He’s standing on the bridge and he’s just about to jump. He’s going to jump because life just isn’t worth living. No. Because he feels live isn’t worth living. No. He’s going to jump because he had a bad day and he can’t even wrap his head round whether life is worth living or not because his head is full of swish and swirl. No, he’s going to jump because even though his day wasn’t that bad, he let the little things get to him like the drip drip drip of the tap he can’t afford to fix and the less than glowing comments of his boss concerning their latest project and the gull that stole his lunch and a dozen other things that all just add up and tot up and pile up and add up and tot up and pile up. No, he’s going to jump because he’s weak and he deserves it and he wasn’t meant for this life so why. Stick. Around. Longer?
No, the real reason he’s going to jump, the reason you don’t want to know about, the reason you pretend doesn’t exist every time you look, is because of you. Because of you and your words and your need to read. Because you are reading this. And he will jump, dear reader, dear murderer, dear active agent. He will jump because you will keep reading because you demand entertainment because it’s not. Really. Real. So why stop? Why spare the life of a fictional character. After all, you have an obligation to keep on reading, don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you? You must finish the sentence, finish the paragraph, finish the text. And at the end, it will all be okay, because you can read the first sentence again and suddenly he’ll be alive again and he won’t have jumped and it will all be okay no harm done no one’s been hurt no one can prove anything. Except it doesn’t work like that. You bring him back to life only to kill him again, to read it again, to make him jump again. Trapped in a cycle, forever jumping, never really sure why. Occasionally, he has an inkling that this is all beyond his control. But he supposes most people feel like that from time to time.
There’s wind already whipping his face and he hasn’t even jumped. He doesn’t close his eyes. It just seems so cliché. He doesn’t want closing his eyes to be the last thing he does. He’s not sure what he wants to be the last thing he does, but not that. You’re still reading, you’re still reading, you’re still reading you’re still reading you’re still reading youre still reading youre still reading yourestillreading yourestillreadingyourestillreading. His breath is measured and calm. He doesn’t want to take one last big one before he puts his leg forward, so he has to pay careful attention to carry on achieving the regular rhythm he usually manages without thought. He puts his left leg forward (he puts his left leg back, forward, back, in, out, shake it all about). His eyes are open. His breathing is normal. He leans forward. And now he’s falling, falling, falling. You’re not leaving him now. You did this. You brought him here. You can’t leave him falling. No. You have to watch. You have to stay. You have to hear the screams of the people who saw him fall, who saw him land (why aren’t you screaming too), who saw the blood trickle out (the blood is pooling out, pooling round), you have to stay and watch them come and take his body away, pick up the broken pieces and try not to leave any bits of brain behind on the pavement. You have to watch them wash the blood – the blood of your crime away. Watch, watch, watch.
SilverFire Writingfolio 2
|Show these comments on your site|