The Bridge

Heavy raindrops fell from the tar-black sky and crashed into the windshield, hammering the roof of the car. The windshield wipers scrubbed the rain off of the glass, allowing the driver to see the narrow dark road up ahead. Occasional lights from the neon signs of local businesses and rare lampposts blurred behind the grey water curtain. Helen drove slowly, both hands on the steering wheel, fingers wrapped tightly around the faux leather upholstery.

Far away in the distance, a flash of lightning cut the graphite sky, the roar of thunder joining the quiet voice of David Byrne on the radio.

I can't seem to face up to the facts... I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax...

Helen stopped at a stop sign, her dark blue Ford the only car on the road. The sign of a local video rental went off, melting into the surrounding darkness.

She looked left and right, making sure there were no other cars, and pressed the gas pedal. The car slowly moved onwards. The sign on the left side of the road read 'Somerset Bridge 500 m'. She didn't want to take the bridge, not this one, not any other. It reminded her of Joe. It wasn't just this particular bridge. Any bridge brought on the painful memories. It's never easy to lose a brother, especially when he chooses to go in such a way.

Her phone rang inside the handbag, which she'd carelessly thrown onto the passenger seat when getting into the car. Eyes on the road, she reached into the bag with one hand, trying to get the squealing thing.

'Shit,' she cursed. Why did they have to make women's bags so damn capacious, one could never find anything in them. The phone blared louder.

Finally, Helen managed to get it out. Richard's smiling face stared at her from the screen. Can't he do anything without her? She'd even left him a note on the fridge with step by step instructions about what to put inside where and how many minutes it takes to warm it. Sheesh, at times, men are worse than children, she thought.

As she tried to slide the answer button with her thumb, an inner feeling - call it intuition - made her look back onto the road up ahead, which now curved to the right. Dropping the phone, Helen jerked the wheel all the way to her right, barely managing to stay on the asphalt and to avoid a straight-on collision with an old oak.

The last thing she wanted was to stop on a deserted road in the middle of the night. How many horrible urban legends had she heard; some of them must've been real, right?

But as she felt her heartbeat all the way up in her throat, her foot involuntarily slammed the brake pedal, forcing the car into a full stop. She sat there, motionless, for a couple of seconds and then with a sigh lowered her head onto her hands, which were still tightly latched onto the steering wheel.

The phone was still ringing from somewhere under the passenger seat. Then it went silent. The music on the radio was accompanied by the heavy rainfall.

I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire... Don't touch me I'm a real live wire...

Helen lifted her head and through the fast motion of the windshield wipers saw the bony skeleton of the bridge up ahead. As she looked deeper into the darkness, her heart shrunk to the size of a pea. There was a silhouette of a man on the sidewalk of the bridge. Her fingers dug deeper into the upholstery of the wheel. What was he doing there?

The man grabbed onto the railing and put one foot on top of it, soon followed by the other one. He stood up, holding onto one of the beams which supported the bridge and, when she already feared the inevitable would happen, he turned his head to face her.

She could not see his face, the headlights of the car leaving him out of their gaze. A voice deep inside her screamed, "It can't be real! This isn't happening! Not again!"