heard a faint noise when she hit the surface. The water seemed thicker than tar and appeared to be the same color.

He never watched a person die. He wished it could have remained that way.