Just short stories inspired by music

London Bridge

00:00 Britain, London 6 June 1898 

There was wind outside and the screams only got louder and louder with every car that was swept off of the bridge. There were black figures on every tower of the London Bridge. How did they get there? Why were they there? No light......No saviour. Darkness, screams, tears, blood and the oufull smell of water was invading the city, together with the water itself. The susurrus that came from the people up on the bridge sounded like a prayer for those that were drawning. The majestic London Bridge was falling down. Every piece of concrete and brick was collapsing into the river bellow. An endless fall to the bottom of the black and cold water. Then.......the last piece broke off of the land it was connected to. I fell into the river and my breath hitched into my neck from the coldness. A wave buried my head underneath it, suffocating me. I could barely see the bright white moon from under the water. It hurted so bad. The survival mechanism of my body didn't let any water in. My lungs were about to burst when my mouth finally let the water fill my body, my lungs, i couldn't think, i couldn't breath, but i still saw the moon. So bright....., so white......so perfect. The silhouettes that used to stay up on the bridge disappeared or just became one with the black sky.....but if they were still there...they must be flying because there was no bridge anymore. I couldn't really care less....... . As my eyes slowly closed i could see the way my life went. A reverse tape that was rewinding itself. The library that I used to go to, the small boy that was waiting for me at home, the green field i used to run on, the flowers, the wind, the smiles and the laughter, my mother....... my father....... my brother....., the hills, my stained blue dress, my horse, the snow, my tea cup, the dogs, my brother's cat, the trees.......and the letters. Everything came back to me in just some seconds. Every breath that i took, every smile that i smiled, every tear that i cried, every smell i smelled, every song i heard every step i took. 

7 June 1898

When i opened my eyes i was in my room. The same room i exited one day before. Everything was in place. I rose to my feet and i went to get dressed. I looked in the mirror, I looked outside and then I looked in my room. I went to my desk with slow steps, to my writing machine and as I set down I reached over to the open box near the machine. It was a small case that had all the letters i once got from a long forgotten lover. I closed the silk lid as i started typing yet another letter without a receiver. Alastair ,the little boy I was taking care of, ran into my room, looked around puzzled for a moment before rushing out of my chamber yelling on top of his lungs " MOMMY!!!" . It was my turn to feel confused as i shouted back: " Yes darling?!" As i saw that no one was saying anything anymore I rised up from my seat and went after the boy.

After some time i saw him curled up on the sofa with tears in his eyes. I petted his black hair and went to grab a blanket, for the small child. I wrapped him up and went to make my tea. Ivory, the buttler was nowhere to be seen, but then again, it was his day off afterall. As I carefully made my way to the kitchen I saw Ros, our dog, running towards me. He jumped on me and with a loud thud my back met the hard floor. Alastair didn't even move from his position at the sound. He continued to sleep peacefully on the sofa fact that made me restless because the child was a light sleeper and usually he would even wake up at the sound of steps. Had I ever seen him so tired? No. The answer was no. How tired could a 10 year old be anyway?

Some time passed and I was again in my room in front of the white paper from before. Hmmm.....the words were not coming to my mind. What to write? How to start? To start with a simple hey? Or to start with something more formal? Was Good afternoon sir ok? Was it too friendly? I decided to go with the first thing that came to my mind as the person I was writing to might not even be alive after all.