The Bridge

A story inspired by a painting I saw in Guadalajara; unfortunately I wasn't sharp enough to take a picture of it at the time.  This is the first short story I've every written-- actually perhaps the first piece of fiction I've ever written-- so apologies for whatever shortcomings there may be.  Given that it is my first attempt at fiction, any comments or criticisms would be greatly appreciated.  Also, as before: not suicidal.  :)


They say that wherever you go, there you are.  And when I think about it, that's always been the problem.  That's the thought that's plagued me for all these years, that's hung over and before me like a thick veil, driving the color from my world.  And really, at its deepest, I think that's what caused me to do it; that's what caused me to jump.

I don't know when the idea first entered my mind-- it must have been months before.  I don't think I was even really aware that I was thinking about it for the first few weeks.  I just kept coming to that bridge more often, standing in that same spot.  I like to think I found the plunging waters beautiful, so tranquil and calm and then all of a sudden white froth and open air.  It was like they were trying to erase themselves from the picture.  I imagined millions of drops of water, marching smugly towards a waiting void.  Sometimes I'd try to follow them with my eyes, picking out a floating coke bottle or some dirty styrofoam container, watching eagerly as they inched slowly closer towards the dam's smiling lip.

At first it was just whenever I happened by, picking up a movie or something, but soon I started ending up there every day after work.  I'm not quite sure how-- my flat was in the other direction-- but it happened so often and then one day I realized I'd been there every day for a month-- weekends, too.

I guess I should have realized it then.  I don't know, maybe a part of me did and just didn't care.  It certainly wasn't a hard lie to keep from myself, what with all the other people walking by or stopping, laughing and talking.  ''I'm just enjoying the view,'' I'd say to myself.  ''What's so wrong with that?''  Nothing, nothing at all.  It was a fine view: the flowing water, the tree-lined shores, and the dam right at their union like a handshake from one shore to the other.  Besides, the bridge was beautiful; anyone could see that.  Columns of old, indifferent stone worn smooth by years of wind and rain, light brown like coffee with too much milk.  Cold and calm and free.

Often as I stood there, looking out upon the waters, I'd run my hand over the columns' weathered surface, feeling the stone and wondering if the stone could feel me.  I'd stand up straight and imagine myself to be one of those cold, indifferent columns, simple and immortal.  Untouched by troubles.

Still, that was only wishful thinking; I knew the world wasn't that kind.  I just wanted it all to be different, you know?  I just wanted to be someone else.  It was like, 36 years and this is it?  A crappy flat and a dead-end job?  Even my four white walls looked so bored they wished they could get up and leave.  And that was it.  Where was the passion?  Where was the excitement?  I just couldn't find it, and believe me I tried.  I rented all the movies people raved about, I watched all the sporting events people were excited about-- I just couldn't see it.  I couldn't care.

And then one day, watching the water, it hit me: just jump.  That was it.  It was so easy.  Just jump and goodbye job, goodbye flat, goodbye empty life.  Not only that but it was the perfect revenge.  Here it had always seemed like life had the upper hand, standing behind you with a knife against your back and telling you to just keep going, keep living.  But here it was, the solution to it all: just stop.  Jump.

Once the idea hit me I'll admit I didn't really look back; I didn't have any second thoughts.  The only thing I decided was I'd wait until sometime when there weren't any kids around.  I'm not sure why I got fixed on that.  After all, what did it matter if they saw a man jump?  What did it matter if they saw him pass over that lip, plunge into the waiting void?  Hadn't they seen the coke bottles and the styrofoam containers do that a thousand times?  Was this really any different?  I don't know, maybe it was my sense of moral responsibility that made me choose to wait.  When it came down to it, it didn't really matter much anyway-- a couple days, a week.  I was already just killing time, so what was the hurry?

In the end though it only took three days.  I didn't really change my routine; I just kept coming every day after work, standing by that column, turning every once in a while to see if any kids were around.  I wasn't too worried about anyone trying to stop me-- I doubted whether they could get to me before I'd done it, in fact whether they'd even realize what I was doing-- and so when the time came there was really nothing to it.  I calmly lifted myself onto the thick, cobbled edge, pretended I was a stone column, and stepped off.

As I was falling, falling, falling I remember feeling like victory borne on golden wings.  I felt like I'd slapped life straight in the face, like I'd won.

When I hit the water, though, I felt the full force of life slapping back.  It all happened in an instant-- the violent splash, the crack of bones, the cold, cold water rushing over and through me, pulling me under.  I was sinking, being dragged down and swallowed by the blue-black waves.  And as I sank, far above me I could see the filtered light of day, could see the distant rays of golden sunlight fading softer and softer, being erased-- just as I was-- by those cold, dark waters.

And as I was looking up at that dying light something happened, something inside me.  I felt panicked.  I couldn't breathe.  And I realized that all I wanted, all I'd ever wanted in the world was a breath of fresh air.  My lungs were burning, flooding, while my arms flailed, trying blindly to grasp at anything that might bring me back.  And for some reason, in that monumental state of panic, that line from ''Fight Club'' came into my head.  That part where the penguin tells Edward Norton, ''just keep swimming!''  And then, as if everything was firing in sequence, I remembered life and the knife against your back and just keep going.  In this instant that lasted a lifetime the thick veil was finally lifted, and for the first time I saw the knife at my back; I saw the hand holding it and the hand was mine.  It had always been mine. 

I felt like crying from joy, like repenting.  I'd been so blind, so lost.  I'd had it backwards-- inside-out and upside-down.  It was my hand.  It was me.  And then in horror I realized that now, when for the first time I could see clearly, every possibility was fading around me, disappearing forever beneath those blue-black waters. 

And as reality rushed back I found myself clawing against the current, dipping beneath the waves and then fighting back above them.  I could hear the roaring waters at my back, could almost feel the cool vapor rising over that threatening lip from the silent void beyond.  I was fighting with everything in me, desperately tearing at the waves, struggling to avoid my chosen fate.

And eventually, somehow, I made it to shore.  I was broken and hysterical.  I couldn't see anything, feel anything except the air in my lungs.  I was crying and gasping and clutching at the wet soil-- grasping and releasing thin pockets of mud with blind intensity, wheezing uncontrollably into the damp earth.

It wasn't long before people arrived, crowding around and shouting.  The paramedics came soon afterwards; I could hear the droning siren and then the shuffling feet as the crowd parted to let them near.  They must have put me on a stretcher-- with my shattered legs I suppose they had to-- though all of that is rather hazy.  And then I was being carried towards that blazing sound, staring at treetops and passing clouds, bobbing and wafting on the gentle breeze and feeling so light it was almost like I was floating.  And the last thing I remember before falling into that deep and empty sleep is looking up at the bright blue sky-- a blue so different from the water-- and being amazed at how open it seemed.

And that's it.  That's all I remember.  Of course, there were the months in the hospital, the physical therapy, and learning how to walk again.  I didn't mind that though, thirsted for it, in fact.  I was in love.  Each day felt full of promise, each moment so much more vibrant than before.

After I got out of the hospital I went back to my spot a few times, visiting it, touching the stone and looking out on the water, but it felt different; it didn't feel the same.  And eventually I stopped going-- I moved away to a new job and a new flat and a new life that I owned and authored-- but before I did I left my story there.  I wrote a message, took my heart and carved it into that cold, indifferent stone.  And when I left it read:

''Wherever you go, there you are.  So just keep going.''