On The Bridge Read online

  It was free, easy to obtain and completely void of side effects, save for the odd emotional wave that caught her too strongly. At least it didn’t screw up her liver or cost her a fortune, leaving her spitting out teeth, gaining weight or crying in front of a stranger at sixty bucks an hour – still not changing a damned thing about the problem. Why bother putting band aids on a broken bone? Some things are just made for certain things and are absolutely useless to others. A bandage doesn’t treat a cough; neither does a headache tablet patch a burn wound.

  Therapy and medication seemed to be those to Krista’s psyche and the only thing that helped her, even a little, was the frequencies shuddering through her being when music flowed through her. It was just over a year since she gave up cutting. It was quite the feat for someone like her, who believed like many Christians that the blood is the life and the solace of controlling your body’s fate with a dangerous instrument; watching the pain physically come outside was addictive and empowering.

  Such bad habits were the reason she had to give up her career in law enforcement, lacking the self-control needed of an officer being trusted by society to carry a gun. Her rookie year started off as well as could be desired, but one night she had to talk a sixteen–year-old basketball player out of utilising the slipknot he had so expertly tied around his neck. The boy was a star shooter, well loved, well known and firmly on his way to a free ride at the University of Texas.

  If only his heart was as strong as his free throw. Krista saw the hurt in his wet eyes as he recited the name of the girl who had cheated on him over and over in a maniacal repetition, dismissing every word Krista attempted to inject in his positivity before he finally stopped silent, blew her a kiss and fell back from the top railing of the bleachers. The rope snapped taut before her disbelieving eyes and as his neck broke, the lower part of his legs hit the floor in recoil, shattering both his shins before he even stopped kicking.

  She thought she was okay. Everything continued as always and she found herself pleasantly capable of dealing with what she saw, until she woke up two weeks later in her car with blood on her hands, having no inkling of what had happened.

  The PD benched her for emotional distress and she resigned before facing formal charges of attempted murder on her lenient partner who understood her frame of mind prior to the attack in which he was convinced she had blacked out. They called her a loose cannon and a psycho and she was constantly tempted to prove them right, so she left and got a job as a veterinary assistant, playing with puppies and kittens all day, the risk of being bitten better than the risk of losing her mind.

  Finally she shed her laziness and picked a folder on the computer as she always did when she went online to chat. She selected Rammstein with a self-satisfied grin, minimized the music player and logged into her most frequented site. The password loaded her profile and the ever–so-familiar red and black gritty image of the website bled all over the width of her computer screen. Krista laid back, swallowed half a glass of strawberry milk and tapped her bare foot on the floor as the music thundered over her, making her feel like a demigod in an oversized T-shirt. Her name came on the screen with two new comments on her last post.

  She practically lived on Suicidewitness.com and opened her first message from one of her online friends, King Midas, for today: “Dear Suicide Queen…”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It had been more than two weeks since Doug witnessed the atrocity on the bridge, and he was taking his pills for the first while, but as the days progressed, he was relieved to find that he would have no problem weaning himself from the meds Dr. Lamaskaya had prescribed for him. Although Jean had initially kept her son from all reports in the news and on television pertaining to the accident, she now found him to almost be back to his old self and with his silliness and teasing nature intact.

  He had been napping in his room while she got on with her housework, and after a while Jean granted herself a bit of a break. She made herself a hearty cup of coffee, too hot to drink just yet, and opened the newspaper. After perusing all the short articles, jokes and looking at the pictures, she found a picture article on page 3 that looked all too familiar. There he was, the man from the bridge.

  “That’s the guy from the accident,” Doug said suddenly behind her, and she jumped with a start.

  He saw the photo from behind her as he came into the kitchen. The heading said Respected Surgeon Commits Suicide and the sub text concisely removed the mask from the man who had roamed Doug’s nightmares almost every night since.

  The paper stated how the doctor’s colleagues and close friends, when interviewed, did note that in the days leading to his suicide, he had been quite depressed, but not enough to cause grievous concern. Nobody knew the cause of his state of mind at that time, but apparently he had not behaved out of the ordinary, thus not causing any alarm.

  “Doug! Don’t read or think about this man,” his mother said. “It is not healthy to immerse yourself in something this bad. Yes, it happened. It was awful. It’s over now and we don’t have to give it that much thought anymore, you know?” she tried hard to sound supportive, but her voice fell on Doug’s ear much as his father’s did – preachy and void of understanding his need to work this thing through to the end. In his opinion, she did not see how well he was adjusting.

  “I’m fine. I just wonder what drove him to it. Do they say what made him do it?” he peeked at the paper.

  “You’re not fine,” Jean surprised him, withholding her usual support, “You really don’t have to act tough, Doug. Your father isn’t here, but it is time you really do let go now. In a way your dad is right. There is no use wallowing in it.”

  “I’m not. It’s just so final. I mean, what could have made him end his life just like that?” he said with sincere curiosity and poured himself some coffee. “I mean, can you imagine how that guy must have felt deep inside, someone who obviously had money and a good job?”

  “Money and a good job don’t make your life perfect,” Jean passed him a stern glance for his shallow mind-set.

  “It helps,” he pestered her with it.

  “Material things aren’t everything, Douglas.”

  “But he could have fixed whatever the problem was, you know? And he chose to just stop everything he had going for him,” Doug wondered out loud.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she rose and went to rinse out her cup, “and neither should you. Now, have you started studying for this week’s Biology? Your marks can do with some picking up, you know.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t think about it, mom. It’s ridiculous what he did, but it was his only choice, according to him.”

  “That’s enough now!” Jean raised her voice in annoyance. “Get it out of your head and get on with life. We all have to get on with life and I am trying hard to do better myself.”

  She hesitated at first, but finally spat out inadvertently what she had held inside for so long as she rolled up the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. “Besides, you are not the only one who saw it happen!”

  Doug was speechless.

  His mother realised that she had just retracted her pity for him and placed it squarely on herself, something she had never done before, and before he could reply, she abandoned her dishes and left the kitchen, ashamed of her revelation, her vulnerability and her apparent self-pity. Jean held her hands over her mouth as she went upstairs, shocked by her own words. It was out now. Now it was known.

  Doug went to his room and did not appear to be as taken aback by Jean’s words as she was, although he did feel a bit betrayed by her cold shoulder. She was not entirely herself lately, but Doug thought it to be some strain between his parents or perhaps she was just feeling under the weather. As he walked into his room and closed the door behind him, he realised that normally his mother’s latest words would have crippled his feelings, but here he was, so embroiled in this suicide business and the reasons for such things that his own mother’s upset was di
minished in its shadow.

  Night after night he was subjected to the same miserable nightmare, waking in a cold sweat and a palpitating heart of terror leading the way. But by now he had a system, consisting of a towel in his nightstand drawer, readily available to wipe the sweat and the remnants of hell from him each time he was jerked from sleep. Doug had become so used to the dreams, their recurrent theme and perfectly timed consequence, that eventually he hardly considered them anymore. Of course, while dreaming through them, he’d still be as terrified as the first time, but upon waking, his towel ritual and his composure would be followed by another sleeping shift unlike the other. He would then wake fresh and rested as if he had had no demons at all.

  Why bother telling anyone, he thought. They would all react the same – ridicule, bad advice and aggression – things he did not need anymore. His nightmares had now become closer companions than any person he could think of. They knew his thoughts, his feelings and still they did not judge him. In fact, they promoted his fight against the feeble-minded people he had to deal with in everyday life, therefore making his demons and his troubled mind his reason for dealing with the ordeal by himself.

  Doug did feel a little twist in his thought, pondering on the recurrence of the dreams and the fact that they did not subside, or even change even slightly. Perhaps he was not healing as swiftly as he would have liked to think…or as his father thought, for that matter. He opened his window in the dead of night and marvelled at the peace around his home. There was an odd irony, much like the earlier pain and peace on Mick’s lawn that time, which prevailed, it seemed, throughout life’s threads.

  The late doctor came to mind once more, his faint smirk and his hidden reasons. Doug could not help but wonder if this man had some sort of telepathy with him, or if his spirit had roamed restlessly in pursuit of Doug’s understanding, constantly attempting some psychic contact with the young man, because the hold the good doctor had on him was unnatural. He had never cared much about such things as suicides or the reasons people had to complete such morose acts, but now he was nothing short of obsessed with it. It had hit a nerve with him, but why, if not for some supernatural connotation? A really scary thought occurred to him: What if the suicidal man would not stop pestering him, simply because perhaps he wanted Doug to go with him? His hair raised on his arm.

  A more frightening thought dawned upon him. Could he perhaps be suicidal by nature and not have known it until presented with the possibility? His hands gripped the windowsill tightly under the strain of a heavy subject he did not want to confront, but had little choice.

  Doug rejected both of these ideas violently. In the first place, he didn’t believe in stuff like telepathy. That was superstitious hogwash, like zombies and evil spirits. Secondly, he was certain that he wasn’t suicidal. Sure, what he told his friends that day about his shimmering future, the successful life that was waiting for him was a lot of bull, but it was not as farfetched as it sounded. He was intelligent and hardworking, so he could not possibly turn out to be a failure. And besides, life was fun for him. He was convinced that it was going to become more fun as he morphed into an adult, with all the perks of being mature just adding to the excitement of growing up. Being an adolescent was a pain sometimes, true enough, but that stage in his life was short-lived and not always as bad as it sounded. His parents were alright, he had to admit, even when they could be unreasonable sometimes, but they allowed him far more than some of his school friends, who were punished, reined in and some even abused. He had it good, considering. No, he wasn’t going to commit suicide. He was not the type. No way, no how!

  Across from him, perched on the roof of his neighbour’s house, an owl watched him, staring at the juvenile being wrestling with things meant for adults. It did not move, apart from the occasional blink, giving it the impression of understanding Doug’s thoughts. It made the young lad smile just slightly, and he went back into his room and closed the windows, basking in the pale blue of the aquarium.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Norman signed the contract with Cillian Construction Co. with a warmth in his chest he had not felt in a long time. It was a good one too, a good advance for his product purchases and a sturdy payment contract for his own income. Things were looking up for him and his business. He put the pen down on the kitchen table and carefully placed the papers back into the A4 envelope it came in and his eye caught Jean outside in front of the window, her shadow shifting in the late afternoon sun as she watered the plants she grew next to the exterior wall to make the kitchen window look more homey. Norman loved that about his wife. No matter the circumstances, she always tried to make things better – better looking and more pleasant.

  It had been some time since they really spoke and he went to the window, making a silly face from the other side and she laughed without a flinch. Behind her smile she hid her pleasant surprise at his cheer, but she wasted no time in playing along, lifting the hose up to the window and splashing the strong current of water against the hard surface of the window. The sudden thundering noise started Norman and he jumped back from reflex, laughing at his unfounded fright.

  She came into the kitchen, dusting her hands on her shirt and checking the fridge for a beer.

  “You’re in a good mood,” she smiled at Norman as she took two beers from the shelf and popped them open. The sun illuminated her hair and she looked almost as young as the day they met. Norman explained that he had closed a good deal today to provide a well-known construction company with all the plumbing for its new restoration project. Jean yelped and jumped forward, embracing her husband tightly and they sat down at the table, just talking about this and that, nothing in particular, but it felt good to be truly present in each other’s company. From the upper floor came a noise of grunge guitars and a less than capable singer’s squeals and both Jean and Norman kept quiet for a second. They looked up and shook their heads as they drank.

  “You know,” said Jean after drinking her beer down half a bottle in one go, “If I could make a wish, it’d be for Doug to find out what real music sounds like.”

  “Amen,” said Norman, raising his bottle in a toast.

  In the late afternoon sun, young Douglas sat reading on his bed, a homework project in English literature by the eccentric and sultry Ms. Grace. Oh, the countless hours during sleep-overs he, Mick and Thompson had spent discussing every inch of her was impossible to measure. Ms. Grace was the epitome of teenage desires and she knew it, but her charisma outweighed her good looks by miles and it was her personality, more than anything, that held the attention of her students, even if they did not notice. Many parents disproved of her enticing teaching techniques, others found her unwavering will to enlighten the new generation with the beauty of classic poetry and prose to be most welcome, no matter what her methods.

  Of course Doug and his friends didn’t care what her intentions were or the outcome of her assignments as long as they could eyeball her voluptuous ass as she paraded through the rows of desks from front to back and back to front in English class. She had them wrapped around her finger, luring them into the depths of literature by means of charm of the highest order. This week she had them reading The Flight of Icarus and the meanings behind the metaphor.

  It was not just her body that had the boys swooning. Ms. Grace had the face of a lewd angel, her eyes narrowing like a cat’s when she told a story particularly well and her lips, oh God, those lips.

  Doug sank into another involuntary daydream about those lips, full and dark pink against the marble of her skin. And when she spoke they would look like ocean waves ebbing and flowing over her perfect teeth. He had this special daydream about her mouth, where she’d keep him after school to discuss a test or something and she’d sway that ass over to him, hitching up her red pencil skirt just a tad to accommodate her straddling of him. Her chin would be slightly elevated above his sight line, thus leaving his eyes with only her lips to look at. She would say stuff, but he wouldn’t hear what it was
. It didn’t matter as she laced her elongated fingers behind the base of his neck and gently pulled him closer.

  Then she’d part those full, perfect lips over his and he would feel her breath on his face. Her vanilla-scented breath. And Doug would throw his head back and let her play in his mouth with the tip of her tongue…

  He realised he was daydreaming about kissing his teacher again, a most pleasurable way to use his imagination. And it was not the first time. But he knew it could never be. The angel was engaged to some bulked-up mountain called Vince, a wrestler who wore his jeans too tight and had zits on his arms from all the ‘roids he had to take to look good. He recalled once having met Vince face to face while trying to charm his teacher and what a most unpleasant surprise that was.

  It was just after school. He had been dared by his friends to collect a sample of Ms. Grace’s lipstick and it had to be anywhere on his body. He decided to give her a polystyrene cup of coffee, wipe the lipstick from it and smudge a generous amount on his shirt. He marched into her class announcing, “It’s Best Teacher Coffee Day and you just won, ma’am!”

  Ms. Grace gave him an inviting smile as he entered the classroom and he brought her the cup with some measure of ritual and then placed himself on the front desk, waiting for his crush to partake of his rather shrewdly intended beverage. It would be quite simple. Her lipstick was the glossy kind, not difficult to remove from the surface of those sweet lips and he nodded in a chivalrous manner when she thanked him for it.